Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

bellowed Lorelei, “our next contestant is … Contestant Number 7! He hails from Orlando, Florida, where the sun shines bright and they grow all those BEEYOOTIFUL fruits, and his name is Michael … Michael Something … Honey, I can’t read your handwriting. If you’re out there, how ‘bout telling Lorelei your name?”
    Michael raised his hand half-heartedly and said, “Tolliver.”
    “What, honey?”
    “Michael Tolliver.”
    “OKAAY! Let’s hear it for Michael Oliver!”
    Now bright red, Michael climbed onto the dance platform as Lorelei slipped back into the darkness. The revelers at the bar turned in unison to assess the newcomer. The music began. It was Dr. Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band doing “Cherchez la Femme.”
    Michael slipped his body into gear and his mind into neutral. He moved with the music, riding its rhythm like a madman. He was merely having that dream again, that ancient high school nightmare about appearing in the senior play in his … jockey shorts!
    His eyes unglazed long enough to see the crowd. The shining, tanned faces. The muscled necks. A hundred tiny alligators leering from a hundred chests …
    Then his blood froze.
    For there in the crowd, somber above a silk shirt and Brioni blazer, was the one face he didn’t want to see. It linked with his, but only for a moment, then wrinkled with disdain and turned away.
    Jon.
    The music stopped. Michael leaped off the stage into the crowd, oblivious of the congratulatory hands that grazed his body. He pushed his way through a fog of amyl nitrite to the swinging doors in the corner of the room.
    Jon was leaving.
    Michael stood in the doorway and watched the lean figure retreat down Sixth Street. There were three other men with him, also in suits. A brief burst of laughter rose from the foursome as they climbed into a beige BMW and drove away.
    An hour later, he got the news.
    He had won. A hundred dollars and a gold pendant shaped like a pair of jockey shorts. Victory.
    Mona kissed him on the cheek when he climbed off the platform. “Who cares if there’s a doctor in the house?” Michael smiled wanly and held on to her arm, losing himself in the music.
    Then he began to cry.

Fiasco in Chinatown
    L EAVING THE GATEWAY CINEMA, MARY ANN AND NORMAN headed west up Jackson toward Chinatown.
    When they reached the pagoda-shaped Chevron station at Columbus, a thick pocket of fog had begun to soften the edges of the neon.
    “On nights like this,” said Norman, “I feel like somebody in a Hammett story.”
    “Hammond?”
    “Hammett. Dashiell Hammett. You know … The Maltese Falcon?”
    She knew the name, but not much else. It didn’t matter, however.
    The only Falcon in Norman’s life was parked at the corner of Jackson and Kearny.
    “Do you have to get home right away?” He asked it cautiously, like a child seeking permission to stay up late.
    “Well, I should … no. Not right away.”
    “Do you like Chinese food?”
    “Sure,” she smiled, suddenly realizing how much she liked this bumbling, kindly, Smokey the bear man with a clip-on tie. She wasn’t particularly attracted to him, but she liked him a lot.
    He took her to Sam Woh’s on Washington Street, where they wriggled through the tiny kitchen, up the stairway and into a booth on the second floor.
    “Brace yourself,” said Norman.
    “For what?”
    “You’ll see.”
    Three minutes later she made a discreet exit to the rest room. There was no sink in the cramped cabinet, and she was halfway back to the table before she discovered where it was.
    “Hey, lady! Go wash yo’ hands!”
    Thunderstruck, she turned to see where the voice had come from. An indignant Chinese waiter was unloading plates of noodles from the dumbwaiter. She stopped in her tracks, stared at her accuser, then looked back toward the rest room.
    The sink was outside the door. In the dining room.
    A dozen diners were watching her, smirking at her discomfort. The waiter stood his ground. “Wash, lady. You don’t wash, you don’ eat!”
    She washed, returning red-faced to the table. Norman grinned sheepishly. “I should have warned you.”
    “You knew he would do that?”
    “He specializes in being rude. It’s a joke. War lord-turned-waiter. People come here for it.”
    “Well, I didn’t.”
    “I’m really sorry.”
    “Can we go, Norman?”
    “The food’s really …”
    “Please?”
    So they left.
    Back in the dark canyon of Barbary Lane, he took her arm protectively.
    “I’m