Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

others.”
    “Who’s performing this year?”
    “Oh, it’s fabulous, Carson! The theme is ‘Wine, Women and Song’ and we’ve got Domingo, Troyanos and Wixell….”
    “First names?”
    “Placido Domingo …”
    “Oh, sure …”
    “Tatiana Troyanos and Ingvar Wixell.” She stopped herself from spelling the names, remembering Callas’ vanity. He could look them up when he got back to his office.
    The columnist returned the pad and pencil to his pocket. “Fun evening, huh?”
    “Should be.”
    “But not as fun as most of yours?”
    “Uh … what, Carson?”
    The leer was back again. “I think you heard me, sweetheart.”
    The crowd in the gallery had grown thicker and noisier, but now the din seemed oddly remote. DeDe swallowed and forced herself to look blasé.
    “Carson, really! Sometimes you can be too much!”
    “I think we’ve got a lot in common.”
    “Carson, I don’t know what …”
    “Look … we’re both grownups. Nobody ever accused me of not knowing my way around an orgy … and I think I can recognize a kindred spirit when I see one.”
    God, she thought, how many times had he used that one?
    It was a standing joke in town that Callas had once unsuccessfully propositioned the entire cast of a local musical revue, starting with the women and working down to the less attractive men.
    “Carson … I love chatting with you, but I think I need a drink.”
    “One more question about the Fol de Rol?”
    “Sure.”
    “Are you gonna have the abortion before or after?”
    The glass slipped from her hand almost instantly, shattering as a punctuation to the horrid question. Callas dropped to his knees and helped her gather the pieces in a cocktail napkin.
    “Ah, c’mon! It’s not that bad, DeDe. I’m sure we can work it out … if you’d like to talk about it some night.” He stuffed his business card into the belt of her dress and stood up again.
    “Your friends are concerned, “ he added. “Surely there’s nothing wrong with that?”
    She didn’t look up, but continued picking up the pieces in silence.
    Discretion was too much to expect of Binky Gruen.

How to Cure the Munchies
    B RIAN CRASHED AT MIDNIGHT AFTER A GRUELING SHIFT at Perry’s, only to wake up five hours later with a bitch of an appetite.
    Stumbling into the kitchen in his boxer shorts, he rummaged through the refrigerator for something to placate his growl.
    Ketchup. Mayonnaise. Two bluish Ball Park franks. And a jar of cocktail onions.
    Had he been stoned, he might have hacked it. (Once, after smoking half a joint of Maui Wowie, he’d been reduced to using Crisco as a dip for Ritz crackers.) But not tonight.
    Tonight—hell, five o’clock in the morning!—he lusted for a Zimburger. And a fat, greasy side order of fries, and maybe a chocolate malt or a …
    He excavated in his laundry bag until he found a rugby shirt that would pass the sniff test, climbed into Levi’s and Adidas, and almost sprinted out of the house into Barbary Lane.
    Hyde Street was freakishly quiet. Asleep in its iron cocoon, the ancient cable seemed more intrusive than ever. From the crest of Russian Hill, the wharf was a colorless landscape, a black-and-white postcard from the forties.
    Even the Porsches parked on Francisco suggested abandonment.
    It felt like the last scene of On the Beach.
    Zim’s, by contrast, was jarringly cheery. The all-night eatery was humming with efficient waitresses, frazzled insomniacs and the remnants of parties that couldn’t stop.
    Brian’s waitress was dressed in commercial country-western. Orange blouse and jumper. Orange-checked kerchief. Her name tag said “Candi Colma.”
    “ ‘The City of the Dead.’ “ Brian grinned as she slapped a napkin and fork in front of him.
    “What?”
    “You’re from Colma. Cemeteryland.”
    “South San Francisco, really. Just over the border. South San Francisco was too long to put on the name tag.”
    “Candi Colma sounds nicer, anyway.”
    “Really.” Her smile was nice, implying an intimacy that didn’t exist. She was in her late thirties, Brian guessed, but it showed only around the eyes. Her waist was small and firm, her legs wickedly long.
    Never mind the teased blond hair, he thought. You can’t get picky at five o’clock in the morning.
    After she had taken his order, he watched her move across the room. She walked like a woman who knew she had an audience.
    “Zimburger O.K.?”
    “Fine. Perfect.”
    “Anything else? Dessert,