Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

thought you might wanna schedule the next session.”
    “Nah. Too soon. Besides … I think we’re gonna film this week.”
    “How’s it pay?”
    “Not bad. You wanna …?”
    “Yeah. I can arrange it.”
    “How much notice do you need?”
    “Couple days.”
    “Can do.”
    “I want the money in advance, Paul.”
    “You got it.”

Trauma in a Travel-Eze
    T HE TREASURE ISLAND TRAILER COURT WAS A DREARY little encampment just off El Camino Real at the Colma-South San Francisco border.
    Its nearest neighbor was Cypress Lawn Cemetery.
    As Candi’s Camaro swung off the highway into the court, Brian winced at the ugly row of Monopoly board houses snaking along a distant hillside.
    Rows.
    Peninsula people often condemned themselves to rows, thought Brian. Rows of houses, rows of apartments, rows of tombstones …
    Ah, but not so at the Treasure Island Trailer Court. The Treasure Island Trailer Court had rues.
    French. Much classier.
    Rue 1, Rue 2, Rue 3 … Candi’s home was a faded pink Travel-Eze mired in a bed of succulents on Rue 8. An engraved redwood sign out front said: CANDI AND CHERYL.
    And that was all he needed to know.
    “Uh … Candi. There’s something I should tell you.”
    “Uh huh?”
    “You’re not gonna believe this, but … I think I know your roommate.”
    “Cheryl?”
    “Does she work at Zim’s too?”
    Candi grinned. “The morning shift. That’s O.K., Brian. We hardly ever see each other.”
    “I’ve been here before, Candi.”
    She squeezed his thigh. “I said it was O.K., didn’t I?”
    Apparently it was O.K. with Cheryl too.
    Wolfing down a breakfast of Froot Loops, she looked only mildly surprised when Brian slumped in with Candi. “Well, look what the cat drug in.”
    She was younger than Candi. Considerably. Brian did a heavy déjà vu number on her pouty Bernadette Peters mouth. He would have swapped on the spot, given the chance. “Small world, huh?”
    She grinned lewdly. “Not particularly. I’d say you’ve just run out of material.”
    Candi slammed her way into the bedroom, shouting over her shoulder at her roommate. “You’re late again, Cheryl. I’m not gonna keep makin’ excuses for you. It’s gettin’ embarrassing.”
    “I was waiting for my fuckin’ wig, if you don’t mind!”
    Silence.
    “Did you hear me?”
    The voice from the bedroom was low and menacing. “Cheryl, come in here a minute.”
    “I’m finishing my Froot …”
    “Goddammit, Cheryl!”
    Cheryl pushed her chair back noisily, rolled her eyes at Brian and left the room. A muffled catfight followed. When Cheryl reemerged several minutes later, she was wearing a Zim’s uniform and Candi’s head of hair.
    “Don’t break the bed,” she purred to Brian, goosing him as she walked out the door.
    “Brian?”
    “Huh?”
    “Would you like something to drink? A Pepsi or something?”
    “Hey. You’re off duty, remember?”
    “I just thought … well, you know. Sometimes people get thirsty afterwards.”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Was I …? Do you think I’m as pretty as Cheryl? I mean … I know I’m older and all, but, you know, like for my age … do you think I look O.K.?”
    He wiggled her earlobe and kissed the tip of her nose. “Better than O.K. Even without that damn wig.”
    She beamed. “You know what? I’ve got the whole day off, and the Camaro’s full of gas….”
    “I’ve gotta get home, Candi. I’m expecting a phone call.”
    “It wouldn’t take long. I could show you a pumpkin patch. They’re beautiful right now.”
    He shook his head, smiling.
    “Do you want me to drive you home?”
    “There’s a bus, isn’t there?”
    “Yeah. If you want. It’s no trouble for me, Brian.”
    He climbed out of bed. “I don’t mind the bus.”
    “I’d like it if you’d call me.”
    “Sure. You in the book?”
    She nodded.
    “I’ll call you, then.”
    “It’s Moretti.”
    “O.K.”
    “Two t’s.”
    “Good. I’ll give you a buzz in a week or so.”
    He got out without giving her his last name, but not without noticing a photograph framed on the bathroom wall.
    Cheryl in a high school cap and gown.
    Candi in street clothes, giving her a hug.
    And this inscription: “To the best Mom in the whole wide world.”

And Baby Makes Three?
    A WAGNERIAN FOG WAS SETTLING OVER THE AVE nues when DeDe drove away from Carson Callas’ house in her husband’s silver Porsche.
    Done.
    She shivered a little, thinking of it. That icky little body. The yellowed