Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

some time. I can’t call you cuz I’m not aggressive. Ha ha. Seriously, you are really a neat person. Don’t feel like you have to write back.
Luff ya,
C ANDI
    She had dotted the i in “Candi” with a Happy Face.
    He dumped the mail into his garbage bag, left the dishes in the sink, and went into the bedroom to roll a joint. There was a little Maui Wowie left. Enough for a good buzz, anyway.
    He lay on his back on the Busvan sofa, sorting out the half-assed little escapades of the last six months. Mary Ann Singleton, who still tormented him … Connie Bradshaw, a veritable museum of kitsch … that chick at the Sutro Baths … and now a goddamn mother-and-daughter team!
    He laughed out loud at himself.
    Either he was a masochist or God was a sadist.
    Minutes later, he was up again, changing into Levi’s and a khaki army shirt. He headed for the door, stopped, and returned to roll another joint.
    Then he bounded downstairs to the second floor and rang Michael’s buzzer.

Full Moon in Sea Cliff
    J ON FIELDING COULDN’T HELP BUT FEEL A TWINGE OF ENVY when the Hampton-Giddes’ houseboy offered him a stuffed mushroom.
    Harold was an absolute find.
    Efficient, courteous and intelligent. With just enough café au lait skin and gray at the temples to make him seem like an old family retainer … a spare servant that Mother had shipped from Bar Harbor.
    “He’s a gem,” Jon said to Collier Lane as soon as Harold had moved on.
    Collier nodded. “Perfect. Sort of a gay Uncle Ben.”
    “He’s gay?”
    “Better be. He’s the one who shows the movies.”
    “Here?”
    “Over there. In front of that Claes Oldenburg that looks like a couple of Hefty bags. A screen comes down. They’re showing Boys in the Sand after cigars and brandy.”
    The Hampton-Giddes, John observed, hadn’t skimped on anything. Brown suede walls. A chrome bin for the fireplace logs. Travertine marble for days and a lighting system that would have functioned nicely for a smallish production of Aida.
    The doctor grinned at his lawyer friend. “Somebody told me they’ve even got the television on a dimmer switch.”
    Collier smiled back. “They’ve got their whole life on a dimmer switch.”
    There were eight people at the dinner party. Rick Hampton and Arch Gidde (the Hampton-Giddes), Ed Stoker and Chuck Lord (the Stoker-Lords), Bill Hill and Tony Hughes (the Hill-Hugheses), and Jon Fielding and Collier Lane.
    Jon and Collier sought refuge in the Hampton-Giddes’ black onyx bathroom.
    “Christ, Jon, aren’t you sick of hearing about remodeled kitchens?”
    “Have a line,” said the doctor. “Things go better with coke.”
    The Hampton-Giddes had provided the cocaine for their guests. In the bathroom only. Out of sight from the servants. Collier snorted a line.
    “Let’s go to the tubs,” he said, straightening up.
    “We can’t just walk out, Collier.”
    “Who can’t? I’m bored shitless.”
    “Have another line, then.”
    “Where are the twinks, anyway? They usually have the decency to provide one or two decorative twinks…. Jesus, who needs to waste a night staring at these tired old Gucci queens.”
    “I can’t leave now. Maybe after the movie …”
    “Fuck the movie! Whatever happened to the real thing? My God, there’s a full moon tonight! Can’t you imagine the tubs …?”
    Jon tweaked Collier’s cheek. “There’s such a thing as social obligation, turkey.”
    “You’re a jellyfish, Fielding.”
    Jon smiled. “Take a cold shower. It’ll keep.”
    “So,” said William Devereux Hill III, passing the braised endive to Edward Paxton Stoker, Jr., “Tony and I checked the St. Louis Social Register, and they are not in it. Neither one of them.”
    “Jesus.”
    “And let’s face it, honey. In St. Louis, it’s not that difficult!”
    “How about the eighth?” asked Archibald Anson Gidde.
    Charles Hillary Lord checked his black leather Hermès appointment book. “Sorry. Edward’s taking Mrs. Langhurst to hear Edo that night. Once again, I’m a symphony widow.”
    “What about the following Wednesday?”
    “That’s our ACT night.”
    “I give up.”
    “It’s mad, isn’t it?” sighed Charles Hillary Lord.
    “How’s the twink?” asked Richard Evan Hampton, smirking across the travertine table at Jon Philip Fielding.
    “Who?”
    “The twink in the jockey shorts. At The Endup.”
    “Oh … I haven’t seen him for a while.”
    “Well, he was hardly your type, was