Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

said Beauchamp. “ Exactly the right amount of Campari.”
    “The boots, Beauchamp. You can stand up, can’t you?” Beauchamp grinned roguishly. “Only when absolutely necessary … Look, where’s your phone?”
    “There’s one in the mirror room.”
    Beauchamp lurched into the mirror room and dialed Jon’s office at 450 Sutter.
    “Hi, Blondie.”
    “Good afternoon.”
    “I’m in the neighborhood, Hot Stuff. Why don’t we rent a room at the Mark Twain and have a nooner?”
    “I’m quite busy right now. If you’ll check with my receptionist later, I’m sure …”
    “Oh, I get it!”
    “Good.”
    “You’ve got a customer in the office with you?”
    “That’s correct.”
    “Is she cute?”
    “I’m sorry … I can’t discuss …”
    “Awww … c’mon! Just tell me if she’s cute.”
    “I have to go now.”
    “She can’t be cuter than me, can she?”
    The doctor hung up.
    Beauchamp laughed out loud, leaning against the stuffed cotton cactus in the mirror room. Then he sauntered back to the bar, where the shoe designer was standing.
    “Charge ‘em,” said Beauchamp.
    The Old Man was apparently still having lunch at the Villa Taverna.
    Beauchamp ambled into the executive suite and made a few mental notes to himself.
    The space wasn’t bad, actually. Clean lines and fairly decent track lighting. Once you got rid of those godawful hunt prints and tired Barcelona chairs, Tony Hail could probably do something really stunning with baskets and a few ficus trees and maybe some ostrich eggs on the shelf behind the …
    “Is there something you’re looking for?”
    It was Mary Ann, being very territorial about the Old Man’s lair.
    “No,” he said flatly.
    “Mr. Halcyon won’t be back until two.”
    Beauchamp shrugged. “Fine.”
    She stood stonily in the doorway until he had walked past her and back to his own office down the hall.
    That night Mary Ann submitted to an urge that had plagued her all week.
    She told Michael about Norman … and the weird night at the Beach Chalet.
    Michael shrugged it off. “What’s the big deal? You’re a foxy lady. You break hearts. That’s not your fault.”
    “That’s not the point, Mouse. I just can’t shake the feeling that he’s … up to something.”
    “Sounds to me like he’s blowing smoke.”
    “What?”
    “Trying to impress you. Have you talked to him since then?”
    “Once or twice. Just superficial stuff. He bought me an ice cream cone at Swensen’s. There’s something terribly … I don’t know … desperate … about him. It’s like he’s biding his time … waiting to prove something to me.”
    “Look … if you were forty-four years old and selling vitamins door to door …”
    “But he isn’t. I’m sure of that. He told me he isn’t … and I believe him.”
    “He sure carries that stupid Nutri-Vim case around with him enough.”
    “He’s fooling people, Michael. I don’t know why, but he is.”
    Michael grinned devilishly. “There’s one way to find out.”
    “What?”
    “I know where Mrs. Madrigal keeps the extra keys.”
    “Oh, Mouse … no, forget it. I couldn’t.”
    “He’s gone tonight. I saw him leave.”
    “Mouse, no!”
    “O.K., O.K. How bout a movie, then?”
    “Mouse …?”
    “Huh?”
    “Do you really think I’m a foxy lady?”

Not Even a Mouse
    T HE CITY ITSELF, NOT THE WEATHER, LET MARY ANN know that winter had finally come.
    Ferris wheels spun merrily on the roof of The Emporium. Aluminum cedars sprouted in the windows of Chinese laundries. And one bright morning in mid-December a note appeared on her door.
Mary Ann,
If you haven’t made plans, please join me and the rest of your Barbary Lane family for a spot of eggnog on Christmas Eve.
Love,
A.M.
P.S. I could use some help in organizing it.
    That news—and the joint attached to the note—boosted her spirits considerably. It was good to feel part of a unit again, though she rarely regarded her fellow tenants as members of a “family.”
    But why shouldn’t Mrs. Madrigal be permitted that fantasy?
    The Christmas party became Mary Ann’s new obsession.
    “… and after we light the tree, maybe we could have some sort of caroling thing … or a skit! A skit would be fabulous, Mouse!”
    Michael deadpanned it. “Great. You can be Judy Garland and I’ll be Mickey Rooney.”
    “Mouse!”
    “O.K., then. You be Mickey Rooney and I’ll be Judy Garland.”
    “You’re not into this at all, are you?”
    “Well, you certainly