Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

he was a teenager. A long time ago.”

Land Ho!
    B REAKFAST ON THE PACIFIC PRINCESS, THE ALOHA DECK dining room was humming with sun-flushed passengers, eager for their first glimpse of Puerto Vallarta. Mary Ann made her entrance without Michael, who was still showering.
    “Well,” boomed Arnold Littlefield, dousing his scrambled eggs with ketchup, “the hubby stood you up, huh?”
    Arnold and his wife, Melba, shared a table with Mary Ann and Michael. The Littlefields were fortyish and always wore matching clothes. Today, in deference to their destination, they were sporting identical Mexican flour sack outfits. They were from Dublin. Dublin, California.
    “He always takes longer than I do,” said Mary Ann breezily, as she sat down. It was easier, by far, to pass off Michael as her husband than to explain what Michael called “our bizarre but weird relationship.”
    “Right on,” said Melba, with a mouthful of bacon. “Men are much fussier than girls.”
    Mary Ann nodded, grateful that Michael wasn’t around to comment on that one.
    She ordered a huge breakfast, then remembered Burke Andrew and canceled the waffles. She was downing her orange juice when Michael appeared, looking spirited and squeaky clean.
    He was wearing Adidas, Levi’s and a white T-shirt emblazoned with a can of Crisco.
    “Apologies, apologies.” He grinned, nodding toward the Littlefields as he sat down.
    “No sweat,” said Arnold. “You better keep an eye on the little lady, though.” He winked at Mary Ann. “She’s too pretty to be let out without a leash.”
    “Arnold!” That was Melba.
    “Well, Mike knows that. Don’t you, Mike?”
    “Can’t let her out of my sight for a minute.”
    Melba elbowed her husband. “You don’t ever say that about me, Arnold!”
    “Well, these kids are younger than us and you remember how it was when … Say, Mike, how long you been with Crisco?”
    “What?” Michael had been cruising a waiter at the next table.
    “Your shirt. You affiliated with Crisco?”
    Mary Ann thought of crawling into her oatmeal.
    “Yeah,” Michael answered soberly. “I’ve been … in Crisco—oh, I don’t know—four, five years.”
    “Sales?”
    “No. Public relations.”
    “Mouse …”
    Michael winked at Arnold. “The little woman doesn’t like me to talk business at the table.”
    “Right on,” said Melba, siding with Mary Ann. “Arnold talks about aluminum honeycomb until he’s blue in the face. And it’s so boring!”
    “It may be boring to you, Melba, but it’s not boring to some people, not if that’s the way they choose to make their living! You don’t think Crisco is boring, do you, Mike?”
    “Hell, no,” said Michael assertively.
    From the Promenade Deck, the white sands and palm trees of Puerto Vallarta seemed almost within reach. Mary Ann leaned against the rail and watched the taxi drivers and serape salesmen who had already begun to swarm across the landing.
    “Where shall we go, Mouse?”
    “I don’t know. Down the beach, I guess.”
    “We don’t have any Mexican money.”
    “The purser said they’ll take … Hang on. Here he comes!”
    “Who?”
    “The mysterious but hunky Mr. Andrews.”
    Mary Ann wheeled around to see the strawberry blond striding down the deck toward her. “It’s Andrew,” she corrected Michael quickly. “No s. ”
    Michael shrugged. “His s looks fine to me.”
    Mary Ann missed the joke; Burke Andrew was beaming at her. “I’ve been looking for you two,” he said.
    Both of us? thought Mary Ann.

Baby Talk
    E VEN THREE SCOTCHES AT THE UNIVERSITY CLUB couldn’t take Beauchamp’s mind off the letter he carried in the breast pocket of his Brioni.
    “Well,” said Peter Cipriani, joining the young executive on the terrace, “so life isn’t a cabaret, old chum?”
    Beauchamp scowled. “Not even half the time.”
    “It could be worse.”
    “How?”
    “You could be me, mon petit. You could be doomed to dinner tonight at Langston’s house.”
    Beauchamp glanced at him ruefully over the rim of his glass. “What’s on the menu tonight? Antique pheasant?”
    “Worse—oh, worse!”
    “Victorian venison?”
    Peter shook his head soberly. “The rumor—God help us—is Edwardian elk! Heaven knows how long that creature’s been in his freezer. Miss Langston hasn’t felled an elk since the late sixties!”
    What a pisser, thought Beauchamp bitterly as he rode the elevator to his Telegraph Hill penthouse. Other people’s problems