Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

in her bedroom.
    Nor was she in sight at midnight.
    She had stood him up.
    Brian remained at the window, numbed by disappointment and betrayal, like a child who had been awakened suddenly from a summer dream about Christmas morning. Then, gradually, his face began to burn with rage as he leaned there immobile against the cold windowpane (a window he had Windexed just that morning) and cursed the secret siren who had made him shave at midnight.
    It would always be like this, wouldn’t it? The ones you wanted could sense it with cunning, primeval precision. Your lust, not its fulfillment, was all these women required. And as soon as they felt it, as soon as they experienced the first acrid waft of your musk in their nostrils, they were gone from your life forever.
    But then—sweet Jesus!—she appeared.
    Poised and majestic as a figurehead on the great white clipper ship of the Superman Building, Lady Eleven materialized in her window and lifted her binoculars to her face. Brian matched her pose.
    And then he caught his breath.
    For now she was holding the binoculars with her right hand … and using her left hand to unknot the cord of her bathrobe.
    As the robe slipped to the floor, so did Brian’s.
    On that sixth enchanted evening, across a crowded city.

On-the-Job Training
    M ONA’S FIRST AFTERNOON AT THE BLUE MOON Lodge was disappointingly uneventful. The phone rang only twice. The first call was from a man who wanted to know if Monique still worked there. A quick aside with Mother Mucca revealed that she did not.
    “She left last month,” the madam explained. “She’s a directory assistance operator in Reno.”
    “What do I tell this guy, then?”
    “Tell him Doreen knows that bit too.”
    “What bit?”
    “Don’t be so goddamn nosy!”
    Mona frowned and picked up the receiver again. “Uh … Monique isn’t here anymore, but Doreen … knows how to do that too.”
    The customer hesitated. “The whole thing?”
    “Uh huh.”
    “With the rabbit’s foot and all?”
    “Uh … one moment, please.”
    Mother Mucca was looking irritated. “Don’t you know the first damn thing about—”
    “He’s asking about a goddamn rabbit’s foot!”
    The old woman’s mouth puckered into a pout. “Don’t you talk nasty to your elders, dolly! I’ll wash your fuckin’ mouth out with soap!”
    Mona softened her tone. “What about the rabbit’s foot?”
    Mother Mucca shrugged. “Doreen can do it.”
    Mona returned to the customer. “Yes, she can do the … rabbit’s foot thing.”
    “All the way?”
    “Yes. Satisfaction guaranteed.”
    “The girls in Battle Mountain fake it, ya know?”
    “Maybe so,” snapped Mona, “but this isn’t Battle Mountain. This is the Blue Moon Lodge!”
    Mother Mucca beamed, squeezing Mona’s arm. “Atta girl, Judy! Atta girl!”
    And the glow Mona felt came from pure, unadulterated pride.
    One by one, the girls of the Blue Moon Lodge began to straggle into the parlor. There were seven in all, including Bobbi. The oldest seemed to be in her mid-thirties. She had ratted hair and thin lips and looked like a gospel singer from the Billy Graham Crusade.
    “You’re Judy, ain’t ya? I’m Charlene.”
    Charlene, Bobbi, Doreen, Bonnie, Debby, Marnie and Sherry. Jesus, thought Mona. What the hell are they. Hookers or Mouseketeers?
    Charlene was checking her out. “Mother Mucca says you’re working the phones this week.”
    “Yeah, just—you know—for the experience.”
    That was wrong, all wrong. Patronizing as hell. Charlene knew it, too. “You ain’t writin’ one o’ them—whatchacallit—college papers?”
    “No.”
    “Good.” She knelt, stretching her lime-sherbert Capri pants to the limit, and turned on a mammoth color television set. Mona noticed for the first time that the top of the set was adorned with a Plasticine bust of JFK.
    Most of the girls were watching Merv Griffin when the second customer call came in.
    “Who’s this?” asked a well-modulated voice.
    “I’m Mo … I’m Judy. I’m working here this week.”
    “Oh.”
    “Mother Mucca has authorized me to—”
    “I think I’d better talk to her, please.”
    Mona was piqued. “Sir, if you would like to make an appointment, I’ll be glad—”
    Sensing a problem, Mother Mucca moved to Mona’s side. “He givin’ you trouble, Judy?”
    “He insists on talking to you.”
    The madam took the phone. “Yeah, this is … Oh, yes, sir…. No, she’s a new girl. I’ve … Yes, sir,