Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

for—”
    “I said go home!”
    “What about my money?”
    “There ain’t gonna be no money, ‘cause there ain’t gonna be no job. The client just got barbecued in the Broadway tunnel.”
    “Huh?”
    “I’ll explain it to you when you grow up.”
    “Wait just a fuckin’—”
    “Look, kid, if you want a blue face to go with that green hair, just keep messin’ with me, hear?”
    Douchebag composed a hardass reply, then decided against it and hung up. Readjusting the safety pin on her garbage bag, she slammed out of the phone booth and set off in the direction of home. There might be a cat she could kick on the way.
    Leaving the Palace of the Legion of Honor, DeDe paused for a moment to watch the Golden Gate Bridge twinkling in the darkness.
    “It never fails, does it?”
    “What?” asked D’orothea.
    “That. I mean … it never gets old. I was born here, and I’ve never stopped catching my breath whenever I see it. Sometimes I think there’s a huge magnet in it that keeps me from leaving.”
    “Do you want to leave?”
    “I think about it. Everybody thinks about leaving home, don’t they? The problem is, when you’re born at the end of the rainbow, there’s no place to go.” She turned and smiled at her new friend. “It’s not really fair, is it?”
    “Maybe there’s a city you haven’t seen.”
    “There are lots of cities I haven’t seen. Athens … Vienna …”
    “No. I mean here.” D’orothea smiled, arching an eyebrow. “Those Junior Leaguers back there are as alien to me as … Mars. DeDe, there are a surprising number of people in this town whose shoes don’t match their handbags.”
    DeDe thought about that in silence all the way back to D’orothea’s house in Pacific Heights. When they reached the cinnamon-and-buff Victorian, D’orothea thanked her for “an edifying evening.”
    DeDe smiled apologetically. “Pretty dull, huh?”
    “Not with you, hon.” She leaned over suddenly and kissed DeDe on the cheek. “Where are we having the babies, by the way?”
    “St. Sebastian’s,” said DeDe. “And thanks for that we.”
    D’orothea shrugged. “You can’t do it alone, can you?”
    “I thought I might have to.”
    “Bullshit.” She bounded out of the car, slammed the door authoritatively and blew a kiss to DeDe from her front steps. “I’ll call you soon,” she yelled.
    Forty minutes later, DeDe arrived at Halcyon Hill alone. A police car was parked in the circular driveway. As she locked the Mercedes, she spotted a chunky officer standing next to the cast-iron negro lawn jockey that Mother had painted white after the Watts riots.
    “Mrs. Day?” The officer approached her.
    “God! Not another burglary?”
    “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. We couldn’t find any other members of your family, so they asked me to … There’s been an accident, Mrs. Day.”
    “Mother! Is it Mother?”
    The officer took her arm. “No, ma’am. It’s gonna be O.K. Why don’t we go sit down?”
    Inside, she took the news more stoically than the officer might have expected.
    “When did it happen?” she asked.
    “Several hours ago. His car apparently skidded in the Broadway tunnel. There was … a fire.”
    “God.”
    “Mrs. Day … I’m really sorry. If there’s somewhere you’d like to go, I’d be more than happy to take you.”
    “No. Thank you. I’m O.K.”
    “Would you like me to stay for a while?”
    “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, thank you.”
    With obvious discomfort, the officer handed her an envelope. “I’m supposed to give you this. It’s his—your husband’s—personal effects.”
    Two Scotches and several hundred M & M’s later, DeDe retreated to her bedroom and worked up the nerve to open the envelope.
    All that was left of her husband landed with an ugly clatter on her mirror-topped vanity.
    A golden belt buckle, composed of interlocking G’s.

Burke’s Bad Dream
    F OR DIFFERENT REASONS, MARY ANN AND BURKE BOTH slept fitfully on the night of Beauchamp’s death. When she awoke, Mary Ann called St. Sebastian’s and checked on Michael’s condition. Nothing had changed, Jon told her. Mona and Mrs. Madrigal were expected at the hospital later that morning.
    Then the secretary called Halcyon Communications and asked for Mildred in Production. It was not yet eight-thirty; the spinster’s voice sounded tired and far away.
    “When did you hear?” she asked.
    “Last night,” said Mary Ann, consciously injecting a funereal note into