Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

floor and leafed through it hurriedly. “Arante … Araquistain … Ararat! Ararat Armenian Restaurant, 1000 Clement Street! Look, Burke!”
    “So?”
    “There could be some connection.” She wrinkled her nose, piqued by his total lack of enthusiasm. “Don’t you want to figure this out, Burke?”
    His smile was meant to goad her. “All right, Angie Dickinson. What’s Rose Incarnate, then? A belly dancer at the restaurant?”
    “It could be, smartass.”
    “And the Meeting of the Lines?”
    “I don’t like your attitude.”
    “Then you don’t wanna hear my theory, I guess?”
    “You’ve got one?”
    “Yep.”
    “Then let’s hear it.”
    “It’ll cost ya.”
    “No way.”
    He pressed his fingertips to his forehead histrionically. “Ohhh … it’s going. I’m afraid I’m losing it. It’s only a dim, dim …”
    “Oh, all riiight!” She grinned at him and crawled back into bed. There was an air of urgency and intrigue to their love-making that made it the best in weeks.
    Afterward, Burke heated some milk in the kitchen. They drank from the same steaming mug, sitting up in bed.
    “So what’s your theory?” asked Mary Ann.
    Burke took a sip before answering. “I think it could have something to do with cocaine.”
    “Cocaine?” She was still very Cleveland about that drug.
    “Yeah. A line of coke, see? The Meeting of the Lines.”
    “Oh.”
    “You don’t like that one, huh?”
    “But why would anyone be chanting about that?”
    He shrugged “People chant about everything in Northern California. Some cult might have—”
    “You think it was a cult?” The thought had already occurred to her, but she’d been terrified of broaching the subject. Burke had grown increasingly sensitive about his veiled past.
    “I don’t know,” he replied.
    “Yes you do. You think it was a cult.”
    “I don’t think anything,” he snapped. “I’m guessing. I’m guessing about my own goddamn life, which is not the easiest thing in the world to do.”
    “I know. I’m sorry.”
    He pulled her closer. “I didn’t mean to growl.”
    “I know.”
    “Let’s get some sleep, O.K.?”
    “O.K. Burke?”
    “Yeah?”
    “In the dream … do you remember if you … Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
    “C’mon. What is it?”
    “I was wondering … do you remember if you were chanting?”
    “No.”
    “You weren’t?”
    “No. I mean, I don’t remember.”
    For the first time ever, she wasn’t sure that she believed him.

Michael’s Theory
    M ARY ANN LEFT BURKE’S APARTMENT AFTER BREAKFAST. She was uneasy, she told him, about her status at Halcyon Communications. She had to make a few phone calls to remind the hierarchy of her need for a new position. This unexpected vacation couldn’t last forever.
    She was telling only half the truth.
    After a quick call to Mildred (who assured her that the board would elect a new president next week), she dialed the number of the Ararat Armenian Restaurant and asked if a Burke Andrew had ever worked there.
    They had never heard of him, the manager told her.
    It had been a dumb idea, of course, but that stupid poem and the man with the transplant and the messy ordeal with Burke and the roses had begun to make her genuinely nervous.
    Burke himself seemed on edge these days. His irritability, moreover, seemed to increase as Mary Ann delved deeper into the riddle of his past. Had he remembered enough, she wondered, to be frightened of the final revelation?
    Was he telling her all he knew?
    She needed an ally, she realized, an impartial third party who could help her sort out the pieces of the puzzle.
    “Anybody home?”
    Michael grinned at her from his hospital bed. “Just me and Merv.”
    “Oh … yeah.” She went to the bed, kissed Michael on the cheek and feigned interest in the television. “Eva Gabor still looks so young, “she said lamely.
    “That’s because of the clothespins.”
    “What?”
    “She’s got clothespins.” Using both hands, he pinched the scalp behind his temples. “Here … and here. They fit under her Eva Gabor wigs.”
    Mary Ann giggled. “Oh, Mouse … I’ve missed you.” She sat on the edge of the bed and fussed with his hair. “You’re getting all shaggy,” she said.
    He turned off the television with a remote switch. “How’s ol’ Mystery Meat?” he asked.
    Mary Ann groaned softly. “It’s getting more bizarre every day.” She told him about the dream poem, about the subtle shift in Burke’s