Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

something.”
    “I love you, Jon—”
    “That’s good for starters.”
    “I don’t want it to be a doctor-patient thing, that’s all.”
    Jon turned and stared at him. “Is that what you think?”
    “You’re a doctor, Jon. It would only be natural for you to get off on nursing someone back—”
    “I hate wiping your butt!”
    “Look, I didn’t mean to … You do?”
    “Goddamn right!”
    Michael smiled. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”
    They laughed until tears streamed down their faces. Michael lost control of the smoldering roach, letting it fall to the floor. Jon snuffed it with his foot, then leaned over to look directly into Michael’s eyes.
    “I want you well, sport. I don’t care who does it.”
    “I know.”
    “On the other hand, I do get off on sex with paraplegics.”
    They sat up in bed together, poring over back issues of Architectural Digest.
    “Hey,” said Jon, “you wanna have Mona up for brunch tomorrow?”
    “She may be in no mood. She’s seeing her mother tonight.”
    “Her mother’s a bitch?”
    “According to Mona, it’s ‘hair by L’Oreal, jewels by Cartier and heart by Frigidaire.’ But who knows?”
    “Yeah.” Jon got lost in his magazine.
    Michael stopped reading and savored for a moment this rare new form of inactivity. All his adult life he had searched for someone to do nothing with in bed. And now he had found him, this bright, generous person whose love was so strong that sex was in perspective again.
    Jon held up his magazine. “Isn’t that magnificent?” It was an early photograph of the Pacific Union Club, the palatial stone edifice that still adorned the top of Nob Hill.
    Michael shook his head in appreciation. “Imagine a club with that kind of money!”
    “The club didn’t build it. The Floods did.”
    “The Floods?”
    “The Flood family. Big bucks in the old days.” Michael’s brow wrinkled. “You don’t suppose …?”
    “What?”
    “Christ!” yelped Michael. “That could be it, Jon. That could be it.”

The Mountain of the Flood
    I T WAS LATE, BUT MICHAEL WAS TOO EXCITED TO WAIT until morning before calling Mary Ann.
    “Ajax Detective Service here.”
    “Mouse?”
    “You thought you’d screw me up with that damn poem, didn’t you?”
    “You’ve got something?”
    “Mais naturellement! Can you come down?”
    “Can I!” She hung up without another word.
    Jon laid his Architectural Digest on the nightstand. “Shall I get up?”
    “Why?” asked Michael.
    “Isn’t she coming down?”
    Michael looked mildly miffed. “I think she knows we sleep together, Jon.”
    “I know, but …” The doctor smiled at himself. “I’ll feel like Nora Charles or something.”
    Michael tugged at the lapel of Jon’s pajamas. “It’s O.K. You’re wearing your peignoir.”
    Seconds later, they heard Mary Ann in the hallway, rapping demurely on the door. “It’s open,” Michael shouted.
    When Mary Ann peered cautiously into the bedroom, Michael made sure there would be no embarrassed silences. “It’s O.K.,” he grinned. “Just pretend we’re Starsky and Hutch.”
    Mary Ann giggled. “You do sorta look like them.” She pulled up a chair next to the bed. “I hope you don’t mind this intrusion, Jon.”
    Jon smiled. “I can’t wait to hear what this is about myself.”
    “In fact,” added Michael, “he’s the one who gave me the clue.”
    Mary Ann was practically bouncing in the chair. “Tell me, tell me!”
    Michael smiled mysteriously, heightening the suspense. “I think Burke’s little dream poem is about the PU Club.”
    “The what?”
    “The PU Club, you poor cornfed thing! The Pacific Union Club, up on Nob Hill.”
    “That big red brick thing?”
    Michael nodded. “It was built by a man named Flood, which makes Nob Hill the Mountain of the Flood! And the PU Club is not only a cult, it’s our oldest cult. All those overstuffed old banker farts, sitting around in their overstuffed chairs!”
    Mary Ann was slack-jawed. “Mouse, do you think they recite that poem in one of their rituals or something?”
    “Doesn’t it make a lot of sense?”
    Mary Ann thought for a moment. “Well, that part makes sense. But what about the rest of it? What about the Meeting of the Lines, for instance?”
    Jon, who had been listening intently, couldn’t resist asking, “What’s the Meeting of the Lines?”
    “It’s part of the poem,” Michael explained. “High upon the Sacred Rock/The Rose Incarnate