Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

walk,” said Jon calmly.
    “This is really corny. I hope you know that.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “You could have picked a better room for this touching human drama. I’ll fall and hit the toilet. I’ll die with a Johnny Mop in my hand.”
    “Shut up and walk.”
    Michael sighed and lifted his left foot, placing it about six inches in front of him. Then he dragged his right foot forward. “Godzilla approaching Tokyo,” he groaned.
    He repeated the process until he was in front of the toilet. Using a towel rack for support, he turned himself around. He made a face and let go.
    He landed on target.
    Jon was leaning cavalierly against the doorway, smiling at him. “You see?”
    “Can’t a lady have a little privacy?” said Michael.
    “Just a sec.” Jon dashed into the living room and came back with the Chronicle. He dropped it in Michael’s lap. “A little light reading for you.”
    The front page was dominated by a picture of Burke and Mary Ann, looking flustered at a press conference.
    The banner headline read:
    EPISCOPAL CANNIBAL CULT EXPOSED
    Later, Jon and Michael discussed the week’s events over coffee and raisin toast in the kitchen. Michael held up the newspaper.
    “What’s with this, anyway? I thought Burke was gonna break the story in New West.”
    “He was, but the police jumped the gun on him. The chief apparently called a press conference yesterday and scarfed up on a little publicity of his own. Burke was livid, because the chief had promised to keep quiet about it until the New West piece broke. Anyway, the end result was roughly the same. Pandemonium. Burke called his own press conference at New West late yesterday afternoon.”
    Michael smiled. “Mary Ann must be wrecked.”
    “She’s holding up O.K., actually. She says she’s coming by to see you this afternoon.”
    “Good.”
    “But no wisecracks, Michael. She’s still a little shaken over the whole thing.”
    “O.K. I promise not to put my foot in my mouth.” Michael grinned. “So to speak.”
    “That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about.”
    “O.K. O.K. Look, in one way, I’m just as involved as Mary Ann was.”
    “How’s that?”
    “Well, what if I had died at St. Sebastian’s? Those cultists would have been munching on me up there on the catwalk.”
    Jon shook his head and smiled. “They didn’t eat whole people, my love. Just parts. Amputated parts.”
    “Well, they could have.”
    “Nope. The parts were easier to hide. And to transport. They had no problem at all moving them from surgery to the refrigerated room in Tyrone’s flower shop. And they could also fit nicely into the cooler for the trip to the cathedral.”
    Michael made a face. “How many times did they do that, anyway?”
    “Who knows?” shrugged the doctor. “Maybe as often as twice a week for four or five months. Burke apparently stumbled onto the cult in its early stages, when he was still singing in the choir.”
    Michael rolled his eyes. “That’s when I would have moved back to Nantucket.”
    “No way. Burke’s a journalist, remember? He wanted the story badly. Bad enough to sweet-talk his way into the cult and sneak a peek at the goings-on up on the catwalk at Grace. He expected something freaky, of course, but not that freaky. He couldn’t handle it.”
    “Then he never went to the flower shop at St. Sebastian’s?”
    “Apparently not. He says he knew nothing at all about the contacts at the hospital until Mary Ann pointed it out to him.”
    Michael frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
    “Why?”
    “Because of the rose phobia. What about the goddamn red rose?”
    “Good question,” said the doctor.

A Rose Is a Rose
    M ICHAEL WAS USING HIS WALKER WHEN HE greeted Mary Ann at the door. “Hi,” he said breezily. “Welcome to the Barbary Lane Home for the Disabled.”
    She kissed him on the cheek. “You look pretty fabulous to me.”
    “Guess what I did this morning?”
    “What?”
    “I walked, Babycakes. Without this damn thing.”
    “Mouse!”
    “Ain’t that the cat’s ass?”
    “Do it now, Mouse. Do it for me.”
    He grinned at her. “Sorry. I never perform without my organ grinder. What about you, anyway? How does it feel to be a Media Star?”
    She moaned and sat down on the sofa. “I’m exhausted. I’ve talked to all three networks, People magazine, Time, Newsweek, the New York Times, the National Enquirer and my parents. My parents were the toughest of all.”
    “Of