Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

were still calling women ‘chicks’ when I met you.”
    “You remember correctly,” said Brian.
    “Well?”
    Brian shrugged. “Women still were chicks when you met me.”
    “Which reminds me,” said Mary Ann, ignoring his deliberate piggery. “Would you watch it with the naked ladies this time?”
    “Hey,” Brian protested. “All I did was talk to them. How was I supposed to know they were dykes?”
    “You weren’t,” said Mary Ann.
    “Hell,” added Brian. “It all evens out, anyway. Most of the guys down there must think I’m gay.”
    Michael smiled. “Or wish you were.”
    For San Francisco, it was a scorcher, a day when half the population called in sick to the other half. Some of them came here to recover, here to a secret, sun-drenched cove where they stripped off their clothes and offered up their cocoa buttered bodies to The Goddess.
    The beach would have been an odd sight from the air. It was checkerboarded with dozens of tiny stone forts, makeshift windbreaks accommodating anywhere from two to ten sun-worshipers in varying stages of undress.
    Michael called it The Breastworks.
    Today, the three of them had a fort all to themselves. Mary Ann and Brian sunbathed bare-chested but with bottoms; Michael took off everything, having finally decided that tan lines went out with The Seventies.
    The celebrants lay in silence for several minutes. Mary Ann was the first to speak.
    “Maybe this would do.”
    “That’s putting it mildly,” said Brian.
    “I mean, as a story. I need a really hot feature idea if I’m ever gonna get liberated from Bargain Matinee.”
    “You need more than that,” said Brian.
    “Besides,” added Michael, “nude beaches are old stuff. They’ve been done to death.”
    “You’re right,” sighed Mary Ann. “What about S & M?”
    “Not right now,” said Brian. “I just put the Coppertone on.”
    “That’s even more tired,” said Michael. “Whenever these local stations see their ratings flagging they do another exposé on S & M. It’s like earthquake stories or Zodiac letters. Anything to keep the public spooked.”
    “The problem,” remarked Mary Ann, “is that you can’t really plan it. The really big San Francisco stories just drop out of nowhere without warning.”
    “Like Guyana,” added Brian.
    “Or Burke and those cannibals at Grace Cathedral.” This interjection was Michael’s, and he regretted it instantly. Mary Ann’s old boyfriend, Burke Andrew, was now an associate editor at New York magazine. Brian appeared to be jealous of the long-dead relationship, so Mary Ann and Michael usually avoided mentioning it in his presence.
    Mary Ann changed the subject by interrogating Michael. “So you’re off to________’s house on Memorial Day weekend?”
    Michael nodded. “I’ll never be tan enough.”
    “Maybe he’ll come out,” mused Mary Ann, “and offer me an exclusive on the story.”
    “Uh-huh,” said Michael. “And maybe the sky will fall.”

Luke
    T HE MAN ON THE LEDGE WAS STILL SMILING UP AT PRUE, waiting for an answer to his question.
    “Uh … what?” she mumbled. Her right hand, meanwhile, burrowed deep into her bag until it closed around her tiny Tiffany rape whistle. If he made so much as a move, she would …
    “I said … you got time for coffee?”
    He gestured behind him towards the shack, a makeshift wooden structure straight out of Zane Grey. A thin curl of smoke rose from a rusty stovepipe that protruded from the building like an exclamation point.
    There was coffee inside?
    Prue cleared her throat. “That dog is mine,” she said evenly. “The one that ran into your … into that place.” Her face was crimson now; her throat was dry as chalk.
    The man continued to smile, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his baggy woolen trousers. “That so?” he replied, using a tone that seemed to taunt more than inquire. “S’nice dog, ol’ Whitey.”
    Whitey? Had this derelict tried to stake a claim on Vuitton by giving him a new name? His proper name and owner were clearly engraved on his dog tags. Even his collar—a Christmas present from Father Paddy Starr—had been crafted out of Louis Vuitton vinyl.
    “I was here several weeks ago,” Prue exclaimed feebly. “He ran away from me down in the tree ferns. I’m so relieved that he’s safe.”
    The man nodded, still smiling.
    “If you’ve been … taking care of him,” Prue continued, “I’ll be happy to reimburse you for any expenses you might have