Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

shirt, white linen trousers and emerald green Topsiders. “Get him,” said Ned. “Is that L.A. or what?”
    Michael presented himself to Mary Ann for inspection.
    “Very nice,” she remarked, “but you’ll be pitted out by the time you reach the pea soup place.”
    “Then I’ll change at the pea soup place.” He pecked her on the mouth and sprang into the truck. “If I’m not back in three days, send in the Mounties.”
    “Make him wear a bathing suit,” Mary Ann instructed Ned.
    “That’s a tall order,” said the nurseryman.
    “I know,” replied Mary Ann. “He almost burned his butt off last week at Lands End.”
As usual, there wasn’t a legal parking space within five blocks of the station. She finally settled on a commercial zone in an alley off Van Ness, leaving an outdated press pass on the dashboard of the car.
    She hurried past the security guard, eating Cheetos at the front desk, and boarded the elevator where she stabbed the button for the third floor.
    She checked her Casio. Two-thirty-eight. God, she was pushing it these days. Time was when she would show up two hours early for the three o’clock broadcast. Time was she had actually found this crap exciting.
    Bambi Kanetaka was leaving the dressing room when Mary Ann arrived.
    “Hi,” said Mary Ann. “Why so early?”
    “We’re shooting on location,” the anchorperson replied breathlessly. “Larry’s found some woman who used to date the Trailside Killer. What’s in the bag?”
    It was almost uncanny, Mary Ann decided, how Bambi could find her way straight to the soft spot. “Just some seconds,” she muttered.
    “Awww,” said Bambi, peeking into the bag. “They’re precious. Honestly, you get to do the most fun things, Mary Ann. I get so tired of all the …” She sighed world-wearily. “You know, the heavy stuff.”
The makeup man, who had just returned from his grandmother’s funeral in Portland, was done up in gold chains and black Spandex—his idea of mourning garb.
    “… and so I went to the funeral home and I insisted … look up, would you, hon … good … I insisted that they open the casket … a little to the left now … so they opened it for me, and what do you think they had on Grandma’s lips? TITTY PINK! I mean, really … head up, hon … so I said just let me handle this because my grandma is getting nothing less than Cocksucker Red when they put her in the ground….”
    Denny spied Mary Ann and stuck his head through the doorway. “There you are.”
    She hated “There you are” when it meant “Where have you been?”
    “That woman’s on the line again,” said the associate producer.
    “What woman?”
    “The drunk. She spelled her name this time. It’s Halcyon, not Harrison.”
    “God,” said Mary Ann.
    “Ring a bell?”
    “I think I used to work for her husband.” She checked the wall clock: six minutes to air time. “Tell her I’ll call her back after the intro.”

We Must Have Lunch
    M ARY ANN DELIVERED HER SPIEL ON STUFFED ANIMALS in less than three minutes, which meant that she had to spend the same amount of time getting gushy about Say One for Me.
    It wasn’t easy. She had never been able to buy Bing Crosby as a priest. Or Rosalind Russell as a Mother Superior. Or Helen Reddy as a nun. Hollywood had some pretty funny ideas about what Catholics were supposed to look like.
    “Mary Ann, you were too yummy for words. I watched you on the monitor.”
    It was Father Paddy Starr, San Francisco’s idea of a priest, hell-bent for Studio B as Mary Ann beat a hasty retreat.
    “Thanks, Father. Break a leg.” It sounded weird, saying that to a priest, but this one was in show business, after all. Father Paddy’s late-night show, Honest to God, was taped every afternoon following Mary Ann’s show.
    Back at her cubbyhole, she checked to see if Denny had left a number for Mrs. Halcyon. He hadn’t, of course, but she finally got it out of Directory Assistance after two overlapping recorded voices—one male, one female—chastised her for doing so.
    She dialed the number.
    “Halcyon Hill.”
    Mary Ann recognized the voice from her days at Halcyon Communications when she had spent a fair amount of time relaying messages between Edgar Halcyon and his wife. “Emma?”
    “Yes’m?”
    “This is Mary Ann Singleton. Remember me?”
    “‘Course I remember you! It’s mighty good to hear you, mighty good! Oh Lord, I could fairly bust, Mary Ann. Jesus looks out for his children,