Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

told her three more people who needed their prayers.
    Prue got to her news over dessert.
    “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said. “I found Vuitton.”
    “Ah.” Father Paddy reached across the table and fondled her hand. “I’m so happy, my child! Where was he? The poor thing must have been famished!”
    Prue shook her head. “That’s the amazing part. He was living with this man in the park.”
    “A park official, you mean?”
    “No. A man in a funny little shack. Up on the ridge above the tree ferns. He had a bed and a fireplace and everything. Vuitton seemed to adore him, so I couldn’t really get upset about it. Him keeping Vuitton, I mean.”
    “He didn’t call you?”
    “No. I found him. Or rather, I found Vuitton and Vuitton led me to him. He seemed a little sad when I took Vuitton away. He’d made a leash for him, and he had a grooming brush and everything.”
    Father Paddy poured cream on his raspberries. “How endearing.”
    “It was. I was truly touched, Father. He told me to bring Vuitton for a visit sometime. I think I may do it.”
    The priest’s smile hovered, but his brow furrowed. “Well, I don’t know about that, Prudy Sue.”
    “Why?”
    “Well, you really have no way of knowing who he …”
    “I’m trusting my instincts, Father. This man is a gentle spirit. Life hasn’t treated him well, but he’s still smiling back at it. He even has a quote from one of the saints on his wall.”
    “Really,” smiled Father Paddy, “who?” Now they were back on his turf again.
    Prue thought for a moment. “Santa somebody. I forget. It’s something about remembering the past. He made it out of twigs.” She took a bite of her trifle. “Besides, characters like him are a San Francisco tradition. Like Emperor Norton, and … remember Olin Cobb, that man who built the little lean-to on Telegraph Hill?”
    Father Paddy grinned at her sideways. “You’re going to write about this, aren’t you?”
    “Maybe,” said Prue coyly.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Anyway, I have to go back at least one more time.”
    “Now, Prue …”
    “I left my rape whistle there.”
    “Oh, please.”
    “It’s from Tiffany’s,” explained the columnist.
    The priest corrected her. “Tiffany, darling. No apostrophe s.”
    “Tiffany,” repeated Prue. “Reg gave it to me. I’m sort of sentimental about it. I dropped my purse on the ridge. The whistle must’ve fallen out. Don’t look at me like that, Father.”
    The priest simply shook his head, a gently chastising smile on his lips.
    “You’re so sweet,” said Prue, picking up the check. “It’s nice having somebody worry about me.”

The Castle
    T HE SILENCE WAS SHATTERED BY THE SOUND OF YAPPING dogs. They seemed a motley group, judging by their barks—young and old, big and small. Michael smiled, remembering a hot summer night in Palm Springs when he and Ned had eaten mushrooms and tried to climb Liberace’s fence.
    “Oh no,” he whispered, “does he have attack poodles, too?”
    Ned chuckled, his teeth flashing like foxfire in the darkness. “These aren’t guard dogs. These are family.”
    The big neo-Spanish door swung open. The houseman, a diminutive, jockey-like man in his mid sixties, held the door ajar with one arm and fended off the dogs with the other. “Hurry,” he said, “before one of these retards makes a run for it.”
    Ned led the way, with Michael heavy on his heels. The dogs—an ancient, rheumy-eyed shepherd; a pair of hysterical Irish setters; a squat, three-legged mongrel—cavorted deliriously around the feet of the man who had once shared the house with them.
    Ned knelt in their midst and greeted them individually. “Honey, ol’ Honey, how ya doin’, girl? Yeah, Lance … good Lance! Heeey, Guinevere …”
    Michael was impressed. It was one thing to know______ _____. It was quite another to be on a first name basis with his dogs.
    Ned cuddled the three-legged runt in his lap. “How’s this one been doing?”
    The houseman rolled his eyes. “He got out last week. The little pissant made it all the way down to Schuyler Road. Lucy found him, of all people. Called______. He was practically in mourning by then, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t take calls … well, you know.”
    Still kneeling, Ned held the dog up for Michael’s inspection. “Noble beast. Named after yours truly.”
    Michael didn’t get it at first. He was still wondering if it had been the Lucy who’d found the dog. “Uh … you mean his