Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

name is Ned?”
    The mutt yipped asthmatically, confirming the claim. Ned let him down and stood up. “We go back a long ways, him and me. Guido, this is my friend, Michael Tolliver.”
    Michael shook hands with the houseman, who offered a half-smile, then turned back to Ned. “He’s not back till tomorrow. You’ve got the place to yourself tonight. I left the heat on in the Jacuzzi.”
    Michael breathed a secret sigh of relief. At least there would be time to collect himself.
    Guido led them down a tiled walkway under an arbor that framed the courtyard. Fuchsia blossoms the color of bruises bumped against their heads as they walked. Across the courtyard, floating above the rectilinear lights of Los Angeles, a swimming pool, gigantic and glowing, provided the only illumination. It might have been a landing strip for UFO’s.
    Guido opened another door—the real front door, Michael presumed. He caught a fleeting impression of oversized Spanish furniture, suits of armor, crimson carpets (Early Butch, Ned once had dubbed it) as they climbed the grand staircase to the second floor.
    “I put you both in the trophy room tonight,” said Guido drily, “if that’s all right.”
    “Fine,” said Ned.
    “The red room’s a mess. Two kids from Laguna stayed over last night. Lube on the sheets, poppers on the carpet. Honestly.”
    Ned and Michael exchanged grins. “We won’t be nearly as much trouble,” said Ned.
    The trophy room was almost too much for Michael to absorb: a whole row of plaques from Photoplay magazine (mostly from the fifties); keys to a dozen cities; telegrams from Hitch-cock, Billy Wilder, DeMille; silver-framed photos of________ _________with JFK,________ _______with Marilyn Monroe, _______ _______with Ronald Reagan; a needlepoint pillow from Mary Tyler Moore.
    After Guido had left, Michael just stood there, shaking his head. “Is this his room?”
    “Across the hall,” said Ned. “Wanna see it?”
    “Should we?”
    Ned smiled sleepily. “It used to be my room, too, remember?”
    They passed through double doors, massive and oaken, into a space that looked like a set for a movie star’s bedroom. The windows opened onto the pool and the world. The bed was enormous, exactly the sort of bed Michael expected ______ ______to sleep in.
    He approached it in earnest, like a pilgrim, and sat down tentatively on the edge. Smiling sheepishly at Ned, he admitted, “I feel like such a tourist.”
    “You’ll get used to it soon enough.”
    “The bed?” laughed Michael.
    “There’s coffee in the morning if you want it.”
    Michael sprang to his feet, feverish with guilt. Guido stood in the doorway, eyeing them.
    “Thanks,” said Ned, apparently unruffled. “I’m just giving Michael the house tour.”
    Guido grunted. “Don’t trip any alarms,” he said as he left the room.
    Michael listened until his footsteps had died out, then gave a nervous little whistle.
    “He’s just doing his job,” Ned explained.
    “Yeah,” said Michael, “like Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca.”

Halcyon Hill
    M EMORIAL DAY DAWNED BRIGHT AND CLEAR. MARY Ann left for Hillsborough just before noon, only to get caught in a traffic snarl at the intersection of DuBoce and Market. She puzzled over this turn of events until she saw the throng gathered on the pavement at the 76 station.
    About five hundred people were cheering hysterically while a statuesque man in nurse drag—boobies, bouffant, the works—thrashed about violently on the back of a mechanical bull. In other words, thought Mary Ann, just another Memorial Day.
    A battered Volvo pulled alongside the Le Car. “What the fuck is this?” asked a frizzy-haired woman with an infant child and a back seat full of No Nukes posters.
    “The Great Tricycle Race,” said Mary Ann. She had learned that much from Michael.
    “What’s that?” asked the woman.
    “Uh, well … gay guys on tricycles. It’s a benefit for the SPCA.”
    The woman beamed. “Wonderful!” she shouted, as the cars began to move again. “How goddamn wonderful!”
    Curiously enough, Mary Ann knew exactly what she meant. How could anyone feel threatened by this kind of whimsy? If she ever had a child, she would want him to grow up in San Francisco, where Mardi Gras was celebrated at least five times a year.
    She hadn’t always felt that way, of course. Once she had harbored deep resentment at the sight of dozens of near-naked men gamboling in the streets, their cute little butts winking