Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

listened outside the door. Trying the latch, she found that the door wasn’t locked.
    Inside, it seemed that nothing had been touched. The big chunk of foam rubber was still there. Likewise, the army cot, the map of the city, and Luke’s beloved motto hanging on the wall.
    There weren’t that many places to search, she realized. Her first choice was the handmade wooden box where Luke had stored his gear for Vuitton. Only now it wasn’t on the floor; it was on the shelf above the foam rubber.
    When Prue reached for it, her hand touched something cold and slimy. She screamed hysterically and dropped the box, thereby crushing a large banana slug that had affixed itself to the box’s backside.
    She stood there shaking, wiping her fingers frantically against her coat. Vuitton-crouched at her feet and whimpered in sympathy. “It’s O.K., baby,” murmured Prue. “We’re gonna leave in a minute.”
    “I think that’s a good idea.”
    Prue’s eyes shot to the door of the shack, where she was confronted by a uniformed policeman, staring down at her from the back of a large chestnut stallion.
    “Oh … officer,” she said. “I … uh … my dog ran in here, and I …”
    The policeman smiled at her. “Pretty dog.”
    “Oh … well, thank you. He’s such a nuisance sometimes.”
    The officer leaned forward in the saddle, peering into the shack. “Some place, huh?”
    Prue nodded wordlessly. How long had he been watching her?
    “It used to be a tool shed for the park, until a bum moved in about a year ago. I sort of keep an eye on things for him.”
    Prue sidled out of the shack with Vuitton by her side. If Prue was intimidated by the policeman, the wolfhound was more intimidated by the horse.
    “I apologize, officer,” said the columnist. “It’s just so … fascinating.”
    The policeman smiled. “Isn’t it?” He seemed much less foreboding now that Prue could see that he was young and darkly handsome, Latino probably.
    And he was wearing a Walkman.

A Man Called Mark
    H E’S QUITE A CHARACTER,” SAID THE MOUNTED policeman.
    Prue drew a momentary blank, still flushed with guilt over being caught in the act of searching Luke’s shack. “Uh … I’m sorry. What did you say?”
    The officer smiled forgivingly. “The guy who lives here. He’s something else. One of those characters you find only in San Francisco.”
    “I suppose so,” she said.
    “You know him?”
    “No,” she replied hastily. “I mean … I assume he’s a character … judging by this place. It’s so … quaint. And he seems to keep it fairly neat.”
    “I’m surprised it hasn’t been vandalized,” said the policeman.
    “Oh?”
    “He’s been gone for a couple of weeks … the longest time yet. I guess he’s coming back, though; he left his stuff here. He was weird, but domestic, if you know what I mean.”
    “I think so,” said Prue.
    “Maybe I’d better take a look.” The officer dismounted, tethering his horse to a tree. As the stallion shifted, Vuitton whimpered nervously to his mistress. The policeman reached down and petted the wolfhound. “What’s his name?”
    “Vuitton,” answered Prue.
    “Uh … French?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “What does it mean?”
    Prue saw no point in explaining it. “It’s just a proper name.”
    “He looks a lot like a dog that used to hang out with Mark.”
    “Who’s Mark?” asked Prue.
    “The guy who lives here. I don’t know his last name.” He smiled at the columnist. “For all I know, he doesn’t know his last name.”
    Prue tried not to show her confusion. “You don’t know very much about him, I take it?”
    The officer shrugged. “What’s to know? He’s a drifter. Decent enough guy. Says he used to live in Hawaii. Ate mangoes on the beach, scrounged a lot. Same as here.”
    “Really?”
    “Sure. There are lots of guys like that in San Francisco. Sleeping in packing crates, bumming free food when the restaurants close. It’s been going on since Emperor Norton.”
    Prue frowned. “But this man … well, he seems to be sort of intelligent.”
    “How can you tell?”
    “Well … that motto on his wall, for one thing … and those pencils and the map.”
    The policeman grinned. “He’s probably trying to take over the world or something.”
    “You think he’s crazy?”
    The officer shrugged. “Maybe we’re the crazy ones.”
    “Yeah,” Prue replied vaguely. “Maybe so.”
    “He’s educated, I know that. He studied at Harvard before he moved