Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

people? Why don’t you introduce us?”
“Uh … sure. This is my husband, Brian … and my friends Michael Tolliver and Anna Madrigal.”
The rock widow nodded three times without a word, apparently regarding her own name as a matter of public knowledge. Then she turned her gypsy gaze back to Mary Ann. “You’re coming to my auction, aren’t you?”
So that was it, thought Michael. Mrs. Cross could smell media across a crowded room.
Mary Ann was thrown off balance, as intended. “Your …? I’m afraid I don’t …”
“Oh, no!” The rock widow showed the whites of her eyes, simulating exasperation. “Don’t tell me my ditzy secretary didn’t send you an invitation!”
Mary Ann shrugged. “I guess not.”
“Well … consider yourself invited. I’m having an auction out at my house this weekend. Some of Bix’s memorabilia. Gold records. The shirts he wore on his last tour. Lots of stuff. Fun stuff.”
“Great,” said Mary Ann.
“Oh … and his favorite Harley … and his barbells.” The moving finger pointed in Brian’s direction. “This one looks like he works out a little. Why don’t you bring him along?”
Mary Ann shot a quick glance at “this one,” then turned back to her assailant. “I’m not sure if we have plans that day, but if …”
“W is coming for sure, and the Hollywood Reporter has promised me they’ll be there. Even Dr. Noguchi is coming … which strikes me as the very least he could do, since he was the one who broke the story when Bix … you know … bit the big one.”
Michael listened with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. It was this kind of candid banter that had earned Theresa Cross a rung of her very own on San Francisco’s social ladder. She might be a little common at times, but she was anything but boring. Besides, her husband’s death (from a heroin overdose at the Tropicana Motel in Hollywood) had left her a very rich woman.
Whenever local hostesses needed an “extra woman”—as they often did in San Francisco—Theresa Cross could be counted on to do her part. Largely because of her public image, Michael had once referred to her in Jon’s presence as “the fag hag of the bourgeoisie.” Jon’s reaction had been typically (and maddeningly) cautious: “Maybe so … but she’s the closest thing we have to Bianca Jagger.”
Unnerved by Theresa’s “frankness,” Mary Ann was still fumbling for words. “This place is really charming, isn’t it?”
The rock widow made a face. “It was much more fun last week.” Radarlike, her eyes scanned the room until they came to rest on a diminutive figure standing at the entrance. Everyone seemed to recognize her at the same time.
“Holy shit,” Brian muttered. “It’s Bambi Kanetaka.”
“Gotta run,” said Theresa, already inching toward her new quarry. “I’ll see you at the auction.”
“Fine,” came Mary Ann’s feeble reply.
Now two tables away, the rock widow yelled: “Ten percent goes to charity.”
“Right,” said Michael, unable to resist, “and ninety percent goes up her nose.”
“Mouse … she’ll hear you.”
He snorted. “She’s not hearing squat.” He pointed toward the entrance alcove, where Mrs. Cross was already giving her pitch to Bambi Kanetaka.
Mary Ann’s unfulfilled ambition burned behind her eyes like a small brushfire. “Well,” she said dully, “I guess an anchorperson takes precedence over a reporter.”
There was a long, pregnant silence, which Mrs. Madrigal punctuated by reaching for the check. “Not at our house, dear. Shall we pick up some gelato on the way home?”
When bedtime finally came, Michael slept fitfully, pestered by the alcohol and unfinished business. If Jon had been there, Michael might have woken him to say that Theresa Cross was an asshole, that he had always done fine without even one Bianca Jagger, that the nervous pursuit of chic was a weakness unworthy of a doctor of medicine.
He lurched out of bed and felt his way to the telephone. In the light of the streetlight on Barbary Lane, he punched out Ned’s number. His partner answered on the second ring.
“It’s me,” said Michael.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Is it too late to change my mind?”
“About what?”
“You know … Death Valley.”
“Hell, no. That’s great. How about this weekend?”
“Perfect,” said Michael.

Hello Sailor
    W HILE RAIN PELTED THE PRESS PLATFORM AT Pier 50, Mary Ann huddled under her cameraman’s umbrella and scarfed down a breakfast of Cheerios