Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

whatever that is. Do you see what I mean, Wilfred?” He found the kid’s hand and squeezed it.
Wilfred nodded.
“Do you dance?”
The kid glanced around. “Here?”
“Sure.”
Wilfred shrugged, then stood up. Michael took him in his arms and led as they danced to “You Needed Me.”
“Cripes,” murmured Wilfred, his head against Michael’s chest. “If me mates saw me, I’d be so bleedin’ humiliated.”
Michael chuckled. “Same here.” He was actually remembering a time when he and Jon had necked around the pool table at Peg’s Place in San Francisco. A dyke bar was the best place in the world for man-to-man romance; the management was always sympathetic, and there were no distractions. He wondered if lesbians felt the same way about gay men’s bars.
“When will you leave?” asked Wilfred. “For Gloucestershire, I mean.”
“Oh. Friday, I guess.”
“Will I see you after that?”
“Sure. I’ll be back for a day or so before I … go home.”
“Right.”
“Don’t get gloomy on me, Wilfred.”
“Right.”
It was almost midnight when they returned to Colville Crescent. Wilfred’s father was lumbering about upstairs, obviously drunk. Michael opened the door of his apartment, then turned to the kid: “Why don’t you come in for a while? Until he passes out, at least.”
Wilfred nodded and followed him into the room just as the phone rang. Michael reached for it and flopped on the sofa.
“It’s Miss Treves,” said the voice at the other end.
“Oh, hi.”
“Listen, love … have you had any trouble?”
“Trouble?”
“Oh … prowlers … that sort of thing.”
“No. Not that I know of. What is this?” Her ominously vague warnings were beginning to get on his nerves.
“Oh … well, there may be a bit of … I doubt if it’s serious, but I thought it best to let you know … just in case. There’s been a misunderstanding, and the silly ass is drunk, so …”
“Miss Treves …”
“Just stay there, love. I’ll be round shortly. I’ll explain everything.”
“O.K., but …”
“Lock the doors, love. Don’t let anyone in. Check the windows too. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She hung up.
Michael rose, a little dazed.
“Who was it?” asked Wilfred.
“Miss Treves.”
“Who? Oh … the midget?”
“She said to lock the doors and windows.”
“Why?” asked the kid.
“Good question. Somebody’s drunk. It doesn’t make any sense. She’s coming over to explain it …” His words trailed off as he remembered the door that opened onto the garden from the kitchen. He hurried to lock it.
Wilfred trailed after him like an anxious puppy. “Maybe it’s that fat bloke I saw.”
“What fat bloke?”
“You know. When that bitch was here.”
“Oh.”
As he secured the back door, he peered out into the dark garden, but all he could make out was the grim filigree of the rusty bedspring propped against the fence. The sky glowed luridly, pinkish-orange, reflecting the lights of the city. There was no movement anywhere. He went to the kitchen window and tugged on the sash. “This goddamn thing won’t close all the way.”
Wilfred nodded soberly. “We’ve got one to match upstairs. Look, mate … what’s happening? Is someone coming?”
“I don’t know. She seemed to think so.”
“Then why don’t we leave?”
“We can’t. Miss Treves is coming over.”
The kid was silent for a moment, then said: “You forgot the window in the bedroom.”
“God, you’re right!” He dashed into the bedroom, with Wilfred at his heels. The window was already shut, so they returned to the living room, where Michael waited nervously at the window facing the street.
“What if he gets here before she does?” asked Wilfred.
“Don’t make it worse,” said Michael. A car rumbled past the elephantine silhouette of the cement mixer on the sidewalk. He watched until it rounded the corner and passed out of sight. Did Miss Treves drive? he wondered.
Moments later, the little manicurist arrived on foot, bustling along the sidewalk like a Munchkin bringing word of the Wicked Witch. Michael admitted her before she had a chance to reach for the buzzer.
“I’m sorry, love,” she said in an earnest whisper as she hurried into the apartment and locked the door behind her. “You really shouldn’t be involved in this.”
“There’s two of us, actually. This is my friend, Wilfred. He lives upstairs.”
She nodded a brisk hello to the kid, then turned back to Michael. “It may be nothing,