Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

actually. I just wanted to be here in case … it got ugly.”
Great, thought Michael.
Miss Treves turned and looked out the window.
“Look,” said Michael, “could you at least tell us who we’re expecting?”
The little woman hesitated, then said: “Bunny Benbow.”
“Who?”
“Hush, love.” She hoisted herself onto her favorite chair. “Close the curtains, please. Quickly!”
As Michael did so, he heard footsteps. It was a drunk’s gait, heavy and faltering. The man muttered to himself as he passed the house, but his words were too slurred to be understood. Holding his breath, Michael glanced at Wilfred, then at Miss Treves, perched motionlessly on the edge of her chair with a forefinger pressed to her lips.
The footsteps stopped.
For a moment there was no sound at all except for the angry screeching of tires several blocks away. Then the man bellowed out a single word— Simon! —and overturned a trash can in the yard. Seconds later, the squawk of the door buzzer made the three listeners go rigid in unison, like victims of a joint electrocution.
Michael and Wilfred looked to Miss Treves for guidance. She shook her head slowly, once more using her finger to call for silence.
The buzzer sounded again, followed by the thud of the man’s fists against the front door. “Simon, you bloody little bastard, I know you’re in there!”
Still, Miss Treves insisted they remain quiet.
“Simon, lad … c’mon now…. It’s your old man…. I won’t hurt you. ” The man paused for a moment, waiting for a reply, then continued his plea in a more reasonable tone of voice, “Simon, lad … she lies about me … she’s a bloody liar, son…. C’mon now, open up, eh? Your old man needs your help, lad.”
He got nothing for his efforts.
“Simon!” he bellowed again.
“Hey,” came another voice, just as angry. “Sod off!”
Michael locked eyes with Wilfred, who pointed to the ceiling to indicate the identity of the other shouter.
“Who said that?” yelled the man at the door.
“Up here, you bleedin’ fool!”
Another garbage can clattered to the ground as the caller apparently staggered back into the yard. “Call me a fool, you goddamn black bastard. Come down here and call me that, you woolly-headed wog!”
The man returned to the door and began pounding again, a racket that was presently accompanied by the menacing thud of Wilfred’s father’s footsteps on the stairs. “C’mon, lad … doncha even wanna see what your old dad looks like? I know what you look like. Tell you what, lad … talk to me for just a bit and I’ll leave you be. Eh? That’s the least you …” His words were cut off by a bone-chilling howl from the aborigine and the bang of the door as it was thrown open. “I told you to sod off, didn’t I?”
Michael turned to Wilfred, whispering though it was no longer necessary. “This is insane. We can’t just sit here.”
“Says who?” the kid replied. “I’m not going out there.”
Miss Treves slipped out of her chair and inched toward the door. “Dear God,” she murmured. “This is dreadful. Isn’t there something we can do?”
The noise in the corridor was horrendous, a mixture of animal grunts and maniacal wheezing. Someone slammed against the wall so hard that a tin engraving fell off the wall in Simon’s living room. After almost a minute of desperate battle, there was nothing left but the sound of one man’s heavy breathing. Then someone opened the front door, closed it, and ran away from the house.
The corridor was still again.
Michael made his way toward the door.
“Wait!” said Wilfred.
“We have to see,” answered Michael.
Miss Treves said nothing, hands aflutter at her throat.
Pressing his ear against the door, Michael listened for a moment. Nothing. He eased the door open, to reveal a large white man lying on his back in the corridor. He knelt by the form and watched for breathing, then laid his ear against the wet polyester above the man’s heart.
“It’s the fat bloke,” said Wilfred.
Miss Treves waddled glumly into the corridor. “He’s just … unconscious, isn’t he?”
Michael looked up and shook his head.
“He’s dead?” asked Wilfred.
Miss Treves whimpered softly and fainted, falling against the hillock of the corpse’s belly.
Michael looked at Wilfred, then down again at the macabre tableau at his feet. His mind flashed perversely on the last scene of Romeo and Juliet.
Wilfred said the first sensible thing. “Have you any smelling