Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

that?”
“Who do you think? The friend.”
“He just found out he’s going?”
“Right.”
“He sounds pleased.” He sounded delirious, in fact; the whooping hadn’t stopped. “How old is he?”
“Eleven, at the moment. Wilfred, get down from there.”
“Wilfred, huh? How English can you get? He isn’t really eleven, is he?”
“No.”
She waited for him to elaborate, then said: “Is that all I get?”
“That’s all you get. Until I’m home.”
“Is there good dish?” she asked.
“Some. Plenty, actually. I’m not sure you’ll believe it.”
“Like what?”
“When I get home, Babycakes.”
“You’re no fun,” she pouted.
    Outfoxed
G OOD FRIDAY CAME, GRAY AND DRIZZLY. MICHAEL stood on a platform at Paddington Station, mesmerized by the soot-streaked silver trains as they thundered into the great glass cavern. The depot was swarming with haggard Londoners, all intent upon an Easter somewhere else.
He checked the time. Eleven fifty-six. The train for Oxford would leave in seventeen minutes. He set his suitcase down and perused the other passengers queuing at Platform 4, Wilfred was plainly not among them.
They had agreed to meet al eleven-thirty, just to be safe, so the kid was almost half an hour overdue. If they missed this train, Michael realized, they would miss their connecting train in Oxford. He chided himself for trusting the kid to run off on his “last-minute errand,” whatever it was.
He wouldn’t get in a snit about it. He hauled his suitcase to the newsstand and lost himself in the screaming headlines of the tabloids. One said; RANDY ANDY’S ROYAL DIP . It featured a disappointing telephoto shot of Prince Andrew in a bathing suit. Another pictured the prince’s porn star girlfriend and said: KOO D’ETAT.
He bought an apple and checked the time again. Ten minutes till departure. What the hell was going on? Had Wilfred changed his mind? Or misunderstood his instructions? What if Wilfred’s father had come home?
The last thought was too creepy to pursue. He returned to the platform and saw that the train had arrived, so he paced alongside it, growing antsier by the second. It better be serious, he told himself, but not too serious. He couldn’t leave without knowing what had happened. He would just have to cancel the trip.
He approached a conductor. “Excuse me. I’m trying to get to Moreton-in-Marsh.”
“Right you are. This is the one. Change at Oxford.”
“I know, but if I miss this train …?”
“Then you’ll miss Moreton-in-Marsh, sir. Till tomorrow, that is.”
“Shit.”
“Expecting someone, are you?”
“Yeah. I was. Thanks.” He skulked away, supremely disappointed, then stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of Wilfred’s bronze-brown ringlets bobbing through the crowd. “There you are.”
The kid’s expression was appropriately sheepish. “Sorry, mate.” He was wearing jeans and a bright yellow sleeveless sweater with a matching bow tie. He carried a canvas satchel under one arm and a large cardboard box under the other.
Michael ditched his lecture and grinned at him. “We’re not immigrating, you know.”
Without answering, Wilfred boarded the train and strode through the carriages until he found one that was sparsely populated. “How’s this?” he asked.
“Fine.”
The kid took the seat by the window and stowed the satchel beneath him. He kept the cardboard box in his lap. “It took longer than I thought,” he said.
“For what?”
A cryptic smile. Then Wilfred tapped the side of the box.
Michael looked down at it. It was wrapped in masking tape, and there were four or five little holes in the top. The light dawned. “Jesus, Wilfred … if that’s what I …”
“Keep it down, mate.”
“They’ll throw us off.”
“No they won’t.”
“It’s gotta be … against the law or something.”
The kid shrugged. “You’re good with cops.”
Michael stared at him incredulously, then looked down again. “Are you sure he can’t get out of there?”
The kid nodded.
“But couldn’t he bite his way …?”
“He doesn’t want to, mate. He’s stoned.”
“What?”
“I put a bit of hash in his meat.”
The train lurched into motion just as a conductor entered the carriage. Wilfred leaned forward, folding his arms across the top of the box. Then he remembered his ticket, retrieved it from his jeans, and handed it to Michael. Hastily, he hunched over the box again.
The conductor loomed above them. “Where to,