Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

compound on their nightly descent to the gourmet garbage cans of the Castro. They were huge creatures, sometimes four or five of them, so they sounded like sled dogs on the roof. Their chatter was a peculiar clicking noise. Mary Ann remembered that sound from her youth on Russian Hill, but these days it evoked the scaly green aliens in that Mel Gibson crop-circle movie.
    Roman had a similar reaction to them, barking furiously at the first indication of their presence. She had learned to make sure all the doors were closed, not because the raccoons would barge in, but because Roman would chase after them. That would not be a pleasant scenario, she’d been warned. Years ago, Michael had owned a poodle whose eyes had, reportedly, gone completely red after a strangling—a strangling —by raccoons. These little bastards had hands , and were capable of ganging up on even the largest dogs.
    The door to the cottage was already closed, so she held on to Roman’s collar and spoke to him as soothingly as possible.
    “That’s okay, little boy. It’s just those old meanies.”
    The dog continued to growl under his breath until the clattering on the roof had stopped and the clicking sound had passed into the neighboring garden.
    “See?” she cooed. “All gone.”
    Roman seized this golden opportunity to solicit love, sprawling on his back in an invitational pose. She rubbed his belly gently for several minutes, until both of them were almost hypnotized into a place of peace.
    Then, without warning, the dog righted himself and began wagging his tail gleefully. He went to the door and tapped it once with his paw, asking to be let out. He was making the silly crooning noise he reserved for people he knew.
    By now she had heard the crunch of gravel in the garden path, so she assumed that the guys were home. She got out of bed and opened the door. “Go on,” she told the dog. “Go give your daddies a kiss.”
    But the person who had prompted the dog’s ecstasy was neither Michael nor Ben but a hunched-over old man in a long black coat. He was holding the handle of a white plastic shopping bag. “Here ya go, Roman,” the old man said gruffly, using his free hand to pull something from his pocket. The dog gobbled down the treat and sat waiting for another, as if the two of them had performed this ritual a hundred times before.
    “Excuse me,” said Mary Ann, remaining in the doorway of the cottage. “If you’re looking for Michael and Ben, they’re out at dinner.”
    The old man said nothing. He was outside the range of the porch light, so it was difficult to read his expression. When he finally stumbled forward, he reached into his pocket again, pulled out a small black handgun and pointed it at her.
    “We have to talk,” he said.

Chapter 33
Those Damn Tangerines
    “ Just level with me,” said Michael. “The tangerines were for you.”
    They were eating at the Thai place next to the Edge. They both liked this place, but they could never remember the name of it, so they always called it “the Thai place next to the Edge.” Ben had thought they might drop by the Edge afterward, have a few beers together, but the prospects of that were looking pretty dim right now.
    “The tangerines were for both of us,” he replied calmly.
    “What? ‘Thanks for the sex. Here’s some tangerines for you and your husband.’ ”
    “That was the gist of it, yeah.”
    “So you told him you were married?”
    “Of course. I brought it up. I referred to my partner. I always do.”
    “But he’s single himself?”
    “Seems to be. He’s got some kid in Brazil that he’s hot for, but I don’t think he’s here all that much.”
    “You understand my concern here, don’t you? Produce is kind of personal.”
    “Personal?”
    “You know what I mean. Domestic. It feels like courtship.”
    Ben tried not to grin, but he did, a little. “He was a nice guy, babe. He just tossed ’em to me afterwards. Said to take ’em home.”
    “So he didn’t mention me specifically.”
    “No … I dunno … maybe not. Whatever. If I’d known those damn tangerines would cause so much pain I would have left them at the studio.”
    “Is that where you did it? At your studio?”
    “No. His condo.”
    A long silence.
    “Is that worse than my studio?” asked Ben.
    “I don’t know,” said Michael, giving him a lopsided smile.
    Ben reached across the table and took Michael’s hand. Manual communication almost always worked wonders on