Read Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City for Free Online

rolled his eyes in exasperation. “He never stopped staring at us!”
    “A passenger?”
    “Yep.”
    “Looking at us?”
    “You got it, girl.”
    Mary Ann bit the tip of her forefinger. “Do you think he was blind?”
    Michael whooped and raised his glass. “OK, then … to blindness!”
    “To blindness,” echoed Mary Ann.

Mother Mucca’s Proposition
    M ONA WOKE FROM AN UNEASY SLEEP WHEN THE Greyhound pulled into Truckee, California, just before dawn. She was sure her tongue had turned into a dead gopher. The bizarre old woman next to her patted her hand.
    “This ain’t it, dolly. Go back to sleep.”
    It? What was It? Where was It?
    “It’s O.K., dolly. Mother Mucca’s here. I’m lookin’ out for ya.”
    “Look, lady, I—”
    “Mother Mucca.”
    “OK. I appreciate your help, but—”
    “That angel dust’ll fuck you up every time. You shoulda heard yourself talkin’ in your sleep, dolly!”
    “I don’t … what did I say?”
    “I don’t know. Crazy stuff. Somethin’ about mice.”
    “Mice?”
    “Somethin’ like that. Somethin’ like: ‘Where did the mouse go? I can’t find the mouse.’ Then you started hollerin’ for your daddy. It was goddamn spooky, dolly!”
    Mona rubbed her eyes and watched the zombie-faced passengers shuffle out for coffee in the Truckee station. They looked like haggard infantrymen bracing for a predawn assault.
    What in the name of Buddha was she doing here?
    When Mother Mucca insisted on buying breakfast, Mona was too weak to refuse. Besides, the old biddy seemed kind of together, even if she did look like a refugee from a Fellini movie.
    “I had a girl named Judy once.”
    “What?”
    “You said your name was Judy, didn’t you?”
    Mona nodded, opting to remain as anonymous as possible. She’d had all she could take of Mona Ramsey.
    “Judy was a peach,” continued Mother Mucca. “I guess she stayed with me longer’n any of ‘em.” She shook her head, smiling, lost in rosy recollection. “Yessir, she was a peach!”
    Mona found herself warming to her. “You had lots of children?”
    “Children ?” She spat out the word.
    “You said …”
    Mother Mucca began to cackle again. “You’re a lot dumber’n you look, dolly. I’m talkin’ about the best damn whorehouse in Winnemucca!”
    Mona was jarred, but instantly fascinated. Of course! A genuine Nevada madam! A rawboned relic of the West’s first group encounter enterprise!
    “You …? How long have you …?”
    “Oh, Lord, dolly! Too fuckin’ long!”
    They both laughed exuberantly, sharing the same emotion for the first time since they’d met. Mona found herself riveted by the sheer, unembarrassed ballsiness of this extraordinarily ugly old woman.
    “What brought you to San Francisco?” she asked.
    “Hookers union meeting. Coyote.”
    Mona nodded knowledgeably. One of the cardinal earmarks of North Beach Chic was an unflinching familiarity with Margo St. James and her prostitutes’ union.
    “You know Margo?” asked Mother Mucca.
    “Oh, yes,” lied Mona. She had, however, seen the woman several times, breakfasting on coffee and croissants at Malvina’s.
    Mother Mucca arched a painted eyebrow. “She’s a lot classier’n me, huh, dolly?”
    “I think you’re very classy.”
    Mother Mucca ducked her head and blew into her coffee.
    “I do,” Mona persisted. “Really. You’re a very … together person.”
    “You’re a damn liar, too.” She reached over suddenly and squeezed Mona’s arm above the elbow. For a moment, it seemed that her crusty veneer might crack, but then she cleared her throat abruptly and continued in a tone that was tougher than ever.
    “Well, dolly! You ain’t told me why you’re headin’ to Reno with a head full o’ angel dust!”
    “There’s nothing special about Reno.”
    The old woman snorted. “You’re right about that!”
    Mona laughed. “I just wanted—I don’t know—to get away for a while. I’ve never seen the desert.”
    “We got