Read Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes for Free Online Page A

Francisco—Theresa Cross could be counted on to do her part. Largely because of her public image, Michael had once referred to her in Jon’s presence as “the fag hag of the bourgeoisie.” Jon’s reaction had been typically (and maddeningly) cautious: “Maybe so … but she’s the closest thing we have to Bianca Jagger.”
Unnerved by Theresa’s “frankness,” Mary Ann was still fumbling for words. “This place is really charming, isn’t it?”
The rock widow made a face. “It was much more fun last week.” Radarlike, her eyes scanned the room until they came to rest on a diminutive figure standing at the entrance. Everyone seemed to recognize her at the same time.
“Holy shit,” Brian muttered. “It’s Bambi Kanetaka.”
“Gotta run,” said Theresa, already inching toward her new quarry. “I’ll see you at the auction.”
“Fine,” came Mary Ann’s feeble reply.
Now two tables away, the rock widow yelled: “Ten percent goes to charity.”
“Right,” said Michael, unable to resist, “and ninety percent goes up her nose.”
“Mouse … she’ll hear you.”
He snorted. “She’s not hearing squat.” He pointed toward the entrance alcove, where Mrs. Cross was already giving her pitch to Bambi Kanetaka.
Mary Ann’s unfulfilled ambition burned behind her eyes like a small brushfire. “Well,” she said dully, “I guess an anchorperson takes precedence over a reporter.”
There was a long, pregnant silence, which Mrs. Madrigal punctuated by reaching for the check. “Not at our house, dear. Shall we pick up some gelato on the way home?”
When bedtime finally came, Michael slept fitfully, pestered by the alcohol and unfinished business. If Jon had been there, Michael might have woken him to say that Theresa Cross was an asshole, that he had always done fine without even one Bianca Jagger, that the nervous pursuit of chic was a weakness unworthy of a doctor of medicine.
He lurched out of bed and felt his way to the telephone. In the light of the streetlight on Barbary Lane, he punched out Ned’s number. His partner answered on the second ring.
“It’s me,” said Michael.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Is it too late to change my mind?”
“About what?”
“You know … Death Valley.”
“Hell, no. That’s great. How about this weekend?”
“Perfect,” said Michael.

Hello Sailor
    W HILE RAIN PELTED THE PRESS PLATFORM AT Pier 50, Mary Ann huddled under her cameraman’s umbrella and scarfed down a breakfast of Cheerios and milk. “Where did this come from?” she asked, meaning the cereal.
“The local protocol people,” answered her co-worker. “It’s a joke.”
She shot him a rueful look. “I’ll say.” She had long ago wearied of chasing this pleasant but lackluster Englishwoman through the rain. They could have done a helluva lot better than cold cereal.
Her cameraman smiled indulgently. “A real joke, Mary Ann. The Queen is leaving, see? We’re saying Cheerio to the Queen, get it?” Her reaction must have registered immediately, for he chuckled sardonically and added: “Doesn’t help a goddamn bit, does it?”
Mary Ann set the bowl down and glanced across at the Britannia A band on deck was playing “The Anniversary Waltz”—an obvious reference to the Reagans, who had celebrated their thirty-first on board the night before. Soon they would emerge from the royal yacht, along with the Queen and the Prince, to board limousines bound for the airport.
While the Britannia sailed to Seattle, the Queen and her consort would fly to Yosemite to continue their vacation. The President would jet to Klamath Falls, Oregon, to make a speech about the decline of logging, and his bride would catch yet another plane to Los Angeles, where she was slated to appear in a special episode of Different Strokes concerning drug abuse among children.
Normally, such a hodgepodge of absurdities would have provoked at least a brief cynical monologue from Mary Ann, but she was far too absorbed in her own