“I know.” He looked up and smiled.
Ned tousled his hair, then reached for his flight jacket. “I’ll be at home, if you change your mind. Go home, at least. There’s no point in hanging around here.”
He did go home eventually, and he spent the rest of the afternoon sorting laundry and cleaning his refrigerator. He was searching for another project when Mrs. Madrigal phoned just before five o’clock.
“Are you free for dinner, I hope?”
“So far,” he said.
“Marvelous. I’ve found a festive new place for Mexican food. I want us all to go. We haven’t had a family outing in ages.”
He accepted, wondering if this adventure was being organized specifically for his benefit. His friends were awfully solicitous these days and he often felt enormous pressure to be visibly happy in their presence. The reborn joy they sought in his eyes was something he would never be able to fake.
Mrs. Madrigal’s Mexican discovery turned out to be a cavernous room at the end of an alleyway near the Moscone Center. For reasons that no one could explain, it was called the Cadillac Bar. Its kitschy Lupe Velez ambience met with everyone’s approval, and they guzzled margaritas like conventioneers on a three-day binge in Acapulco.
Maybe it was the liquor, but something about Mary Ann’s demeanor seemed curiously artificial to Michael. She hung on Brian’s arm throughout much of the meal, laughing a little too loudly at his jokes, gazing rapturously into his eyes, looking more like the Little Woman than Michael had ever seen her look. When her gaze met Michael’s for a split second, she seemed to sense his puzzlement. “This place is great,” she said far too breezily. “We should all be sworn to secrecy.”
“Too late,” he replied, parrying her diversionary tactic with one of his own. “Look who just walked in.”
Both Mary Ann and Brian jerked their heads toward the door.
“Not now!” he whispered.
Mary Ann mugged at him. “You said to look.”
“It’s Theresa Cross,” he muttered, “with one of those fags from Atari.”
“Jesus,” said Brian. “Bix Cross’s widow?”
“You got it.”
“She’s on all his album covers,” said Brian.
“Parts of her,” amended Mary Ann. Brian leered. “Right.”
A cloud of confusion passed over Mrs. Madrigal’s face. “Her husband was a singer?”
“You know,” said Michael. “The rock star.”
“Ah.”
“She wrote My Life with Bix,” Mary Ann added. “She lives in Hillsborough near the Halcyons.”
The landlady’s eyes widened. “Well, my dears, she appears to be coming this way.”
Michael assessed the leggy figure striding toward their table. There were probably no twigs lodged within the dark recesses of her hair, but the careful disarray of her hoyden-in-the-haystack hairdo was clearly meant to suggest that there might be. That and her red Plasticine fingernails were all he could absorb before the rock widow had descended on them in a sickly-sweet aura of Ivoire. “You!” she all but shouted. “You I want to talk to.”
The crimson talon was pointing at Mary Ann.
Clearing her throat, Mary Ann said: “Yes?”
“You are the best,” crowed Theresa Cross. “The best, the best, the best!”
Mary Ann reddened noticeably. “Thank you very much.”
“I watch you all the time. You’re Mary Jane Singleton.”
“Mary Ann.”
Mrs. Cross couldn’t be bothered. “That hat was the best. The best, the best, the best. Who are these cute people? Why don’t you introduce us?”
“Uh … sure. This is my husband, Brian … and my friends Michael Tolliver and Anna Madrigal.”
The rock widow nodded three times without a word, apparently regarding her own name as a matter of public knowledge. Then she turned her gypsy gaze back to Mary Ann. “You’re coming to my auction, aren’t you?”
So that was it, thought Michael. Mrs. Cross could smell media across a crowded room.
Mary Ann was thrown off balance, as intended. “Your …? I’m afraid I don’t …”
“Oh, no!” The rock widow showed the whites of her eyes, simulating exasperation. “Don’t tell me my ditzy secretary didn’t send you an invitation!”
Mary Ann shrugged. “I guess not.”
“Well … consider yourself invited. I’m having an auction out at my house this weekend. Some of Bix’s memorabilia. Gold records. The shirts he wore on his last tour. Lots of stuff. Fun stuff.”
“Great,” said Mary Ann.
“Oh … and his favorite Harley … and his barbells.” The moving finger pointed in Brian’s direction. “This one looks like he works out a little. Why don’t you bring him along?”
Mary Ann shot a quick glance at “this one,” then turned back to her assailant. “I’m not sure if we have plans that day, but if …”
“W is coming for sure, and the Hollywood Reporter has promised me they’ll be there. Even Dr. Noguchi is coming … which strikes me as the very least he could do, since he was the one who broke the story when Bix … you know … bit the big one.”
Michael listened with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. It was this kind of candid banter that had earned Theresa Cross a rung of her very own on San Francisco’s social ladder. She might be a little common at times, but she was anything but boring. Besides, her husband’s death (from a heroin overdose at the Tropicana Motel in Hollywood) had left her a very rich woman.
Whenever local hostesses needed an “extra woman”—as they often did in San 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
WHILE 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 dilemma to wax witty about the Reagans. Instead, she set her jaw grimly and waited in silence for the final ritual of this inane tribal extravaganza.
The rain let up a little. A kilted band trooped bravely along the pier. Fireworks exploded in the pale gray skies, while a blond woman in limp marabou feathers argued audibly with the guard at the entrance to the press platform.
“But I am with the press,” she pleaded. “I just don’t have any … uh … card with me today.”
The guard was unyielding. “Look, lady. You got your job, I got mine.”
Mary Ann went to the edge of the platform and shouted down at the sentry. “She’s with me,” she lied. “I’ll take responsibility for it.”
Elated, the wet-feathered blonde beamed up at her savior and yelled: “Mary Ann! Thank goodness!”
Mary Ann replied in a monotone, already embarrassed. “Hi, Prue.”
It was a sad sight, really, this ersatz socialite looking like Big Bird in a monsoon. Prue Giroux had apparently come un-glued since losing her job as social columnist for Western Gentry magazine. Her life had been built around parties— “events,” she had called them—but the invitations and press passes had dried up months before.
Among the people who thought of themselves as social in San Francisco, no one was more expendable than an ex-columnist—except maybe the ex-wife of a columnist. Prue was obviously feeling the pinch.
Fluffing her feathers, she wobbled up the steps in spike heels. “You are so sweet to do this,” she said, speaking much more quietly this time. “Isn’t this just the most thrilling thing?”
“Mmm,” Mary Ann replied, not wanting to burst her bubble. Prue’s naiveté was the only thing about her that invited respect.
“Look!” Prue exclaimed. “Just in time!”
Wearing a white hat and a beige coat, the Queen approached the gangplank on the arm of the President. As Mary Ann signaled her cameraman, thunderous applause swept across the pier and Prue Giroux sighed noisily. “Oh, Mary Ann, look how beautiful she is! She is truly beautiful!”
Mary Ann didn’t answer, engrossing herself in the technicalities of her job. The entire spectacle took less than fifteen minutes. When it was over, she slipped away from Prue and the crew and downed a stiff drink at Olive Oil’s, a waterfront bar adjoining the pier. She sat at the bar, beneath a row of signal flags, and watched the Britannia as it steamed toward the Golden Gate.
The man on the stool next to her hoisted his glass in the direction of the ship. “Good riddance, old girl.”
Mary Ann laughed. “I’ll say. Except the old girl isn’t out there. She’s flying to Yosemite.”
Her barmate polished off his drink, then teased her with warm brown eyes. “I meant the ship.” He had an English accent, she realized.
“You must be with the press,” she said.
“Must I?” He was being playful again. Was he trying to pick her up?
“Well, the accent made me think … Oh, never mind.”
The man laughed, extending his hand. “I’m Simon Bardill.”
She gave him a businesslike handshake. “I’m Mary Ann Singleton.” Her first real assessment of the Englishman made her realize how much he looked like Brian. He had the same chestnut curls, the same expressive eyes (though brown, not hazel), the same little tuft of fur sprouting beneath the hollow at the base of his neck.
True, his face was somewhat more angular—more foxlike than bearlike—but even a disinterested observer would notice the resemblance. There was an age difference, of course, since this man appeared to be in his late twenties.
He sensed her distraction immediately. “Uh … I haven’t lost you, have I?”
She smiled apologetically. “For a moment, maybe. You look a lot like … somebody I know.” To say “my husband” would have sounded far too intimate. Even so, the remark still came off like a pickup line, so she added hastily: “You must be from around here.”
“Nope,” he replied. “From there.” He pointed a long, elegant finger at the departing ship.
She sensed that he enjoyed the mystery he was weaving. “You … uh … you’re taking leave or something?”
He shook the ice in his glass. “Of my senses, perhaps.” He peered out the rain-varnished windows of the saloon, fixing his gaze on the royal yacht, now a diminishing smudge of dark blue on the gray canvas of the bay. “There’s a distinct possibility of that.”
She blinked at him. “O.K. Now you’ve lost me.”
Again, he rattled his ice. “It’s simple, really. I jumped ship.”
Her mind raced frantically toward an undesignated deadline. Had she stumbled across the only real story in this whole media circus?
“You know the expression?” he asked.
“Yes … of course. You’re a crew member or what?”
“Oh, no no no. An officer.” He signaled the bartender by raising his empty glass. “May I?” he asked Mary Ann, nodding toward her glass.
“Oh … I’m fine.” Was it too late to catch up with her crew? “Look, I’m sorry to be so thick about this, but … you were supposed to be sailing on the Britannia and … you just decided not to?”
“Precisely.”
“You … defected?”
He laughed heartily. “From Mrs. Thatcher to Mr. Reagan?” He thought for a moment, stroking his well-defined jaw. “You’re on the right track, mind you. I suppose one could say that I have defected. Yes … yes …”
He seemed to reflect on the concept, as if intrigued by it, until the bartender arrived with his drink. Hoisting it in her direction, he said: “To the new Simon Bardill and the lovely lady who shares his dark secret.”
She lifted her empty glass. “I’m honored … what is it? Lieutenant Bardili?”
“Very clever. You even pronounced lieutenant correctly.”
She bowed demurely, feeling curiously regal in his presence. “But you’re not supposed to take ice in your drink, are you?”
His brow furrowed. “When were you last in England?”
“Never, I’m afraid.”
“There’s no need to be afraid.” He smiled. “We keep ice on the bar now. They keep ice on the bar now.”
“I see.”
“A great deal has changed. A great deal.” He gazed at the bay again, as if to assure himself that the last trace of England had vanished. It had.
“And to think,” he said, turn
ing back to her again, “I was going to be the last of the Snotty Yachties.”
She smiled, eager to show him she recognized the nickname for the Britannia’s crew. “Aren’t they going to miss you?”
“Oh … terribly, I’d imagine. I’m a likable fellow, don’t you think?”
“I meant professionally. What’s going to happen when you don’t show up at … wherever you’re supposed to show up?”
“I’m a radio officer,” he answered, “and it’s already happened … whatever it is. I expect they’ve found another twit with breeding to take my place. Have you ever seen the city from Point Bonita?”
She missed a beat, noticeably, before she managed to reply: “Many times.”
“Isn’t it marvelous?” He intoned it so earnestly that she realized he had not been issuing an invitation but asking a simple question.
“Beautiful,” she replied.
“You should never let people see San Francisco from Point Bonita if they’re seeing it for the first time.” He took a sudden swig of his Scotch, setting the glass down with deliberate grandeur. “They could very well run amok.”
She smiled skeptically at this too-cute explanation. “So you did it for the scenery, huh?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Would you mind telling that to a camera?”
He regarded her for a moment, then shook his head with a weary chuckle. “I should have known.”
“I mean, it’s really a fantastic …”
“What station do you work for?”
His tone somehow suggested betrayal. She resented that. They were just two people talking in a bar. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” she said.
The lieutenant ran his forefinger around the rim of his glass. “Do you want a story or do you want a friend?”
She answered without hesitation. “A friend.”
He winked at her. “Excellent choice.”
She knew that already. A friend just might relent and agree-to a story after all. A friend who could trust her to present him in the best possible light. She explained her reasoning to Brian as they opened their Lean Cuisines that evening.
“He might be calling,” she added.
“Calling? You gave him our number?”