The Confrontation
NORMAN WAS ALMOST RUNNING NOW, LURCHING recklessly toward the cypresses on the edge of the rise.
“Jus’ shuddup, O.K.? Jus’ shuddup!”
“I’m not shutting up, Norman! I’m not standing by while you exploit that child in such a horrible, disgusting …”
“It’s none o’ your business!”
“I saw those magazines in your suitcase, Norman!”
“What were you doin’ in my suitcase?”
“You’re sick, Norman. You’re …” She was breathing almost as heavily as he was. She pulled at his arm. “Will you stop?”
He obeyed, jerking to a halt at the top of the rise. Swaying for a moment, he clutched at her to regain his balance. She gasped, not at him, but at the stomach-churning scene that confronted them in the fog. “Norman … get back!” “Wha …?”
“It’s a cliff! Get back! Please!”
He stared at her dumbly, then staggered several steps in her direction. She latched on to his arm, hooking her other arm around a tree.
Norman was indignant. “Thass not what I do, ya know.”
“Norman, if you don’t …”
“Those stupid pictures are nothin’! I got bigger things’n that going for me!”
“Norman …” She softened her tone somewhat, leading him away from the precipice. “What you are doing is … against the law, for one thing.”
“Ha! You think I don’t know that?”
“How could you, Norman? You’ve always been so sweet to Lexy.”
“So?”
“I won’t stand for it, Norman. I’m calling that child’s parents.”
“You think they don’t know?”
She clenched her teeth. “Dear God!”
“How the hell you think they make a livin’, huh? Lexy’s a goddamn star! She’s a goddamn famous little … Hell, I’m jus’ … her agent!”
“But you’re in the magazines!”
He nodded almost proudly. “A few movies too.”
“Jesus.”
“I can’t help it. She won’t do it with anybody else.”
“Norman!”
“You think I’m chickenshit, don’t you? You think I’m a chickenshit child pornographer!”
“Norman, stop …”
“I’ve got news for you, Miss Fancypants! I’m a goddamn private investigator and I’m jus’ about to break the biggest goddamn case of my goddamn career!”
“Norman, get away from the …”
She couldn’t look.
When she turned around again, he was lumbering down the path along the edge of the cliff. To her relief, he had moved beyond the precipitous portion to a place where the drop-off seemed less pronounced.
“Norman, come back!”
He snarled over his shoulder at her. “Find your own goddamn way home!”
Then, suddenly, he lost his footing, sliding off the path into the loose rock and sand on the slope leading to the sea.
She ran to him, horror-stricken. He was spread-eagled on his back, thrashing like an overturned cockroach. A dozen feet below him another cliff awaited. He whimpered pathetically.
“Please … jus’ help me, please….”
Mary Ann dropped to the ground and reached as far as she could down the slope. “Don’t move, Norman. Just hold still, O.K.?”
He wasn’t listening. His limbs flailed wildly until the ground beneath him began to shift and rumble like molten lava. She lunged desperately for his arm and missed.
His progress to the edge of the cliff was slow, steady and horrible.
He left behind his clip-on tie, dangling limply from her hand.
She ran back to the museum in the swirling fog, his screams reverberating in her head.
In the phone booth, she checked her purse. Thirty-seven cents. She had counted on riding home with Norman.
She dialed 673-MUNI.
“Muni,” said a man on the other end.
“Please … how do I get to Barbary Lane from the Legion of Honor?”
“Barbary Lane? Let’s see. O.K…. walk down to Clement and Thirty-fourth and take the Number 2 Clement to Post and Powell, then transfer to the Number 60 Hyde cable car.”
“The Number 2 Clement?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure. And Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas to you,” she said.
The Party
WHERE’S MARY ANN?” ASKED CONNIE BRADSHAW, standing under Mrs. Madrigal’s red-tasseled archway. “I thought you said she’d be here.”
Brian selected a joint from a Wedgewood plate. “She’s here. At least … I saw her
upstairs.”
“Jeez, it’s been a zillion years since I’ve seen her!”
“You two are good friends, huh?”
“Oh, the best! I mean … we haven’t been too good about keeping in touch or anything, but … well, you know how it goes in this town.”
“Sure.”
“Uh … I think someone wants to talk to you, Brian.”
“Oh … Hi, Michael.”
“Hi. You haven’t seen Gale Storm, have you?”
“Who?”
“Mary Ann.”
Brian took a toke off the joint, then passed it to Connie. “We were just talking about that. What’s with her, anyway? I thought she was orchestrating this orgy.”
“She was. I guess she’s fixing her face or something. Hey, don’t go ‘way. I’ve got something for you.” He ducked into the kitchen and returned with a small package wrapped in silver foil.
Brian flushed. “Hey, man … we said no presents, remember?”
“I know,” said Michael, “but this isn’t for Christmas, really. I just forgot to give it to you earlier.”
“That’s nice,” Connie beamed.
Brian glanced at her, then back at Michael. There was something more impish than usual about Michael’s grin. “Hey, Michael, this isn’t …?”
“Go on,” squealed Connie. “I can’t stand the suspense!”
Brian looked directly into Michael’s eyes. “Shall I?” He smiled.
“What the hell. The sooner you open it, the sooner you can use it.”
“Right!” Connie agreed.
Brian tore into the package. He was fully prepared when the heavy brass ring emerged from the tissue paper. “It’s a nice one, Michael. Very handsome.”
“Are you sure? I can take it back if …”
“No. I’m … nuts about it.”
Michael stayed poker-faced. “I hope it’s your size.”
“What is it?” asked Connie.
Brian held it up so she could look at it. “Nice, huh?”
“It’s gorgeous. What’s it for?”
Brian’s eyes flashed toward Michael for a split second, then back to Connie. “It’s … an ornament,” he said appreciatively. “You hang it on your tree.”
Michael picked up a tray of brownies in the kitchen. “Are these loaded?” he asked.
Mrs. Madrigal merely smiled at him.
“I thought so,” said Michael.
“Has Mary Ann come down yet?”
“Not yet.”
“What on earth could have …?”
“I can check, if you want.”
“No. Thank you, dear … but I need you down here.”
“Are you expecting any others?”
She checked her watch. “One,” she said vaguely, “though I’m not sure…. It’s nothing definite, dear.”
“Is everything … all right, Mrs. Madrigal?” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m with my family, aren’t I?”
When Michael returned to the living room, he almost dropped the brownies.
“Mona!”
“In the firm but pliant flesh.”
“Hot damn! What happened to D’orothea?”
“She’s having a White Christmas with her parents in Oakland.”
“It’s snowing in Oakland?”
“It’s too
long a story, Mouse.”
He set the tray down and flung his arms around her. “Goddammit, I’ve missed you!”
“Yeah. Same here.”
“Well, you don’t look any worse for wear.”
“Yeah,” she grinned. “Same ol’ Mona … smiling in the face of perversity.”
Saying Good-bye
WHEN MARY ANN FINALLY APPEARED, SHE MADE her apologies to Mrs. Madrigal.
“I hope it hasn’t been a hassle. I … well, I guess I just lost track of the time with Christmas shopping and all.”
“Don’t be silly, dear. It’s been no problem at all, and Michael’s been the perfect … You haven’t seen Mr. Williams, have you, dear? If he’s in the house, we should certainly invite him to …”
“No. No, I haven’t. Not for a day or so, anyway.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
“He’s been gone a lot recently. He hasn’t seemed himself … to me, anyway.”
“No, he hasn’t, has he?”
“It’s nice to see my friend Connie again.”
“I know. Isn’t that a coincidence? And Mona was able to make it, after all, and … well, God bless us, every one!” She kissed Mary Ann a bit too breezily on the cheek and rushed past her out of the room.
It seemed to Mary Ann that she was crying.
Fifteen minutes later, Mona looked for the landlady and found her on the stairway at the entrance to the lane.
“Waiting for somebody?” she asked, sitting down beside her.
“No, dear. Not anymore.”
“Anybody I know?”
“I wish you had.”
“Had?”
“I meant … It’s hard to explain, dear.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch with you more.”
Mrs. Madrigal turned and looked at her. There were tears in her eyes. “Oh, thank you for saying that!” she cried. She held on to Mona for a moment, then straightened up again, regaining her composure.
“I’d like to move back in,” said Mona, “if you can stand me.”
“Stand you? You simple child! I’ve missed you more than you’ll ever know!”
Mona smiled. “Thank you … and Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, dear.”
“Why don’t you come back in? It’s cold out here!”
“I will. In a minute. You run along.”
“Couldn’t your friend meet you inside?”
“He’s not coming, dear. He’s already left us.”
He left at Halcyon Hill.
Dr. Jack Kincaid administered a sedative to his wife, while his daughter and son-in-law said good-bye to him.
He was flat on his back in bed. His skin was so pale that it seemed translucent.
“Daddy?”
“Is that you, DeDe?”
“It’s me and Beauchamp.”
“Oh.”
“We have a surprise for you, Daddy.”
Beauchamp flashed an uneasy glance at his wife. DeDe glared back at him, then turned and knelt at her father’s bedside.
“Daddy … we’re going to make you a grandfather.”
Silence.
“Did you hear me, Daddy?”
Edgar smiled. “I heard.”
“Aren’t you glad?”
He lifted his hand feebly. “Could you … show me?”
“She’s so small.” DeDe stood up, taking his hand, pressing it gently against her belly. “I don’t think you can feel …”
“No. I can feel her. You think it’s a girl, huh?”
“Yes.”
“So do I. Have you picked out a name yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Name her Anna, will you?”
“Anna?”
“I’ve … always liked the name.”
Smiling again, he kept his hand pressed against the warm new life. “Hello, Anna,” he said. “How the hell are you?”
The Golden Gate
BUNDLED UP AGAINST THE WIND, MARY ANN AND Michael set out across the bridge on New Year’s Day. “I’ve never done this,” she said. “I can’t believe it,” he grinned. “There’s something you’ve never done?”
“Lay off, Michael!”
He squeezed her arm. “You’ve had a busy year, Lucrezia.”
“Michael, look! You can joke about it with me, but we’ve got to be very, very careful about …”
“You think I don’t know what being an accomplice means?”
“I’m still so freaked out about it I could die!” Michael leaned against the rail. “Show me where it happened.”
She looked faintly annoyed, then nodded toward the cliffs. “Over there. See where that buoy is? Right behind it.” He pointed at the buoy. “That one?”
“Don’t point, Michael!”
“Why?”
“Somebody’ll see you.”
“Oh, please! The body hasn’t even turned up yet.”
“But it could. It could turn up at any time.”
“So?”
“Well, it’s possible that the police could think it was … foul play. And it’s possible that some witness somewhere could identify me as the person who was with him at the museum. And … there are lots of things that could implicate me in …”
“I still don’t see why the hell you just didn’t report the accident. It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yes!”
He grinned. “Just checking.”
“Michael … if I tell you something, will you swear on a stack of Bibles that you’ll never, ever tell another living soul?”
“You think I’d cross you, baby? I’ve seen what you do to your enemies!”
“Forget it.”
“No, please! I promise! C’mon, tell me.”
She studied him sternly, then said, “Norman wasn’t just a pornographer, Michael.”
“Huh?”
“He was a private eye.”
“Jesus! How do you know?”
“He told me. Right before he fell. He also told me he was working on a big case that was going to make him a lot of money. It made me start to wonder about why he came to Barbary Lane in the first place and why he would question me about … certain things.”
“Wow! Go on!”
“Well … when I got back to the house after … you know … I got his spare key out of the basement again and went through his room again. And this time the child porn didn’t stop me!”
Michael whistled. “Nancy Drew, eat your heart out!”
“He had a huge file, Michael. And do you know what he was investigating?”
“What?”
“Mrs. Madrigal!”
“What!”
“I couldn’t believe it, either.”
“Well, what did it say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Now wait a minute!”
“I burned it, Michael. I took it back to my room and burned it in a trash can. Why do you think I was late for the party?”
Down the Peninsula at Cypress Lawn Cemetery, a woman in a paisley turban climbed out of a battered automobile and trudged up the hillside to a new grave.
She stood there for a moment, humming to herself, then removed a joint from a tortoise-shell cigarette case and laid it gently on the grave.
“Have fun,” she smiled. “It’s Colombian.”
Afterword by the Author
When a novel has survived for twenty years, it’s virtually on its own. It goes gallivanting all over the place without so much as a postcard home to its bewildered parent. Royalty sheets can offer some clues as to its whereabouts, but not the sort of vivid personal details the author really cares about. That’s why I relish the stories readers pass along about Tales of the City, it’s enormously gratifying to have anecdotal evidence about the travels of my firstborn.
I’ve been told, for instance, that somewhere in a German zoo there’s an African elephant who was christened Mouse by a trainer who’d fallen in love with Michael Tolliver. (I’ve never met thi
s elephant, but I’ve seen pictures, so I dote on him like a family pet). Likewise, I hear there’s an alley in London recently named Madrigal after the doyenne of 28 Barbary Lane. And just last week I learned of the existence of Madrigal House, yet another tribute to the landlady, this one a homeless shelter in Brooklyn for gay and lesbian youth.
Here in San Francisco, the Cancer Society’s annual all-breed dog walk is called “Tails of the City.” And my former neighbors on Russian Hill tell me that more and more tourists are scouring the area in search of Anna’s house. Some of them are even armed with guidebooks that identify Macondray Lane as the street “reputed to be the model for Armistead Maupin’s Barbary Lane.” (I especially enjoy the ring of “reputed,” since it seems to imply a rumor beyond confirmation, the author having long since departed this sphere, taking his secrets with him). For the record, the guidebooks are right, but don’t expect to find Number 28; the house featured in the PBS miniseries existed only on a Hollywood soundstage.
When I began Tales back in 1976 I hoped for little more than a local success. I thought I was recording an elaborate inside joke about the way life worked in San Francisco and nowhere else. The more I toured the world, however, the more I realized how wrong I’d been. Readers in Edinburgh or Auckland or Helsinki would show up at book signings with members of their extended families in tow, often identifying them by their counterparts in Tales. “This is my Brian,” they would say, “and that’s our Mona. And that lady in the hat is our Mrs. Madrigal.” My “only-in-San-Francisco” characters could be translated effortlessly to their own lives.
Some readers speak of Tales as if it’s a family album, a text to be reexamined in times of celebration, illness, or grief. (One woman left me wordless when she told me her brother had been buried with the book). Others report that Tales has become entangled in their own romantic lives—having received it from a suitor, say, or shared it with someone in bed, or lost custody of it in a messy divorce. The book became a medium through which they discovered kindred spirits, gave shape to their feelings, and recognized the value of their own lore. I know I’m not the only writer to have heard such testimony, but nothing in my experience prepared me for the reward of being so intimately connected with my readers.