Free Further Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin Page B

jersey had been hacked off just below his nipples to reveal a foot of tanned midriff. Passing him, Ned exhaled with relief: “Nobody
walks
the streets anymore!”
    Michael looked back to see the kid leaning into a silver Mercedes parked at the curb in front of the Famous Amos chocolate chip cookie headquarters. “Bingo,” he said. “He’s got one.”
    “A star is born,” said Ned.
    The truck turned off Sunset and climbed into Beverly Hills, a land of shadowy lawns and deathly silence.
    The streets grew steeper and narrower. Most of them appeared to be named Something-crest, though it was next to impossible to tell where one left off and another began. Michael found it unimaginable that anyone who lived in this neighborhood could find his way home at night.
    “Will he be there when we get there?” he asked Ned. “I must look like shit.”
    Ned reached over and squeezed his knee. “There’s a roach in the ashtray. Why don’t you smoke it?”
    “If you think that’ll relax me, you’re crazy. I’ll meet him and run screaming into the night.”
    “He may not be back from Palm Springs yet. Don’t sweat it.”
    Michael looked out the window. The lights of the city were spread out beneath them like computer circuitry. “If he’s not there,” he asked, “who’ll let us in?”
    “The houseman, probably.”
    “Is he the whole staff?”
    Ned shook his head. “There’s a cook, most of the time. And a secretary and a gardener. Probably just the houseman tonight, though.”
    Michael tried to picture such an existence, falling silent for a moment. “You know what?” he said at last.
    “What?”
    “My mother thought _______ _______was the hottest thing going. She’d shit a brick if she knew I was doing this.”
    Ned turned and smiled at him. “Take careful notes, then.”
    “Right … how big was his dick again?”
    The nurseryman chuckled. “Big enough to make some people suspicious about his Oscar nomination.”
    “Bigger than a breadbox?” Michael laughed nervously at his own bad joke, then leaned over and kissed Ned on the neck. “I can’t believe this is happening. Thanks, pal.”
    Ned shrugged it off. “I think you’ll both enjoy each other. He’s a real nice guy.” He pulled the truck off the road, stopping in front of a huge metal gate. Then he pushed a button on a squawk box partially concealed in the bushes.
    “Yes?” came a voice.
    “It’s Ned.”
    “Lions and tigers and bears,” said Michael.
    “That was the houseman. Relax.”
    There was nothing much to see from this vantage point. Just a bougainvillea-covered wall and an archway, apparently leading into a courtyard. “Ned?”
    “Yeah, Bubba?”
    “This isn’t like a date, is it?”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. Suddenly I feel like a mail-order bride or something.”
    “Just take it easy, Michael. There are no expectations, if that’s what you mean.” Ned turned and grinned slyly at his friend. “Not on
his
part, at least.”

Prayers for the People
    B ACK IN THE CITY, FATHER PADDY STARR WAS DISCUSSING the state of his flock over a late supper at L’Etoile. “Poor Bitsy,” he sighed, nibbling on an asparagus tip, “I’m afraid she needs our prayers again.”
    Prue knew there was only one Bitsy: Bitsy Liggett, Society Kleptomaniac. Her infamy had been an embarrassment to the social set for almost a decade now.
    “Oh, dear,” said Prue, trying to sound prayerful in spite of the fact that she herself had lost a Lalique vase, several crystal dogs and an antique tortoise shell brush set to the pathological compulsion of the woman being prayed for.
    “The problem is,” the cleric lamented, “you can’t
not
invite her, can you? It wouldn’t do. The Liggetts are good stock. Bitsy’s a charming woman. You just have to be ready for her, that’s all.”
    “Who wasn’t ready for her this time?”
    The priest’s mouth curled slightly. “Vita.”
    “No!”
    “Bitsy’s on her Italian Earthquake board. When she