Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

now.”
    So, thought Michael, he did tell her. “I know it’s a bad time,” he said. “It’s just that Mrs. Madrigal is down here chained to the steps.”
    “What?”
    “Tell Mary Ann. She’ll know what it means.”
    Brian left the phone. Twenty seconds later, Mary Ann came on. “God, Mouse.”
    He tried to be gentle about it. “It’s not too late.”
    “I’ll call the station,” she said. “I’ll get a crew.”
    “Good.”
    “I completely forgot, Mouse! I’m so sorry. Please tell her I didn’t mean …”
    “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “What time do the wreckers come?”
    “Uh … three o’clock.”
    “Good,” he said. “If you hurry, you can … Are you two all right?”
    “Mouse …”
    “Just yes or no.”
    “More or less,” she replied.
    “I love you,” he said.
    She was silent for a moment, then said, “You guys,” with weary resignation, as if she meant every man on earth.
    Michael said: “Ask Brian to bring that big butch chain of his.”
    “What?”
    “That chrome job he uses on the Jeep. It’ll beat what we’ve got now, believe me. If I’m gonna be filmed in bondage, I want it to look real.”
    “Mouse, we don’t need two.”
    “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s make this fun.”
    She groaned.
    “We’ll make those steps look like a fucking charm bracelet.”
    “All right,” she said. “Whatever. We’ll see you down there. And listen, Mouse …”
    “Yeah?”
    “If she’s smoking grass when the crew shows up …”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll tell her. Bye-bye.” He hung up, flew to the bedroom, flung off his clothes and showered like a madman. Four minutes later, when he shut off his blow-dryer, he discovered that the phone had been ringing.
    He lunged for it. “Yes … hello.”
    “Bad time?” asked Thack.
    “Well … there’s a camera crew coming. We’re saving the steps.”
    “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
    “So did we. Almost.”
    “I miss you,” said Thack.
    “Do you really?”
    “Damn right.”
    Michael laughed. “That is so great. I miss you too.”
    “What are we gonna do about it?”
    “Well,” said Michael, “for starters, I’m gonna write you a long, gooey letter, embarrassing the hell out of myself.”
    “Mine’s finished,” said Thack. “In the mail.”
    “Hey,” said Michael, laughing again.
    “You’re in a hurry. I won’t keep you.”
    Keep me, thought Michael. “I’ll call you tonight. O.K.?”
    “Great. I’ll be here.”
    Michael hung up and rushed to the closet, where he agonized momentarily over the proper attire for a televised chain-in. He settled finally on a sort of architectonic look: corduroy trousers, plaid shirt, knit tie, Top-siders.
    Halfway into the courtyard, he remembered Mrs. Madrigal’s caramels and doubled back, scooping up a generous handful from the dish on the piano.
    They would need enough for the duration.

Five Days Later
    N OW THIS, THOUGHT WREN, IS MORE LIKE IT. It was almost midnight, and she and Rolando were sprawled across her bed, basking in the blush of her 1939 (all-tango) Empress jukebox.
    She had paid for the Empress with Booter’s check—Booter’s new check: ten thousand dollars exactly. That pleased her somehow, knowing her memories of Monte Rio would always be embodied in this tango-lover’s wet dream.
    He had been so sweet to send the money, and she had accepted it readily, knowing how much it meant to him. He wasn’t such a bad old shithead, when you got right down to it. At least, he was a gentleman in bed.
    The Chicago night was deliciously balmy. A lakesent breeze meandered through the loft, tickling the lace on the big industrial windows. She moaned contentedly and nestled into Rolando’s warm, bay-rummy flesh.
    The phone rang.
    “Oh, hell,” said Rolando.
    “I’ll get it,” she said.
    “Leave it.”
    “No,” she said, sensing something. “I’ll be right back.” She slid out of bed and made her way naked to the phone in her work cubicle.
    “Hello.”
    “Wren, it’s Brian.”
    “Oh, yeah. How are you, sweetie?” For once, she realized, that question really meant something.
    “I’m fine,” he said.
    “Really?”
    “Yeah. It came back negative.”
    “Thank God,” she said, sinking into a chair.
    “Really,” he replied.
    She heard a woman’s voice, then the unmistakable sound of Michael’s laughter. “Are you having a party to celebrate?”
    He laughed. “Well, yeah … but not that. We just won a battle with the city.”
    “Are you