Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others by Armistead Maupin Read Free Book Online

Room.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The bar,” he replied, “in the lobby.”
    “Fine. I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes. What do you look like?”
    “Um …” He faltered for a moment. “I’m wearing a gray pinstriped suit … and I have white hair and a white mustache.”
    “I’ll find you.” She hung up the phone.
    The driver appeared in the doorway with her Filofax. “This what you mean?”
    “That’s it,” she said.
    He laid the Filofax on the bedside table and hopped under the covers with her. “So what’s this shit about handsome?”
    “A handsome offer ,” she replied, tweaking his cheek, “not a handsome man. Don’t get that pretty Neapolitan nose out of joint.”
    “What kind of offer?”
    “I don’t know,” she said, climbing out of bed, “but I’m about to find out.”
    After some indecision, she donned a pale blue sailor dress with puffed sleeves and a dropped waist. It was cute and becoming (without being overtly sexy) and would do nicely for a business meeting.
    As she tied the big floppy bow, the driver spoke to her languidly from the bed. “You comin’ back?”
    “You bet. Wanna stick around?”
    He nodded. “How long?”
    “Dunno. He’s down in the bar. Hour or so, I guess.” She patted the bow into place, then turned to face him. “Isn’t your wife expecting you?”
    He shook his head. “Tonight is PTA.”
    She slipped into her shoes and headed for the door, picking up her purse on the way. “Keep the bed warm. There’s some champagne and Almond Roca in the fridge if you get hungry.”
    Down in the Cirque Room, she had no trouble spotting her mysterious caller. He sat ramrod straight in a corner banquette, so markedly military in his bearing that she half expected to find epaulets on his business suit. She guessed him to be about seventy.
    He shot to his feet when he saw her approaching. This effort at gallantry—or at least his idea of gallantry—was far more endearing than she might have imagined. She smiled at him, then knelt by the glass he had knocked off the table, scooping up the scattered ice cubes.
    “Please,” he said, growing flustered, “don’t do that.”
    She looked up at him. “Why the hell not?”
    A waitress approached. “We have a little accident here?”
    “I’m such a klutz,” said Wren, glancing up at the waitress. “You’d think I could sit down without knocking the gentleman’s drink over.”
    The waitress took the glass from her, then looked at the old man. “What was it, sir? I’ll get you another.”
    “Scotch and water,” he told her. “And whatever the lady’s having.”
    Something kick-ass was in order, she decided, slipping into the banquette. “I’ll take the same,” she said, then turned back to the man. “Your name makes no sense to me.”
    He didn’t understand.
    “Pacific Excelsior,” she explained. “I thought excelsior was packing straw.”
    “Oh … no. In this instance it’s a Latin word meaning ‘ever upward.’ ”
    She winked at him. “I knew that.” She extended her hand and waited until he shook it. “Wren Douglas,” she said. “And your name again is …?”
    “Boo … Roger Manigault.”
    “Boo-Roger. Interesting. Never heard that one before.”
    He smiled for the first time. “Some of my friends call me Booter. That’s what I’m used to.”
    “Booter, huh? Why?”
    “I played football,” he replied. “Years ago. At Stanford.”
    “I like it. Can I call you that?”
    “If you like.”
    She laid her hands on the table, palms down, and made a smoothing motion. “So … what’s this about ten thousand dollars?”
    He faltered, then said: “I have … well, a very comfortable lodge up in the redwoods. I’d like you to be my guest there for a few days.”
    She studied him for awhile, then gave him a rueful, worldly chuckle.
    “I’m on the level,” he said, reddening noticeably.
    She shook her head slowly. “You lied to me, Booter. You’ve been a bad boy.”
    “I wanted