Read Online Babycakes by Armistead Maupin - Free Book Online Page A

of her stomach when she reached the fourth floor and opened the door of the drab little chamber she bad learned to call home. There was something profoundly tragic—no, not tragic, just pathetic—about a thirty-eight-year-old woman who still built bookshelves out of bricks and planks.
She was on the verge of reevaluating the job part, when the telephone rang.
“Yeah?’’
“May I speak to Mona Ramsey, please?” It was a woman’s voice, unrecognizable.
“Uh … I’m not sure she’s here. Who’s calling, please?”
“Dr. Sheldon’s bookkeeper.”
Mona tried to sound breezy. “I see. May I take your number?”
“She’s not there, then?”
“ ‘Fraid not.” Less breeze this time, more authority. This bill hound wasn’t giving up without a fight.
“I tried to reach her at her place of business, and they said she had gone home sick today. This is her residence, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but … Miss Ramsey has left for a while.”
“I thought she was sick.”
“No,” Mona answered. “In mourning.”
“Oh …”
“Her best friend died this afternoon.” That sounded a little too conventional, so she added: “He was executed.”
“My God.”
“She took it kinda hard,” she said, getting into it. “She was a witness.”
This was almost overkill, but it worked like a charm. The caller audibly gulped for air. “Well … I guess … I’ll call her when … Just say I called, will you?”
“Sure will,” said Mona. “Have a nice day.”
She set the receiver down delicately, then yanked the phone jack out of the wall. If periodontists had any link with organized crime, she was in deep, deep trouble.
She made herself a cup of Red Zinger tea and withdrew to the bedroom, where she searched the mirror for even the tiniest clue to her identity. In an effort to be charitable, Serra had once told her that she looked “a lot like Tuesday Weld.” Mona had replied: “I look a lot like Tuesday Weld on a Friday.” Today, the wisecrack was all too applicable.
Her “character lines” made her begin to wonder if there was such a thing as too much character. What’s more, the frizzy red hair had slopped looking anarchistic years ago. (Even Streisand had finally abandoned the rusty-Brillo-pad look.) Was it time to relent, to throw in the towel and become a lipstick lesbian?
Some of the most political dykes in town had already converted, tossing out their Levi’s and Birkenstocks in favor of poodle skirts and heels. It was no longer a question of butch vs. femme, liberation vs. oppression. Clothes did not unmake the woman: clothes were just clothes.
The prospect of a total makeover was strangely thrilling, but she needed a second opinion. She went straight to the phone, plugged it back in, and dialed Mouse’s home number, suddenly delighted to have such an off-the-wall excuse to break the silence between them. But Mouse wasn’t at home.
Where was he, then? The nursery? Another call produced the same result. It was Saturday, for God’s sake! Why would the nursery be closed on a Saturday? What the hell was going on?
The door buzzer squawked at her from the other room. She got up and went to the ancient, paint-encrusted intercom. “Yeah?”
“Is this Mona Ramsey?”
A moment’s hesitation. “Who wants to know?”
“A friend of Serra Fox. She said I might find you here. I tried ringing you from …”
“Just a minute.” Mona dashed to the window and peeped down at an elegantly dressed brunette waiting in the entrance alcove. She certainly looked like a friend of Serra’s. The lipstick lesbians were everywhere.
Mona addressed the intercom again. “This isn’t about money, is it?”
The woman tittered discreetly. “Not in the way you might think. I shan’t take a great deal of your time, Miss Ramsey.” She spoke with an English accent.
Mona counted to ten and buzzed her up.

Private Collection
B RIAN WAS SURPRISED TO FIND HIMSELF THINKING OF Mona Ramsey when he and Mary Ann arrived at Theresa Cross’s