How To Tail a Cat (10 page)

Chapter 20

THE FRIED-CHICKEN ENTREPRENEUR

ABOUT A HUNDRED
yards off the heavily trafficked tourist trail of Columbus Avenue, a safe distance from the catcalls of the maître’d’s prowling the sidewalks outside the busy lineup of Italian restaurants, San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood slipped into a more relaxed scene. The steeply sloping streets that wrapped around the south side of Telegraph Hill discouraged casual wanderers.

It was mostly locals who congregated outside a vintage coffee shop at the corner of Vallejo and Grant. The Italian tricolor hung proudly from the front awning. Opera floated out of an antiquated sound system to the sidewalk, where many of the shop’s patrons sat at rickety tables, enjoying the warm night.

Ragged scarves and multi-colored wool socks had been discarded, revealing bare white feet, unmanicured toenails, and wind-smoothed faces. A game of canasta started up as drinks transitioned from coffee to Chianti.

The café’s front door had been propped open, exposing an interior that was clean but not antiseptically so; care had been taken not to wipe the aura off the place.

At one of the front tables, next to a knee-to-ceiling window, a serious-looking man in his mid-thirties sat nervously typing at his laptop. The would-be writer sucked in on his hollow cheeks, trying to capture the spirit of the famous local authors whose pictures were featured in a mural on the opposite interior wall. Many of the commemorated storytellers had honed their craft while sitting in this very café; some had likely scribbled at this same wobbly table.

After each word, the man looked up at the painting and took a deep breath. Every keystroke represented an epic commitment to a phrase.

The pressure of the previous authors soon took its toll. Sucking down the last dregs of his coffee, the man left his computer for a quick smoke on the curb outside.

• • •

AT THE CORNER,
the aspiring novelist held a shaky lighter beneath his self-rolled cigarette as a man with a rolling paunch, a few day’s gray stubble, and wild flyaway eyebrows strolled slowly past.

The elderly fellow had recently immigrated to North Beach’s Italian neighborhood—although his trip had involved only a few blocks, not an entire ocean.

He wore a navy blue shirt and pants, both of which were dotted with grease stains and a light dusting of flour. In his arms, he carried a large paper bag he’d picked up at an exotic pet store up the hill.

Hobbling down the uneven sidewalk toward Columbus, the man nodded a gruff recognition to the members of the canasta set, but he didn’t stop, at least not on that evening, to join the game.

• • •

A FEW MINUTES
later, the old man reached the darkened storefront of James Lick’s Homestyle Chicken.

He muttered a curse at the pigeons patrolling the entrance—threatening to add a new appetizer to the next day’s menu—but his face softened as he reached into his pocket for a small plastic bag.

Flapping wings and satisfied cooing filled the air as the man pulled out a handful of breadcrumbs from the bag and scattered them across the sidewalk.

Still grumbling about pigeon recipes, he pushed open the restaurant’s front door and stepped inside.

• • •

THE SPARSELY FURNISHED
eating area contained several tables suited for family-style dining. Mismatched chairs lined the tables, and a few extra seats had been pushed up against the walls, which were otherwise mostly bare.

The only decoration of note was a portrait of an elderly gentleman with a long, straight nose and otherwise flat face. A thick, messy beard grew down from the man’s jawline, giving the appearance of a ruffled collar. The rest of his torso was clad in a threadbare collared shirt and jacket. The fabric’s worn, scruffy condition was evident even in the black-and-white depiction.

The portrait clearly conveyed the sense of an earlier era. A brass plate mounted on the wall beneath confirmed the image to be the restaurant’s namesake, the miserly millionaire James Lick.

• • •

THE MODERN-DAY LICK—
WHOSE
financial status remained as much a mystery as his real identity—shuffled across the dining room to the kitchen.

He slid the large paper bag from the pet store across the counter to his business partner, who was manning a sink of dirty dishes, the last cleanup task remaining from that evening’s dinner service.

Harold Wombler looked up from the sink and wiped his wrinkled wet hands on a dishtowel. No words were needed; neither man was the type for unnecessary verbal communication.

Harold dug around inside the paper bag, nodded a grunting acknowledgment, and, carrying it with him, headed for the restaurant’s front door. The items in the sink could wait until he returned.

• • •

AFTER HAROLD LEFT,
Lick ambled to the rear of the kitchen and out the building’s back exit. In the alley behind the restaurant, not far from a large Dumpster, he stopped in front of a shed whose door was secured with a heavy iron lock.

After a cautious glance over his shoulder, he pulled the plastic sack of breadcrumbs from his pants pocket, dug around inside it, and fished out a metal key, one end of which was formed in the shape of a three-petaled tulip.

With a heavy puff, he blew a light coating of crumbs from the tooled iron surface; then he fed the key into the lock and pulled open the shed’s door.

A neon tube suspended from the ceiling flickered on, illuminating rows of dusty shelving. Boxes and crates of all sizes, shapes, and conditions of wear had been stuffed into the cramped space.

Lick rummaged through several half-open containers, occasionally taking an item out and holding it up to the dim light. After a few minutes of casual sorting, he turned his attention to the outfit he’d worn at the Academy of Sciences earlier that afternoon. Carefully, he repacked the pile of ragged beggar’s clothes in its box.

As he prepared to leave the shed, Lick glanced up at a clothing rod mounted along the back wall. The bar held the hangers for a number of costumes, each one covered in a clear plastic bag.

A rumpled linen suit hung from the near end of the rack. Leather lace-up boots rested on the floor beneath.

In a small kit attached to this outfit lay a bristly white mustache—one meant to emulate a writer who had spent several years in San Francisco—the modern-day Lick’s favorite character from the time period: Mark Twain.

Chapter 21

THE GATOR-NAPPING

A WHITE CARGO
van pulled away from the rear loading dock outside the California Academy of Sciences, leaving behind a Swamp Exhibit with several confused turtles and a heated rock that was missing its regular reptilian occupant.

After a few winding curves, the vehicle picked up Highway One and headed north into the sleeping city.

It would be several hours before the Academy’s alligator staff discovered that their prized specimen had disappeared.

• • •

CLIVE BLINKED HIS
large gray eyes, trying to adjust his albino-diminished vision to the dim lighting in the van’s rear cargo area.

Even if he’d had crystal clear eyesight, there wouldn’t have been much for him to see. He was surrounded on three sides by the van’s metal walls. A stiff cloth-covered barrier separated the cargo hold from the front seating area.

Clive stared forlornly at the dark ceiling. He had only himself to blame for this predicament, he thought miserably.

He had followed the trail of tasty fish pellets right up the ramp into the back of the van. No sooner had he gulped down the last pellet than the rear door had swung shut behind him. The subsequent grinding
cinch
of metal had indicated the securing of a lock.

It was at that moment he realized his stomach might have led him into trouble.

• • •

CLIVE SHIFTED HIS
weight, testing the slick surface beneath his feet. His front claws—all five plus four of them—gripped the metal brackets bolted onto the floor as the van careened around a sharp corner.

Who were these scheming bandits? he thought with worry. And where were they taking him?

He couldn’t make out much beyond the nefarious pair’s shadowed heads.

The driver was a small bald man. Clive squinted in frustration at the tiny frame hunched over the van’s steering wheel, but the man’s silhouette was unknown to him.

The gator did recognize the fellow in the right front passenger seat. He was the one who had called out to him from the seahorse balcony. The voice had been strangely familiar, but Clive couldn’t quite place the man’s rugged physique. He sensed, however, that he had seen this scoundrel before.

Every day, thousands of humans peered over the Swamp Exhibit’s balcony. It was impossible for Clive to keep track of all those onlookers. Even if he had recognized the criminal, he reasoned, that knowledge was of little use to him now.

His panic growing by the second, Clive’s head swam with grim possibilities.

Were these men poachers? Thieves? Was he about to be featured in a new line of designer handbags?

Or worse, he thought with a shudder,
cowboy boots
?

The last time Clive left the confines of the Swamp Exhibit, he’d wound up on an operating room table with a front digit sawed off. At the end of this journey, he feared, he might be missing more than just a toe.

Only hours earlier, he remembered ruefully, he had been touting his life story’s remarkable success, his great fortune among the ranks of albino alligators.

His luck had apparently just run out.

• • •

A FEW MINUTES
later, the van slowed and, after a short pause, made a wide turn. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the vehicle pulled to a stop in a secluded wooded area.

Clive watched as his captor in the front passenger seat turned to look over the front partition. A light mounted onto the van’s roof clicked on, illuminating the man’s face.

A burly bloke with scruffy red hair and a chin full of rough stubble smiled down at him.

“How’re you doing back there, Clive?” the man asked kindly. “Are you ready for your vacation?”

Clive seized on the word.
Vacation?
Was that crude slang for euthanasia—or did he dare hope that he might survive this abduction after all?

The van doors swung open, letting in the warm nighttime air. Crickets hummed in the bushes, a calm, soothing sound.

Clive hesitated at the doorway and looked down the ramp that the men had propped up against the van’s bumper.

A third conspirator emerged from the bushes and growled out a welcome.

“Well, go ahead, then. Make yourself at home.”

The alligator heard the familiar sound of a fish pellet skipping along the ground, and his stomach once more took the lead.

Trundling down the ramp, he followed the trail of pellets, gobbling up each one as he eagerly waited for the next signal.

The ground grew soft beneath his feet. Mud oozed up between his splayed toes. He found himself at the edge of a body of water—one far larger than that of his Swamp Exhibit.

He held back, unsure if he should enter, but the soft
plunk
of a pellet dropping into the shallows convinced him to proceed.

As Clive disappeared beneath the surface, a last sound echoed into the night.

Chomp
.

Chapter 22

A CRUEL CHICKEN

NEAR MIDNIGHT IN
the apartment above the Green Vase showroom, Isabella stood in the doorway to the third-floor bedroom, assessing the scene.

Once more, her person had drifted off to sleep with a book laid open on her chest. Her glasses were tipped sideways on her face, and the light over the bed remained on.

Isabella sighed her disapproval. This was not a healthy routine.

She turned her attention to the bed’s other sleeper.

Rupert lay stretched out on the covers beside the woman, his length sprawled across the bed’s width, his tail hanging over the side. Every so often, the tail’s fluffy orange tip twitched, the indication of much larger action occurring in Rupert’s dream.

Knowing her brother, the dream involved eating. Not much to work with, Isabella summed up, momentarily stymied.

Isabella’s small, pixielike face pinched with thought. Her person wasn’t yet ready for the next day’s events. There was still one more clue inside the Green Vase for the woman to sort out, and it was Isabella’s job to nudge her down the right track.

Isabella’s gaze shifted from the tail’s latest gyration to the green chicken-restaurant flyer resting on the bedroom dresser.

Hmm, she mused cannily. That might just work.

• • •

RUPERT NUZZLED THE
soft comforter beneath his head, flattening the side of his face into the blankets. His left front leg was tucked beneath his chest, while his right one stretched out with his paw turned up so that the tufts of white hair that grew between his toes poked into the air. Every so often, the exposed paw stretched, flexing to reveal the long curve of each claw.

It was a state of full and complete relaxation.

Rupert’s furry eyelids fluttered at the single image that filled his sleeping brain. He had no need for complicated plotlines or a complex cast of characters. He was content with simple dreams.

All he could see was a plate piled high with fried chicken.

• • •

RUPERT WHEEZED CONTENTEDLY
and rolled over onto his back, immediately transitioning into another loose, tension-free position. As his bulging stomach puffed out, he adjusted his imaginary plate, rotating the image in his head.

The chicken’s crispy coating began to
pop
and
snap
, as if it had just been removed from a hot skillet. A purr rumbled through Rupert’s chest, and he smacked his lips, savoring the illusion.

But as Rupert opened his mouth to take a bite from the top piece of meat, the sizzling sounds suddenly took on a more menacing tone. A low hissing growl spat out from the plate, challenging him to a duel.

Surprised, Rupert flipped over.

There were few situations in life where he took an aggressive stance. In most cases, he preferred flight over fight. He had been bested by his sister one too many times.

But not tonight. Not against a plate of chicken.

Emboldened by his dreamlike state, he gathered his feet beneath his body and summoned his sleeping muscles for a pounce. Then, with a mighty roar, he lunged toward the taunting chicken, swatting wildly, claws extended.

The chicken, it turned out, had far more manpower than Rupert had anticipated.

After a loud human shriek, he found himself soaring through the air. Still half-asleep, he landed with a
thunk
on the wooden floor.

• • •

A MOMENT LATER,
Rupert’s wobbly blue eyes peeked out from beneath the bed skirt. Tentatively, he scooted himself forward, his pudgy body hugging the floor as he slid out from under the bed, on the hunt for the dastardly fried chicken.

He glanced briefly up at the mattress as his person shifted her position. The bedsprings squeaked as she covered her head with a pillow. Still muttering about Rupert’s unprovoked attack, she quickly drifted back to sleep.

The woman was obviously unaware, Rupert thought, of the dangerous plate of food rustling in the hallway just beyond the bedroom.

• • •

AS RUPERT SLUNK
across the wooden floor and past the bathroom door, his quivering nose picked up on a distinctive fried-chicken scent. Stealthily, he followed the smell down the steps to the second floor.

At the bottom of the stairs, he lifted his head toward the kitchen, a logical location, he reasoned, for a rogue plate of food. But, after a thorough sniffing, he rejected this course of pursuit.

His prey had traveled instead to the living room.

Stalking the renegade chicken, Rupert tracked the odor onto the couch. Rooting his head through the cushions, he traced the trail across the piece of furniture and over the opposite armrest to the end table near the window.

There, the aroma intensified. He sensed he had at last cornered his target—the frisky fried chicken was hiding inside a half-empty tissue box positioned on the end table next to a brass lamp.

His head hovered over the round hole at the top of the box for a long second and then plunged inside.

• • •

CRUEL CHICKEN, RUPERT
thought a moment later as the tissue box clamped down around his head.

• • •

A LOUD
THUMP
provided the second jarring awakening of the night for Oscar’s niece. Groggily, she propped herself up on an elbow. With a wide yawn, she straightened her eyeglasses and looked around the bedroom.

“What now?” she demanded, searching the room for the feline sleep disruptors.

But neither cat appeared to be present.

More bumps sounded from the floor below. Rubbing her eyes, the woman wandered into the hallway and down the stairs to the living room.

Taking in a deep breath, she crossed the threshold and flipped the light switch on the wall. “All right,” she said sleepily. “What are you two . . .”

She didn’t take time to finish the sentence. Sprinting on still half-asleep legs, she raced across the room to the end table on the far side of the couch where a large, fluffy cat with a tissue box stuck on his head was about to knock over a fragile brass lamp.

• • •

THE NIECE GRABBED
the base of the lamp with one hand, the tissue box with the other. Giving the box a tug, she pulled it from Rupert’s head.

The cat’s expression was a strange mixture of gratitude and longing. He stared hungrily at the box and licked his lips.

“What’s got into you?” the woman asked, perplexed.

Yawning, she peered into the box.

“How did this get in here?” she mumbled as she spied the green insert from the fried-chicken restaurant.

The niece stretched out her arm to set the lamp back on the end table so she could retrieve the insert from the tissue box. But as the lamp rotated in her hands, the bulb rattled in its socket.

The woman’s face puzzled at the sound. Squinting at the bulb, she reached her hand beneath the ceramic globe to tighten it in its fittings.

“Hmm,” she mused sleepily.

Meanwhile, Rupert began sniffing the tissue box, which, in the woman’s distraction, had fallen onto the floor.

The niece bent to plug in the lamp’s cord. As she did so, the bulb began to glow, and the once dull gray ceramic surface streamed with color.

“Would you look at that?” she said, her voice filled with wonder as she slowly spun the lamp’s base.

“Issy, I think it’s the Steinhart. The original aquarium.” She pointed at the image depicting the aquarium’s interior scene. “And that’s the Swamp Exhibit.”

Isabella turned for the stairs to the third-floor bedroom as Rupert’s head, once more submerged in the tissue box, began to bump against the side of the coffee table.

Isabella paused at the bottom of the steps and issued a last summary comment.

“
Mrao
.”