How To Tail a Cat (7 page)

Chapter 12

MORE THAN CHICKEN

IN THE APARTMENT
above the Green Vase antiques shop, Isabella watched as her person’s face slowly disappeared behind the newspaper. She listened for the sharp
snap
of the woman’s hands tugging the sides of the printed sheet to smooth out the portion containing the main article, signaling that a lengthy reading spell was about to commence.

The slender cat yawned, as if bored by the proceedings, but in actuality, she was performing a close surveillance.

Isabella waited until she was sure her person was fully engrossed in Hoxton Fin’s latest City Hall report. Then she silently hopped off the couch’s armrest and stealthily crept out of the room.

It was time for Isabella to give her person a nudge toward the clue to her next treasure hunt. Oscar’s niece had missed something important when she came in from her run.

• • •

A MOMENT LATER,
Isabella crossed the threshold into the kitchen.

Her toenails clicked softly against the tile floor as she circled a worn wooden table and sniffed at the now-empty food bowls positioned beneath. She could still pick out a faint whiff of fried chicken from the earlier afternoon snack.

Whiskers twitching, Isabella gazed up at the kitchen walls. The sheets of tulip-covered wallpaper that Oscar had tacked to the framing were now gone. New plasterboard had been installed and the surface covered with light purple paint.

Dark green hand towels hung from a rack near the sink; several green figurines cast in the shape of frogs adorned the open shelves secured to the walls.

The purple and green color scheme was a tribute to the green vase that rested on the downstairs cashier counter and the fresh-cut purple tulips that Oscar’s niece purchased every week from a flower shop in the nearby financial district.

The tulips, Isabella reflected, had a singular meaning in and of themselves—both to her person and to the mysterious Uncle Oscar. Their use in combination with a rare paralysis-inducing spider venom had played a central role in Oscar’s transition from the Green Vase antiques shop to his new enterprise at the North Beach chicken restaurant.

• • •

APPROACHING THE CABINETRY
below the sink, Isabella trained her focus on the counter above. She took her time studying the distance, carefully sizing it up as her pipelike tail rose into a contemplative curve.

She needed to make sure she executed the jump perfectly. The slightest skidding scrape of claws across the countertop would give her away.

After a thorough analysis of the counter height and a last check through the doorway to confirm her person was still fixated on the newspaper article, she was ready to proceed.

• • •

GATHERING HER FEET
beneath her body, Isabella leapt gracefully onto the counter. Now properly elevated, she tilted her head in a pleased manner, appreciative of the height’s change in perspective. She didn’t mind a ground-level view—a cat could pick up several important details from that angle—but she generally preferred the advantage of a little altitude.

In her not-so-modest opinion, a cat’s proper role was at the highest point in the room, where she could look down on her minions. But because her person did not share these beliefs, most of Isabella’s counter surfing took place late at night, when the potential objector was tucked in bed, fast asleep.

This was a tribute to Isabella’s heartfelt devotion to Oscar’s niece. Even though her human was a lesser being, Isabella didn’t like to upset her. A daytime visit, such as this one, was a rarity. It required a great deal more finesse and the right distraction.

Isabella paused and listened to the reassuring crinkle of newsprint emanating from the living room. A confident expression crossed her pixielike face.

She had plenty of time to complete her task.

• • •

GINGERLY STEPPING OVER
a rack filled with drying dishes, Isabella skimmed nimbly across the kitchen countertop. With skill honed from a year’s worth of experimentation, she quietly maneuvered around a small toaster oven and a stand-alone rack of coffee cups.

A few steps took Isabella to the stovetop, whose burners she took extra care to avoid. She had learned the hard way that the raised metal ridges sometimes contained residual heat from their last use.

Her last hurdle was a wooden cutting board. Its uneven surface would rattle against the counter if she stepped on top of it, so after a short pause, she hopped neatly over. Having cleared the last impediment, she had finally reached the far side of the room.

Isabella turned to glance back at her starting point.

She supposed she could have leapt onto the counter at this location instead, but what would have been the challenge in
that
?

• • •

HAVING SUCCESSFULLY NAVIGATED
across the kitchen counter, Isabella was ready to get down to business.

Her blue eyes honed in on her target—the trash bin. The lid of the tall cylindrical-shaped container rose just flush to the counter where she now stood.

Crouching down, Isabella leaned toward the canister’s metal lid and prepared to perform yet another of her well-practiced moves. After wedging the flat portion of her nose against the edge of the lid, she quickly jerked her head upward, flipping it open.

Balancing precariously, she anchored her paws on the top edge of the oval rim and slowly eased her weight from the counter to the canister. Her toenails gripped the slippery plastic-covered rim as she positioned herself over the bin’s opening and bent her head to retrieve the last item deposited inside.

With her teeth, she nipped the folded top of a green paper bag. Still straddling the trash can, she tossed it onto the counter.

The maneuver was awkward, but effective.

Isabella quickly followed the bag back to the counter and set about the task of accessing its contents. Swatting at the folded-over opening, she managed to separate the two sheets of paper and slip her paw into the sack.

The process generated far more rustling than Isabella would have liked, but she continued to dig through the discarded chicken wrappings until she found the item for which she’d been searching: a green flyer with the restaurant’s logo, followed by a brief historical excerpt about a man named James Lick.

Chapter 13

THE LONG SHOT

A FRIED-CHICKEN-SMELLING BURP
bubbled up from the right side of the couch as Oscar’s niece reached the end of Hoxton Fin’s latest report on the increasing number of aspiring mayors crowding the corridors at City Hall.

According to Hox, the list of potential candidates included the current members of the board of supervisors, several local civic leaders, and even the city’s Previous Mayor.

Hox’s article had focused on the short list, the serious contenders. Of course, this being San Francisco, a large number of oddball applicants were also petitioning the board for consideration.

The expanded roster included the “Chicken Man,” a person of unknown gender who had been appearing at the Current Mayor’s public events for the last seven years, each time wearing a feathery chicken costume and clucking vociferously. Also seeking the nomination was a rather large, extremely hairy gentleman from the Castro, who boasted his credentials as a practicing nudist.

And then there was Monty.

• • •

DROPPING THE PAPER
to her lap, the woman glanced through the living-room window to the art studio across the street. She could just make out the profile of the man sitting inside at his desk, wiping his hands with a wet paper towel after finishing his takeout meal from Lick’s Homestyle Chicken.

In the months since it had become clear that the Current Mayor would be headed to Sacramento, Monty had talked of little other than the pending vacancy at City Hall. The mayor’s job was his lifelong dream, as he’d tell anyone who would care to listen. The antics of the local newspaper’s editorial board had only inflated those hopes.

• • •

IT HAD BEEN
a slow summer, newswise. Other than the pending shake-up at City Hall, there had been few stories of interest on which to report.

That was the only explanation Oscar’s niece could come up with for why a San Francisco television station had aired a lengthy interview with the outgoing Mayor’s Life Coach. During the hour-long conversation, Monty had described in great detail his various life-coaching techniques, including the specific steps he had designed to alleviate the Mayor’s debilitating fear of frogs.

The interview had generated a great deal of public interest, little of it positive.

For the local newspaper, the topic had been too tempting to resist. In the weeks since the spot aired, the editorial page had run numerous tongue-in-cheek advice columns purportedly written by Life Coach Carmichael.

Each article had been more over the top than the one that came before. Topics ranged from key elements in frog-aversion therapy to guidance on how San Franciscans could nurture their inner frog. One of the most popular pieces in the series had pretended to explore the depths of the Mayor’s frog-addled psyche, speculating on the childhood cause of his phobia.

With the outcome of the selection process for the Current Mayor’s replacement growing more unpredictable by the day, the newspaper had naturally lampooned a Monty-themed solution. Their mock endorsement had run in the most recent Sunday edition, generating chuckles across the political spectrum.

• • •

MONTY, UNFORTUNATELY, HAD
failed to appreciate the joke. He’d seen the commentary as an indication of his growing prestige. Clippings of each of the columns graced a corkboard mounted on a wall in his studio. He quoted his favorite lines at every opportunity.

Oscar’s niece shook her head as Monty stood up from his chair and began walking back and forth across the studio, his hands gesticulating as if he were practicing a speech.

Sighing, she folded the paper and set it on the side table next to the couch, tucking it beside a brass lamp covered by a ceramic globe.

With so many qualified candidates competing for the post, there was no way the board of supervisors would select a fruit loop like Monty.

Then again, she reasoned with a cynical grin, this
is
San Francisco. Stranger things have happened.

Chapter 14

A CULINARY CHALLENGE

STILL ENERGIZED FROM
his earlier eavesdropping operation, Spider Jones steered his bike onto Powell, quickly picking up speed as he approached San Francisco’s Union Square.

Even in the falling dusk, the city retained the day’s Indian summer heat. Above the front entrance to the venerable St. Francis hotel, a row of scarlet-colored flags hung limply from their poles, the brisk breeze that normally popped their sheets missing in the damp heat.

Generating his own wind, Spider zoomed past the hotel, swerving at the last minute to avoid a red-jacketed bellhop who had stepped off the curb to hail a cab. The bellhop’s piercing whistle sent out a sharp rebuke, but the warning failed to slow the young man’s pace.

A cable car clanged down the hill as Spider weaved his bike around a group of female shoppers headed for a shoe sale at the massive multi-story department store that dominated the bottom half of the square. Boutiques, billboards, and a jeweler’s topped by an Atlas figure cradling a clock filled in the rest of the perimeter.

Buoyed by reckless confidence, Spider pedaled across the square’s concrete-covered clearing. At the opposite corner, he bumped his tires down a short flight of steps, squeezed through the last blinking seconds of a crosswalk, and continued into the financial district.

The warm evening air rushed over his sweating cheeks as he raced along the emptying streets. His wheels spun past a blur of office buildings, the metal flashings on his bike flickering in the short clips of light between shadows.

Finally, brakes screeching, he arrived at his destination, a small French bistro not far from Chinatown’s south gate.

• • •

SPIDER STARED UP
at a line of neon tubing that spelled out the restaurant’s name. He checked the wording against a scribble on a piece of paper from his pocket and confirmed he was at the right location.

“French,” he murmured, somewhat perplexed as he looked for a pole near the yellow-and-red-painted storefront where he could secure his bike.

Across the street and up the block, he spied Chinatown’s festive entrance. He stared longingly at the pair of serpentine dragons that crested its gate. Spicy Asian food would have been much more in his culinary wheelhouse. He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect from French cuisine.

Brow furrowed, he turned his gaze toward the menu affixed to the bistro’s front window, quickly noting a number of intimidating items on the list.

Then, he glanced down at his T-shirt and blue jeans. Even without the janitor coveralls, he wasn’t anywhere close to being dressed appropriately for this occasion, but there had been no time for him to change clothes.

With a shrug, he tried to dismiss his wardrobe concerns. The Previous Mayor had assured him it would be fine.

Still hesitating, Spider gripped his handlebars. He couldn’t believe the recent turn of events.

Just the other day, he’d been studying draft city ordinances in his basement-level cubicle. Now, he was meeting with one of the city’s most powerful political kingpins. For a middle-class kid from a sleepy East Bay suburb who had taken a year off after high school so he could try another shot at getting into UC Berkeley, this was quite a turn of events.

“Gosh,” was about all he could muster as a waiter in a black tie leaned out the bistro’s front door.

“Mr. Jones?” the waiter asked as he motioned for Spider to bring the bike inside. “The Mayor is expecting you.”

• • •

SPIDER HANDED HIS
bicycle off to the waiter and watched as the man wheeled it down the bistro’s long, narrow dining area toward a coatrack by the door to the kitchen. Lifting his baseball cap from his head, he smoothed a hand over the short hair that had been ruffled beneath and slowly took in his surroundings.

A wooden brass-rimmed bar dominated the left side of the room. On the front corner, a silver ice bucket held chilling bottles of wine that he was too young to legally drink. Beneath the countertop, a shelf mounted onto the bar’s facing contained several copies of the local newspaper’s most recent edition. The top page prominently displayed Hoxton Fin’s byline and his article about the upcoming board of supervisors’ meeting and the contenders seeking to replace the Current Mayor.

Rows of upended wine glasses hung from a rack above the bar’s long counter, the stemware’s delicate round bulbs glinting in the bistro’s dim light. Tiny shaded lamps affixed to the corners of the booths that lined the opposite redbrick wall gave a cozy glow to each table.

Spider’s gaze traveled upward. A pair of intricate stained-glass skylights were positioned at the center of the ceiling; the rest of the roof was covered with pleated white sheets that had been starched the same crisp white as the tablecloths.

The bartender coughed to attract Spider’s attention; then he nodded toward the front booth.

This section of seating was set aside for special commemorative tables. Three poster-sized portraits hung from the brick wall, each one signifying a different honoree. The first delegate was a local haberdasher—a portly but well-dressed man who ran a storefront in Union Square. The second was a beloved, but now deceased, newspaperman who had gained nationwide renown for columns that captured San Francisco’s quirky oddball essence.

The last picture displayed a man in a black tux, top hat, and spats—the real life embodiment of which sat at the table beneath.

Beaming fondly, the Previous Mayor pointed to an empty chair.

“Take a seat, Spider.”

• • •

AS SPIDER SLID
into his seat, the waiter arrived carrying a large platter. With a flourish, the man set the dish on the white tablecloth and removed its metal cover, revealing the contents: an array of shucked oysters laid out on a bed of crushed ice.

Spider stared dubiously at the platter while the PM picked up a lemon half covered with a thin mesh netting. Turning the lemon upside down, he squeezed the juice out through the netting and dribbled it over the plate.

“Bon appétit,” the PM said encouragingly.

“After you, sir,” Spider replied with a nervous gulp.

“Oh, no, none for me,” the PM said with a mischievous wink. “These are for you. My treat. I can’t eat the things myself. Shellfish allergy.”

Paling, Spider reached tentatively for the nearest shell. Its outer surface felt like a rock in his fingers. The PM leaned back in his seat, amused, as the young man brought the oyster to his mouth.

Spider tilted the shell toward his face, trying desperately not to look at the squishy gray blob inside. Despite his best efforts to maintain a sophisticated composure, his nose instinctively crinkled from the fishy citrus aroma. Holding his breath, he scooped his tongue beneath the slimy mollusk and, drawing on every ounce of available willpower, swallowed it whole.

Eyes bulging, Spider reached for his water glass and drained half of its contents in one long gulp. With a relieved
thunk
, he set the glass down on the table, smacked his lips, and wiped a napkin across his mouth.

“Mmm . . . delicious,” he said in a strangled voice.

The PM smiled with pleasure.

“Try the next one with a little sauce,” he advised knowingly.

Before Spider could come up with a polite but demurring response, the PM interjected, “Now, about our next project . . .”

• • •

SPIDER MANAGED TO
get down two more oysters while the PM discussed the upcoming board of supervisors’ meeting where the interim mayor would be selected. The PM briefly summarized the procedure the board would use for making nominations and then outlined the list of candidates the local political punditry considered most likely to take the nomination.

“Of course, I’m certain that none of these blokes will be moving into the mayor’s office suite—at least not anytime soon,” the PM summed up with a sly grin. “So I need you to gather some intelligence on the true front-runner.”

“I’m really getting the hang of sneaking around the second floor now,” Spider boasted after stiffly swallowing yet another oyster. “That janitor trick worked like a charm . . .”

His voice trailed off as the PM waved his hand over the table, dismissing his comment.

“That was just a learning exercise,” the PM said with a cryptic smile. “This assignment will require some sleuthing outside of City Hall.”

The PM flagged the waiter with the flick of his index finger.

“Cup of coffee for me, Pierre,” he said as the waiter rushed to his side. He gestured for the man to take his plate. “I’ve got another dinner engagement later this evening, but I wanted to give young Spider here an introduction to your fine cuisine.”

Spider gave the remaining oysters a forlorn look as the waiter disappeared once more into the kitchen.

The PM pulled a small notepad from the front pocket of his suit jacket and handed it across the table.

“I’ve written the individual’s details down on the first page. I’d like you to go to the address tomorrow and take a look around. Be sure to keep track of everything you see.” He tapped a finger against the notepad. “Even if you think it’s not important, write it all down.”

Just then, the waiter arrived with a second tray containing a coffee setting and a large bowl steaming with a heavy butter sauce.

“You went light on the garlic, I presume,” the PM said sternly. “
Very light
,” he added with a suspicious sniff of the dish.

“Of course,” the waiter replied, stiffly polite. “As you requested.”

The PM shifted his focus back to Spider. “Moderation is the key to a long and happy life,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “Especially in regards to garlic.”

Spider stared down at the spiraling brown shells swimming in the sauce. A heaping amount of garlic was all that would have been able to get him through the next dish. Then he looked up at the waiter with despair.

“Escargot,” the waiter supplied.

The PM flashed a gleaming smile and then translated.

“Snails.”