How To Tail a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  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.”

  Chapter 15

  A LITTLE FELINE ASSISTANCE

  OSCAR’S NIECE BEGAN folding the newspaper for her recycle bin, taking care not to disturb Rupert’s snoring heap as she creased the folds. She had almost summoned enough energy to head for the shower when she noticed a rustling sound coming from the kitchen.

  The instinctive response was out her lips before she could stop it.

  “Rupert?” she called out sternly.

  A yawn floated up from the next cushion over. The orange tip of Rupert’s fluffy tail wiggled an “It’s not me” response.

  The woman’s gaze immediately traveled from the furry mound sleeping beside her to the couch’s now empty armrest.

  “Issy?” she called out in disbelief as the rustling continued. It was rare for her female cat to get into trouble. “What’s going on in there?”

  Having cohabitated with the feline species for several years, the niece knew that a mysterious noise in an otherwise unoccupied room required immediate investigation. Few scenarios beginning with this fact pattern resulted in anything other than an enormous mess—although Rupert was usually the culprit of those crimes.

  “Issy?” she repeated, her concern growing as the sound grew louder.

  A garbled mrrreow brought the woman scrambling to her feet.

  “Isabella . . .” the niece called out again as she heard the distinct sound of paws hitting the kitchen’s tile floor.

  From his spot on the couch, Rupert cracked open an exculpatory eyelid and yawned loudly, as if to say, “Told you it wasn’t me.” Then he heaved out a sleepy sigh and rolled over onto his side.

  Just then Isabella entered the living room with a green piece of paper clenched in her teeth.

  Head held high enough to keep the paper from tripping her front feet, Isabella marched purposefully toward her person, all the while issuing a stream of muffled cat commentary. A moment later, she dropped the paper on the floor and looked up expectantly.

  Perplexed, the niece bent to pick up the green flyer. It appeared to be from the paper bag that had contained that day’s fried-chicken cat treats. She had read the restaurant’s standard blurb many times before, so she had tossed the greasy sheet from the earlier package into the trash bin without looking at it.

  But as her eyes scanned the writing on the lower half of the paper, she realized the language had changed.

  “Well, Issy,” the woman murmured thoughtfully, her mind immediately speculating on the clue’s potential implications. “I believe someone’s trying to send us a message.”

  Isabella gave her person a sarcastic look.

  “Mrao.”

  Chapter 16

  THE STEINHART CONNECTION

  HOLDING THE FLYER from the fried-chicken restaurant in one hand, stroking Isabella’s silky head with the other, Oscar’s niece sank back onto the couch. A few smears of chicken grease blotted the printing, but the text was still readable.

  The flyer began with the familiar introduction to James Lick, the talented piano maker from Pennsylvania who had wandered the globe, taking a tour of South America before eventually landing in pre–Gold Rush San Francisco. Once there, Lick made several prescient land deals in water lots along the shoreline that he eventually converted into a substantial fortune.

  Oscar’s niece could recite the tale of the Millionaire Tramp from memory. She knew this portion of the restaurant’s regular flyer by heart. It was unchanged from the previous printings.

  A second paragraph, however, had been added to that day’s edition.

  • • •

  THE NEW SECTION of the flyer highlighted Lick’s many charitable contributions, including his sizable donations to the California Academy of Sciences.

  Although Lick had eschewed the luxuries of fashion and fine food, he’d had no reservations about doling out funds for charitable organizations.

  Lick had provided the fledgling Academy with an enormous multi-story building on Market Street. The Academy converted the structure, which had been used as a shopping emporium, into a museum, filling its open layout with its growing scientific collections.

  The strategic location increased the new organization’s visibility, and San Franciscans flocked to the site. The skeletons of a T. rex, a wooly mammoth, and an African elephant were particularly enticing draws.

  An Academy expedition had just left for the Galapagos Islands to gather more specimens for the museum when the 1906 earthquake hit, destroying both the building and the bulk of its contents.

  Fortunately, the Academy had had the foresight to insure the structure. Using the proceeds from the insurance payout, a new headquarters was quickly set up in Golden Gate Park. Soon after the move, the facilities were expanded with funds from the estate of the Bavarian-born Steinhart brothers, Ignatz and Sigmund, to include the world-class Steinhart Aquarium.

  • • •

  THE NIECE LEANED back into the couch, trying to imagine what kind of treasure her Uncle Oscar might have discovered that was associated with the Academy of Sciences.

  She reread the selection, this time honing in on the last sentences.

  “The Steinhart Aquarium,” she murmured out loud as she recalled her last visit to the place just a few months earlier.

  • • •

  ALMOST A HUNDRED years after the Steinharts’ bequest, the aquarium continued to attract thousands of visitors with its creative displays of fishes, frogs, and other water-related creatures. It was a well-known Bay Area attraction, an integral part of the Academy’s Golden Gate Park facility.

  The complex had recently reopened after an extensive renovation that had implemented much-needed improvements in earthquake stability as well as updated the overall design to give it a more modern feel.

  If the niece remembered correctly, little of the aquarium’s original structure remained. Anything the Steinhart brothers might have secreted away in the old building was unlikely to have survived the rebuild.

  The green insert fell from the woman’s fingers as her thoughts drifted inward and she wondered just what the proprietor of the fried-chicken restaurant was trying to tell her.

  • • •

  FROM HER PERCH on the couch’s armrest, Isabella watched her person read the greasy piece of paper. Then the woman’s head rotated toward the ceiling, deep in thought.

  With a sigh, Isabella shifted her gaze to the end table beside the couch. Blue eyes glittering, she stared at the brass lamp and its still unlit ceramic globe.

  Oscar’s niece was going to need some additional feline assistance if she were ever going to get on the right track for this latest treasure hunt.

  Chapter 17

  THE SWAMP

  AS ANOTHER DAY disappeared into the western horizon, the darkness of early evening descended onto the secluded confines of Golden Gate Park. Thick stands of redwoods reached up to cover the cloudless sky, spreading their needle-filled branches to blot out the scattering of artificial light from the surrounding city.

  In the center of the park, the glass-fronted, grass-roofed Academy of Sciences complex grew silent and still. A walk up the front steps, past the foyer’s fragile yet imposing dinosaur skeleton, revealed little in the way of activity. Most of the building’s creature inhabitants had drifted off to sleep.

  But in the rear wing, where a brass balcony surrounded a large hole in the floor, a slight splash could be heard as the Academy’s showcase albino alligator hoisted his long, leathery body onto his heated rock.

  Clive hummed happily to himself as the relax
ing warmth radiated up through his spongy, wet belly.

  • • •

  THE STEINHART AQUARIUM had seen numerous changes since it first opened its doors in 1923: refurbishments to its water-filtration systems, exhibit modifications, wing additions, and, in the wake of the damage caused by the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, a complete retrofit and rebuild.

  The Steinhart’s original structure had been completely subsumed in the modern ecofriendly renovation. The aquarium section was now blended seamlessly into the planetarium, natural-history museum, and artificial rain forest that made up the rest of the complex.

  The Swamp Exhibit, however, had remained a constant. It was one of the few features of the current building that carried back to the original design. The sunken tank ringed by its brass balcony of standing seahorses had stayed true to the Steinhart brothers’ early conception.

  • • •

  THE SEAHORSE BALCONY had guarded countless alligators over the years, garden-variety green ones and rare albinos, but in the Academy’s long history, no alligator had captured the public’s imagination quite like Clive.

  Due in part to the creativity of the Academy’s promotions department, Clive had achieved a local celebrity the likes of which San Francisco had never seen. Beloved by children from across the city, his fame had surpassed that of all other public figures, entertainers, athletes, and politicians.

  • • •

  CLIVE SNUGGLED SLEEPILY against his rock, enjoying the evening’s peace and quiet. After a busy day of receiving the public’s admiration, he was ready for a good night’s rest.

  As he drifted off to sleep, he thought fondly of his little fans, their faces filled with awe and wonder, their curious minds abounding with questions. The slack-jawed expression he wore throughout much of the day—which some mistook for malaise—was really the reflection of his inner pride and satisfaction.

  Every time he heard a docent describing his unique features to a fresh set of youngsters, he felt a pleasant glow swell in his chest. He truly relished his role as alligator ambassador.