Nine Lives Last Forever

by Rebecca M. Hale

  I spun around to ward off the source of the intruding odor and found myself face-to-grimy-smiling-face with a jumpsuit-clad man wielding a mop. A janitor, I presumed.

  A wild mane of frizzy red hair covered the man’s head like an overgrown weed. The same seed had sprouted thickly from his eyebrows and spread across the lower half of his face. It had been at least a week since his last shave, and, I suspected, shower. The stench was overwhelming—he was standing way too close to me.

  “Can I help you, Miss?” the janitor asked genially, his stubbled chin inches from my nose.

  He reached behind his back and pulled a beaten-up cart stuffed full of refuse into the space beside us. “Are you looking for something?”

  I felt my toes curl inward as the edge of my spine pressed up against the iron frame of the balcony’s railing. The persistent tickle of a sneeze began its curling ascent through my nasal passages.

  “I-I was just looking around,” I stuttered, pointing limply out at the rotunda.

  “Ah, you’re a visitor then?” He leaned back and looked me up and down. “A local though, I think. Not a tourist.”

  The janitor winked a rusty red eyebrow at me as I confirmed his assumption with a nod. A dingy layer of grit and grime covered the man’s body, settling into every crack, crevice, and wrinkle.

  “We try to take good care of our guests here at City Hall,” he said pleasantly. He swung the business end of his mop through the air like a javelin and angled it into the cart. Then, he shoved his grungy hand toward me, offering it for a shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sam.”

  I shook his hand as gingerly as possible. My eyes scanned the faded nametag sewn onto the right chest pocket of the janitor’s rumpled gray jumpsuit, confirming his identification.

  “Nice to meet you, too . . . uh, Sam,” I replied as his hand crunched down on mine, firmly stamping it with his soiled imprint.

  Sam flipped a lever on his cart to brake its wheels. An air freshener cut in the circular outline of a piece of orange fruit swung, ineffectively, from the handle of the cart.

  “Nice view, isn’t it?” he asked, shaking his head in admiration as he leaned over the railing next to me. “I never get tired of looking at it.”

  The smell swilling in the air around him was almost unbearable. I managed a weak grimace in response as he continued.

  “I’ve been here almost fifteen years now—took the spot over from my dad. He was in the job well over thirty years. He worked for a lot of Mayors, my dad did.”

  “Mmm,” I hummed in response, anxiously becoming aware that I was pinned between Sam’s smelly cart, the balcony, and the curving bulge of the nearest wall.

  “I only go back two Mayors,” Sam announced enthusiastically. He chuckled and bent his head toward me. “I’ve got to tell you, I liked the first one better.” He grinned wryly at me, as if we were sharing a private joke. “I call him the First Mayor—on account of he was my first Mayor.”

  The corners of my mouth tightened with apprehension. I had the disturbing impression that Sam was settling in for a long chat.

  “The First Mayor, he knew the name of everyone who worked here.” Sam nodded his head up and down and pointed at his chest. “Even me. He always made a point to stop and talk with me. You know, it doesn’t take much effort to make a person feel acknowledged. A little appreciation goes a long way.”

  Sam shifted his stance to gain a more comfortable and, I feared, permanent position against the railing.

  “The First Mayor, when he’d see you coming, he’d touch the brim of his hat and tip it in your direction. Just like this.”

  Sam’s right hand swung up to his own dingy, frayed cap and tapped the rim of its bill.

  “Of course, he always wore a fancy hat, that First Mayor. Bowlers mostly. They gave him a dapper, smart look—not that he needed any help with that. That man was born with the smarts.”

  Sam returned his hand to the balcony, sliding it ever closer to the small of my back. “The First Mayor, he knew all about the janitorial business. That’s how he started off when he came to San Francisco as a teenager. He got a part-time job cleaning the pews at one of the local churches. That was all the foothold he needed—he worked his way up from there. He went to law school; then he got himself into politics. He was the Speaker of the State Legislature before he became Mayor.”

  The combined rank odor of Sam and his cart had completely surrounded me. My eyes began to water as the sneeze forced its way closer to the surface.

  “ ‘Hey there, Sam. What’s the news?’ That’s how the First Mayor would greet me. I made sure I always had a little tidbit of gossip for him.” Sam’s chest puffed out with pride. “I keep a close eye on everything that goes on here. Same as my father did. That’s one of the things he taught me, before he passed the job on.”

  I stood there, crammed up against the balcony, struggling to remember what I had done to set loose this deluge of information. Sam continued on with the conversation as if we were both actively participating. He bobbed his head up and down, reinforcing his assertion.

  “That’s right. Everything that goes on here. Who’s scheming with whom, which ones are in a tiff, and which ones are conspira-tating together. The First Mayor, he was always interested in that sort of thing. And not only about the Supervisors, but their staff, too.”

  Sam crossed his arms over his chest as he reflected.

  “That’s why the First Mayor was so good at his job. We’d have our little talk—you know, all secret-like—then, he’d pat me on the back and tell me how much he appreciated my assistance, my loyalty. Yes ma’am, he was a fine Mayor. He sure was.”

  “Aaah-chooo!” My nose made a valiant effort to expel the rancidly offensive odor tormenting it. The high-pitched sneeze echoed in the stone-walled chamber. Tourists on the far side of the rotunda looked up, startled.

  “Bless you,” Sam said reflexively, barely pausing his dialogue. “You know, the First Mayor would have been reelected, over and over again, no doubt about it, if it weren’t for those term limits. He served out his eight years and couldn’t run again. He’s still around though. Still has his finger in the pie, so to speak. He knows everything that goes on in this city, and in City Hall, that’s for sure.”

  Sam paused and stuck his thumbs through a pair of straps sewn onto the waist of his jumpsuit. “Now, the Current Mayor, I can’t say much about him.”

  Thank goodness, I thought, momentarily relieved. Sam unhitched one of his thumbs and reached out for the handle of his cart. For a brief moment, I actually believed that he was preparing to depart.

  I was sorely mistaken. Sam had been untruthful. He had plenty to say about the Current Mayor.

  “Now, the Current Mayor, he keeps to himself—always walks through here with his head down, all closed off.” Sam mimed an exaggerated head tuck. “He rushes right past people, as if he’s afraid to talk to them. If you ask me, that’s why he’s had so much trouble with the Supervisors.”

  Sam pumped his eyebrows, as if daring me to challenge this proposition, but my face was blank. My feet were growing numb from standing so long without movement, and my nose was starting to pulse with the threat of another sneeze.

  “You might think, well, the Mayor—he’s the king of the city. Right? He doesn’t have to worry about a bunch of silly Supervisors.”

  Sam tilted his head to emphasize his point. “But then you’d be wrong. You see, we’ve got a convoluted form of government here in San Francisco. Different parts have different powers; some of them overlap. It’s all muddled together. Very complicated.”

  Sam shook his hands in the air, wiggling his grimy fingers at me.

  “The Mayor has to work with the Board of Supervisors. He needs them to approve his budget and to enact legislation to support his programs and policies. They can be a right thorn in his side if they’ve got a mind to be.”

  “Ah-choo! Ah-choo! Ah-choo!” The sneezes were coming fast and furious now, each one in a high-pitched sta
ccato. On the floor of the rotunda, another pair of tourists put their hands over their ears as they looked nervously up at the ceiling.

  “Gesundheit!” Sam laughed and thumped me on the back. The force of the blow nearly threw me into the open mouth of his refuse cart.

  “Where was I . . . ah yes. The Current Mayor. He used to be a Supervisor himself, so he should know better. But there’s all of this anti-civility built up between him and them.”

  Sam tapped a grimy finger against his chin. “The thing is, not many of our Supervisors supported the Current Mayor when he ran for office the last time around. They plumped for this other fellow. Well, after he lost the Mayor’s race, this guy ended up being the President of the Board of Supervisors.”

  Sam puckered his lips together and shot out a low whistle before shaking his head sadly. “The two of them—the Current Mayor and the Supervisor He Ran Against—they haven’t been able to smooth things over since the last election. It’s a shame. There’s a lot of toxic air in the building these days.” Sam wiped his brow. “You know, you just can’t take political things personally. That’s what the First Mayor used to say.”

  Sam paused to bemoan this unpleasant lesson in politics, and I decided it was time to make my escape. I’d had enough. I couldn’t take any more.

  “I’ve got to find a friend of mine.” My words burst into the brief break in Sam’s speech. “He’s expecting me at his office.” With effort, I pushed the braked garbage cart away from the balcony and leapt around it.

  “Oh, who’re you looking for?” Sam replied helpfully. “I’d be happy to take you to him.” He winked reassuringly. “I know every corner of City Hall.”

  I looked down the hallway, contemplating a sprint to the main staircase. There was no way Sam could keep up with me while pushing that heavy cart.

  Sam smiled warmly. “It’s easy for a newcomer to get lost wandering around this building.”

  I was trapped by a personality far stronger than my own. With a last, desperate glance at my escape route, I said weakly, my voice nearly a whisper, “I’m looking for Montgomery Carmichael’s office.”

  “Ah yes, I know the place exactly.” Sam grasped the handle of the cart and shoved it forward enthusiastically. “It’s off the beaten path a ways—a little hard to find. Come on, I’ll take you down there.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way,” I stuttered as the cart zoomed toward me, its orange-shaped air freshener swinging wildly from the handle.

  “No, no, it’s no problem at all,” Sam insisted. “I’m heading that direction anyway.”

  The cart sped past me, moving, I noted, at a clip that would have easily kept up with my contemplated escape sprint.

  “Come on then,” he called out over his shoulder, beckoning with a grimy hand.

  Ruefully, I started off down the hallway, trotting to keep up with Sam and his smelly, speeding cart.

  Chapter 6

  COMMISSIONER CARMICHAEL

  I WAS PANTING heavily when I caught up to Sam at the far end of the hallway. He stood next to his cart, patiently waiting for me in front of a bank of elevators.

  “Ready?” he asked, carefully pressing the call button with one of his grime-blackened fingers when I nodded.

  “All aboard, then,” he called out cheerfully as one set of metal doors slid open.

  I stepped into the elevator’s cramped closet and flattened myself against the wall while Sam wheeled inside with his cart. The doors banged shut, and I held my breath as we began a bumpy descent.

  The turbulence of the ride caused the air freshener tied to the cart’s handle to sway back and forth. The previously ineffective orange scent began to concentrate in the elevator’s ever shrinking compartment, the sweet, artificial smell overpowering even the stench of the cart’s rotting rubbish.

  “The paneling and flooring have all been restored to look just like the original,” Sam explained as the elevator made a hiccupping lurch. He pointed to the floor beneath his cart. “The city symbol is inlaid in brass.”

  Each short, sudden drop of the elevator was accompanied by a loud grinding of gears, causing me to wonder if the elevator’s mechanical components had received the same restorative attention.

  I gripped onto the side railing as the elevator paused at the first floor. The metal doors slid open to reveal an elderly man in an expensive-looking suit and highly polished shoes.

  Sam smiled broadly at the man, inviting him inside. “Plenty of room,” he said encouragingly.

  The man glanced at Sam’s cart, took one whiff of the strange citrus-infused odor wafting out of the elevator, and waved us on.

  “That’s all right,” he said, taking a wide step back from the opening. “I think I’ll take the stairs.” He swung his arms energetically back and forth. “Good for my health.”

  Another long minute later, we bumped to a stop on City Hall’s basement level. The elevator doors opened to reveal a bland, windowless corridor with walls painted in a flat off-white paint. Dim artificial lighting hung from a prefab office-tile ceiling. The hallway’s blank walls stretched out the length of the building, unadorned by even the smallest picture or painting.

  Sam’s effusive mood was undiminished by the drab change in decor. He pushed his cart toward the left leg of the corridor. “It’s down this hall and around the corner,” he assured me cheerfully.

  I hesitated to follow him. The floor above us had been humming with activity, but here in the building’s lowest level, not another soul seemed to be stirring. I was beginning to fear that the awful smell emanating from Sam’s cart was due not to the refuse he had collected but from the decomposing body of the last hapless tourist he had lured down to the basement.

  After several silent minutes anxiously passing door after tightly shut door, we approached one up ahead on the right that was slightly ajar. Light from inside the room stretched into the dim hallway.

  The door was unlabeled, I noted when we reached it. Monty’s appointment was so recent, his nameplate had yet to be affixed.

  “This is it,” Sam whispered into my ear, his hushed voice echoing in the vacant emptiness of the hallway.

  I pushed the door open a bit further and poked my head into the office.

  The room was sparsely furnished with a worn wooden desk fronted by a single guest chair that looked as if its legs might collapse if anyone were foolish enough to trust it with his weight.

  Behind the desk, a man slumped back in a second, slightly more stable-looking seat. His closed eyelids fluttered with a deep, restful snore. I’d found my neighbor, Montgomery Carmichael, and I immediately saw the reason for Dilla’s cautionary remarks.

  Monty’s long, pointed feet were propped up on the splintered edge of the desk, his toes rocking back and forth in time with his slumbered breathing. He wore a double-breasted black wool suit and a narrow pale blue tie. But it wasn’t Monty’s wardrobe that had caught my attention—it was his hair.

  Monty’s tightly curled locks had been combed out and straightened into the elevated wave of a pompadour that rose several inches up from his forehead. Every uncoiled strand was securely cinched into position with a shellacking tortoiseshell coat of hair gel; it was layered on so thick the surface appeared almost wet. The hairstyle’s constrained formation was an amazing tribute to the molding capacity of modern styling products.

  I started to speak to wake him, but Sam raised a hand to stop me. He put a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound as he clambered noisily around to the backside of Monty’s desk.

  Monty’s eyelashes made a brief, off-snore flutter as Sam leaned over him, but his lids did not open. Slowly, gingerly, Sam brought his dingy left forefinger near the slick surface of Monty’s eye-catching coif of hair.

  Sam glanced conspiratorially back at me, grinned sheepishly, and then poked his finger into the cresting wave of Monty’s shiny pompadour.

  The entire mass of hair moved as if it were one being, a single slimy creature that had t
aken up residence on Monty’s cranium. Sam licked his upper lip, concentrated on the target, and poked again, this time a little more vigorously. The second poke set off a Jell-O-like vibration that shook throughout the gelatinous mound of hair.

  Monty’s nose twitched, but otherwise, he did not stir. His snoring continued unabated.

  Sam struggled to contain the giggles gurgling up inside him. He motioned for me to give his game a try, gesturing insistently at Monty’s still slumbering head.

  With a repulsed cringe, I crept around to the back of the desk and eased my right hand toward the coated surface of Monty’s hair.

  Sam bobbed his head up and down, enthusiastically urging me on.

  I kept the rest of my body as far away as possible from the sacrificial hand as it hovered over Monty’s head. Gritting my teeth, I let one fingertip drop into a half-hearted poke—quickly jerking it back as the off-putting texture snailed beneath my fingers.

  Sam exchanged places with me and moved in for a second demonstration. But this time, just as his grimy hand neared the towering stack of hair, Monty’s eyes flew open.

  “Wha-haa . . . ha . . . ha!” Monty’s tenor-pitched voice squealed as he awoke to the sight of Sam’s looming fingers.

  “Sam! Sam, Sam!” Monty wagged an admonishing finger as his long legs clattered off the edge of the desk. “What have I told you about the hair?”

  Monty’s chiding expression immediately changed when he saw me standing on the opposite side of the room where I’d retreated during Sam’s second poking session.

  “Well, hello,” Monty said, his voice affecting a slick politician’s unctuousness. “I was wondering when you would stop by to see me.”

  He winked as if I were an admiring fan and ran his hand over the top of his head, unnecessarily smoothing his immovable hair. “What do you think of my new office here in City Hall?”

  I smiled, biting my lip. “Um, yes, it’s quite impressive,” I said placatingly. “Look, I’m here because of Dilla actually—”