Nine Lives Last Forever

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Monty nodded numbly. His shoulders shivered beneath the thin T-shirt. He’d turned the van’s heater up to its highest setting.

  “I’m just trying to imagine what would be worth diving down into that cold, mucky water. There are only a few things that come to mind . . .” I gestured toward the driver’s seat with the hand holding the bronze frog. “This isn’t one of them.”

  “Not exactly what I had expected to find,” Monty muttered under his breath.

  I looked over at him expectantly, eyebrows raised, frog still tauntingly outstretched, waiting for him to continue. Monty’s eyes shot briefly toward me, but he shook his head firmly and returned his resolute stare to the windshield.

  “It was just a man and his frogs, out for an early morning swim,” Monty said tersely, sternly facing the road ahead of us. “You should give it a try sometime. I feel much healthier for having done it.” He huffed up his chest, setting off a spastic coughing spell.

  I took in a deep breath, trying to summon patience. “Oscar’s Vigilance Committee—it was about more than trying to influence city politics, wasn’t it?”

  Monty coughed again, this time more to create a distraction than out of necessity. His fingers fiddled with the heater controls, adjusting the vents to optimize the airflow.

  I tried to press him further with my speculations. “I mean, where did the VC get all of their money? The funds that they were funneling into the Board initiative and then the Milk campaign? As far as I know, none of the VC members were independently wealthy.”

  Monty flattened his lips, still refusing to budge.

  I decided to cut to the chase. “I think they found someone else’s money.” I paused, drew in my breath, and leaned toward Monty. “Does this have something to do with the funds missing from Adolph Sutro’s estate?”

  Monty tilted his head, as if considering his reply. He pulled the van over to the side of the road and parked in a shaded spot near the center of Golden Gate Park. With a shrug of his shoulders, he turned the key in the ignition and stopped the engine.

  “Okay, here’s what I know,” he said quietly. “The original members of the VC were all history buffs. San Francisco history, that’s what they had in common. Wang, Dilla, Oscar, and—Napis.”

  Monty brushed his hand through the damp curls on the top of his head, spraying water against the back of his seat. “Of course, his name wasn’t Napis at that time. He was using another alias and a different disguise.”

  Monty stretched his free hand out toward the windshield and peered down at his fingertips. Curving strips of green algae were stuck into several fingernails. With a sigh, he recurled his hand around the steering wheel.

  “Sutro was an obvious target—historically, I mean. It’s well documented that his disastrous term as Mayor left him a bitter, vindictive old man. His entire life, he’d never failed at anything. Suddenly, he had to endure the humiliation of a very public defeat.”

  Monty drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and ran his tongue across his front teeth.

  “Sutro had always been a private person, but after he left office, he became even more isolated. He holed himself up in the library of his mansion on the bluff above the Cliff House. He became hostile to everyone around him, especially his children. It may have been his increasing paranoia, but he suspected that some of them were secretly aligned with the business interests that had undermined him at City Hall.

  “When Sutro died, his finances were in a mess. Sutro had emptied several accounts and dumped his shares in multiple businesses. A sizeable portion of the liquid assets from his estate had gone missing.”

  Monty tapped his nose with the tip of his algaed finger. “The Vigilance Committee started tracking down Sutro-related memorabilia, old letters, news clippings, and the like, looking for clues to where he might have stashed the money.”

  I leaned forward in my seat as I listened to Monty’s story, my excitement growing. “So, did Oscar find it? Did he find Sutro’s hidden fortune?”

  Monty wiped a nervous hand across his brow. “Yes—at least, according to Dilla he did. The VC pumped some of the money into the initiative to change the seating structure for the Board elections. They set aside another chunk of it to help fund Milk’s next Supervisor campaign, to try to get him elected as the President of the Board.”

  I collapsed back into my seat and stared up at the van’s ceiling, my thoughts racing. “But that election never happened,” I said. “Because of the shootings.” I turned to look back at Monty. “What happened to the money?”

  Monty reached over to the center console where I’d set the bronze frog. He snatched it up and thrust it into my face.

  “Well, it sure didn’t end up in the bottom of the Sutro Baths ruins, I can tell you that much.”

  UP IN THE steeple above the dome in City Hall, Sam the janitor creaked open a door and walked into the attic. The space was filled with several glass aquariums, each one receiving a small trickle of water that pooled beneath a collection of rocks and green plants. With the combination of the heat rising up through the building and the moisture Sam was piping in for the tanks, the attic had begun to take on a moist, rain forest-like atmosphere.

  Inside the aquariums, countless frogs slid amongst the greenery, splashing in the water and lazily sunning themselves beneath heat lamps. The lids on each of the tanks had been removed, leaving them open at the top, so that the frogs could hop in and out at will.

  Sam opened up a large cardboard container he’d carried with him into the attic. He popped off its lid, reached inside with a grubby hand, and pulled out a handful of squirming bugs and scrambling crickets. He dropped a generous amount of both into each of the aquariums, where the insects were quickly devoured by the waiting frogs. A chorus of appreciative croaks echoed through the attic chamber.

  On a ledge next to the row of tanks, the highly polished bronze statue of a frog glimmered in the light filtering in through the window.

  Chapter 30

  THE MERRY-GO-ROUND

  A FEW BLOCKS away from City Hall, a group of children crossed the street in front of a glass-enclosed merry-go-round. Located within the several-block campus of the Yerba Buena complex, the merry-go-round was strategically positioned across the street from a multiplex theater, kitty-corner to the Moscone Convention Center, and just outside of a kid-friendly art and media museum.

  The boisterous crowd of six- and seven-year-olds chatted excitedly with each other, eagerly anticipating the afternoon’s birthday party. It would be the kind of wild, frenzied affair typical for their age group, complete with pizza, cake, presents, and an exuberant hour and a half’s worth of merry-go-riding.

  The children were escorted to their party destination under the watchful eye of an elderly caretaker. She ushered her charges through the crosswalk, hurrying the children along to ensure that the last partygoer cleared the street before the light changed.

  A tangle of helium-filled balloons bounced in the air beside the woman as she walked. Each balloon had a long twine tail, which was tightly tied to a loop near the waist of the woman’s furry green frog costume.

  The main part of the frog outfit comprised a green jumper with frog-ish spots spaced evenly across a jiggling spring-form belly. Gloves in the shape of green webbed mitts covered the woman’s hands. A frog-shaped head mounted on her shoulders featured round googly eyes that rolled in their sockets when shaken.

  A car waiting at the intersection for the children to pass gave a playful honk at the woman’s frog costume. The nearest child squealed in delight as the human-sized frog waved and mock-hopped in front of the car.

  The children had been amused, at first, by their furry green chaperone. But with the merry-go-round in sight and the smell of hot pepperoni pizza tickling their tummies, their attention was focused elsewhere. Curiosity concerning their amphibian friend’s bright green go-go boots had long since lapsed.

  The merry-go-round was mounted on a circular concrete platform accessed by a s
hort flight of steps that curved around the circumference of its base. A decorative topper of metal flashings mounted on the ride’s aluminum roof spun spastically in the breeze. Undulating waves cut into the concrete paid tribute to the merry-go-round’s earlier home near the Cliff House in the Playland-at-the-Beach amusement complex.

  The merry-go-round was well traveled for such a stationary device. Manufactured in Rhode Island in the late 1800s, the ride was first featured at a park in Seattle, Washington, before moving down the coast to San Francisco. After nearly fifty years of service in Playland-at-the-Beach, the carousel was purchased by a private collector and stored for several years at a warehouse in New Mexico. The merry-go-round then changed owners and was put on display in Southern California, before it finally made its triumphant return to the Bay Area. Now fully restored, the ride was a favorite treat for children and parents throughout the city.

  A protective glass-walled enclosure surrounded the merry-go-round, ensuring that the ride could be enjoyed in both wet and sunny weather. In addition, the enclosure prevented vandals from marring the brightly painted creatures inside.

  Dilla herded her charges up the stairs to the glass door entrance where she fished a key out of a furry green pocket and fed it into the lock. The key still retained a slight fishy smell from its time spent in Lily’s custody behind the oyster bar, but the odor did not affect its primary function. The key turned easily within the casing of the lock.

  A jubilant rush of laughing children swarmed past Dilla as she held open the swinging glass door. A few kids stopped at the pizza table, but most continued straight into the maze of animal rides inside the merry-go-round’s carousel. Each child climbed up into a carved seat, their tiny hands wrapping around the gilded poles that anchored their chosen steed to the platform.

  Dilla pressed a button and the carousel began to turn. The poles pushed the painted animals up and down, and countless swinging tails, bucking heads, and prancing feet swung into action. Each animal was adorned with a checkered jacket and a generous coating of sparkling plastic jewels. Mirrors in the ceiling and base reflected back the pumping motion of the ride’s glittering beasts, to dizzying, multiplying effect.

  At each stopping interval, the youthful riders switched from one animal to the next. The merry-go-round offered a broad sampling of carved creatures, including horses, lions, giraffes, goats, dragons, and a single gold-trimmed frog.

  Eventually, the birthday candles were lit, the celebratory song sung, and the frosted chocolate cake devoured. Dilla allowed the children one last spin on the carousel as their parents began stopping by to pick them up.

  Throughout the birthday party, Dilla had struggled to keep track of her short-statured charges. The mesh screen in the frog costume’s head only allowed her to see the space directly in front of her; she had no side vision. As the parents filtered in to pick up their offspring, Dilla was relieved to find that no one had gone missing. Each parent was easily matched with a child.

  In her concerned monitoring of the children, Dilla failed to take notice of the non-parent entrant who slipped in through the door of the glass enclosure and shimmied around to the opposite side of the carousel.

  Two hours after they’d begun, the last guest departed, and the birthday boy and his pile of presents were trundled out the door. Dilla leaned up against the glass pane, a smile on her face as she watched the boy’s father scoop up his exhausted son and carry him down the stairs.

  Dilla’s own tired eyes rested for a moment on a cluster of purple tulips sprouting out of a round, globular planter near the merry-go-round entrance. Finally, she thought wearily as she pulled off one of the green mitted gloves, it was time to check that frog.

  Dilla rotated the key in the lock of the glass enclosure, unaware of the malicious eyes pinned to the furry green back of her costume.

  After loosening the straps that connected the frog head to the shoulders of the jumpsuit, Dilla pulled the contraption up and over her sweating forehead, appreciating the unobstructed freedom of her face. As she crossed the glass enclosure and climbed up onto the merry-go-round’s platform, she let out a deep breath, releasing months of pent-up tension. In that brief moment of relaxation, with her senses dulled by the suffocating hours spent wrapped inside the frog costume, she didn’t hear the footsteps sneaking up behind her.

  Dilla bent over the front of the frog ride and ran her fingers along the animated creature’s wide, smiling mouth. The lever that triggered the jaw to open was tucked into the side of the metal frog’s head, disguised by the gold-painted harness that looped around its body. The lever was rusted and frozen in place from lack of use, but, with effort, she was able to force it into position. Slowly, the rim of the frog’s metal lips began to part.

  As the frog’s bottom jaw rotated downward and Dilla peered inside, her mouth fell open in surprise. The cavity was an empty void—vacant except for a couple of dusty spiders and a small folded piece of paper.

  Dilla snatched the paper from the cavity. The expression on her face registered disappointment and confusion as she unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the message written inside.

  Dilla leaned back from the frog—and froze at the image of the man reflected in one of the many mirrors that covered the merry-go-round’s center spoke.

  Slowly, she turned to face the intruder. Her voice trembled with frustration and fear as she showed him the paper and said, “We’re too late. The gold is gone. Oscar must have moved it.”

  Chapter 31

  UNCLE OSCAR’S FRIED CHICKEN RECIPE

  I RETURNED HOME from the grocery store Friday night with a package of organic free-range chicken legs and a variety of replacement spices for the containers in Oscar’s spice rack. Unwilling to risk another sleepless night with a despondent, chicken-obsessed Rupert, I had decided to try to recreate Oscar’s fried chicken recipe for myself. If the startup chef at the Mission frog leg restaurant could reverse engineer the coating mixture, so could I.

  I carried my bundle of chicken-related ingredients up to the kitchen and spread them out across the counter. Rupert sat down on the floor nearby, closely surveying the spread as I searched through Oscar’s cookbook shelf for The Art of Chicken. Oscar had never actually used the book when cooking his dish, but I had planned to start with a traditional recipe and then proceed with the most likely modifications. I was on my second pass through the bookshelf when I heard a banging on the front door downstairs.

  With a stern, admonishing look at Rupert, I sprinted down the steps to the showroom. Isabella leapt past me as I ducked my head to dodge the low-hanging beam above the sixth step. She was already on top of the cashier counter, sharply eying our visitor, when I reached the showroom.

  I groaned at the image of the man whose face was plastered up against the front window. I’d had more than my quota of Monty for one day. It had only been a couple of hours since we’d returned from the Cliff House. Reluctantly, I turned the lock to let him in.

  “Greetings and good evening,” Monty said, rolling the words as he pushed open the door. He strolled jauntily inside and paced to the back of the showroom where he plopped down onto the dentist chair. In a single smooth motion, he kicked back the recliner lever and propped his leather pointed-toe shoes up on the footrest.

  I brushed my hands against the front of my apron, thinking nervously about my exposed chicken upstairs. Rupert couldn’t be trusted to act against instinct for very long.

  “What’s up, Monty?” I asked briskly.

  Monty raised a knobby forefinger into the air. “The other day, I believe you mentioned that your cats had chased down a frog—here in the Green Vase?”

  Isabella chirped affirmatively before I could respond. Monty swung his finger to point it in her direction.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed as Isabella licked her lips. “That’s what I thought.”

  Monty sucked in his breath and jumped up from the recliner. Slapping his hands together, he announced, “I need to borrow your cats.�
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  “No,” I replied immediately, no thought needed. “Absolutely not.”

  “Wait, wait,” he said, waving his hands in the air. “You don’t understand.”

  I heard a suspicious thump against the ceiling. Isabella and I looked at each other, and, in unison, both of us moved toward the stairs.

  “Come on up to the kitchen,” I said as I sprinted up the steps. “I’ve got to rescue my chicken.”

  “SO, ABOUT THE cats,” Monty mumbled through a mouthful of fried chicken. “I just need to borrow them for one night—to sneak them into City Hall.”

  Monty was seated at the kitchen table, an attentive Rupert on the floor near his feet, both of them sampling my efforts to duplicate Oscar’s fried chicken recipe.

  “No,” I repeated automatically as I dropped another leg into the black wrought iron skillet. I had been unable to find Oscar’s chicken cookbook, so I was estimating the appropriate amounts for each ingredient. So far, I had tried a different coating combination on each piece of chicken.

  “Wait, what?” I asked as I covered the skillet to shield against the popping grease. Monty’s request had finally registered in my chicken-distracted brain. “Why would you want to take them to City Hall?”

  Monty peeled off a small piece of meat from the latest sample and dropped it into a bowl on the floor near his feet. With a loud smacking sound, the chicken instantly disappeared into Rupert’s stomach.

  “You’re still missing something,” Monty said, tasting another bite. “Oscar’s chicken had a lightness to it. There was something else in the crust. I think you need to add another ingredient.”

  “Monty, you never tasted Oscar’s chicken,” I protested.

  “Ah, but I smelled it every Saturday night before I left the studio,” he replied. He closed his eyes, remembering. “The scent floated across the street. It soaked into everything. I used to dream about that chicken.” He held up a bare bone. “This isn’t it.”