Monty quickened his step, his mind set on righting the wrongs of the two previous starting-line ceremonies. This was his last chance to get a race-themed photo for his political portfolio, an album that would be used to develop the advertising strategy for his upcoming mayoral campaign.
The Life Coach had helped Monty with the logistics of sneaking the frogs into City Hall. He’d called in a few favors to get an extra security badge and had tracked down Sam from his fieldwork in the delta.
Monty had been in charge of obtaining the actual frogs. That had been the most delicate aspect of the operation, but Harold had begrudgingly agreed to let Sam borrow them.
Apparently, the frogs had put on quite a show on the Mayor’s balcony. Minutes ago, Monty had received an urgent phone call from the Mayor’s receptionist. She had apologized for the last-minute notice, but could he, possibly, step in for the Mayor at this morning’s race festivities?
“Could he step in for the Mayor?” he asked himself rhetorically, puffing his chest out proudly. In his mind, he practically was the Mayor—that’s what the Life Coach was always telling him.
When the Mayor eventually departed for the Lieutenant Governor’s position in Sacramento, Monty planned to run as his replacement. San Francisco, in his modest opinion, could do no better than a Mayor Carmichael.
If you looked on the bright side of things, as he was wont to do, it was actually advantageous that the first two starting line events had been disrupted. Now, the photo would be taken with a San Francisco backdrop, a much more appropriate setting.
Monty glanced down at his cycling shirt, smoothing his hands across the shiny green and purple argyle print that covered his chest. This was a focus group–tested outfit. According to the Life Coach, it had scored exceptionally well with San Francisco’s outdoorsy, environmentally conscious voters. It would provide an excellent contrast to more serious shots of him in his dark businesslike suit.
Traffic barriers were being moved into position as Monty approached the outer edge of Golden Gate Park. The starting line would be set up on the road next to the beach, about a half mile south of the Cliff House. A typical morning fog blanketed the area, but the rain that had tormented the riders the previous day was on its way east to dump snow in the Sierras.
Monty pulled to a stop a hundred yards away from the ring of hospitality tents as a group of muscular, bluesuited individuals gathered around him. They were members of a private security team he had hired to police the crowds surrounding the starting line for anyone wearing suspicious-looking trench coats or carrying rubber masks.
“All right, men. You know what to do,” he said firmly. “Take no prisoners—or rather, take all prisoners.”
Several of the security officers looked at him skeptically. Monty straightened his shoulders and clarified his instructions. “Don’t let any naked people run in front of my picture!”
Monty’s face firmed in resolution as he dramatically crammed his helmet down over his head and tightened the chinstrap—a knight in shining spandex, he marched confidently into the main hospitality tent.
MONTY HAD BECOME so consumed with his vengeance for the streakers, so obsessed with his quest to become Mayor, that he had readily accepted the Life Coach’s explanation for the unusual outfit he’d been wearing during their previous day’s lunch meeting in Sonoma.
The Life Coach had claimed that he’d been at a dress rehearsal for a local theater group of which he was a member. He had not had time to change out of the wrinkled linen suit, fake mustache, and wild flyaway eyebrows that were all part of the costume for the role he was preparing to play as Mark Twain.
He looked pretty convincing, Monty thought as he followed the race organizer out of the hospitality tent to the starting line. I’ll have to see if I can get tickets to the show.
HAROLD WOMBLER STOOD at the back of a group of racing fans, waiting for the starting line ceremony to begin.
A woman in a scarlet red suit and matching three-inch heels stepped into an open spot beside him. A similar red color painted her lips and her long polished fingernails. Miranda Richards drew several appreciative looks from the crowd; Oscar’s attorney hadn’t lost any of her curves in the year since his death.
“Nice of you to join us,” Harold said sarcastically. “I haven’t seen you around lately.”
“I’ve been following your progress in the papers,” Miranda replied blithely. “Your antics have been getting lots of press coverage.” With a deprecating sigh, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t you think you’ve gone a bit overboard with the show you’re putting on today?”
Harold’s grin stretched unnaturally from ear to ear. “That’s the only reason I signed on to this gig. This morning’s exhibition is my best work yet. Carmichael’s going to flip his lid.”
Miranda’s mouth curled sarcastically. “Not to mention what it’s going to do to the Mayor,” she replied caustically. “The real Mayor, that is.”
Harold grunted his lack of his concern. “I never voted for the man. You know that.”
The race organizer wrung his hands nervously as Monty stepped up to the starting line and raised the ceremonial scissors. The riders crowded in behind the ribbon, a colorful backdrop of nylon shirts, plastic helmets, and metal bikes. The cameramen leaned in for the shot. Monty beamed triumphantly as a voice called out, “Hey, there’s the Mayor.”
Monty’s thin face tensed as the cameramen spun around to pan the sea of spectators. A man who looked very much like the Mayor was moving through the throngs surrounding the race route—and he was not wearing a plastic mask. He had the same swept-back hairstyle, the same pale clean-shaven face. Startled onlookers jumped out of the way as the figure approached the starting line, parting the crowds like a ripple in a pond. Hushed murmurs of shock and confusion escalated in volume as the man emerged shirtless . . .
WILL SPIGOT AND Harry Carlin sat in their Santa Cruz broadcast booth, positioned at the finish line for Day Three of the race. A television screen showed live feed of the scene in San Francisco where the racers were preparing to depart.
Suddenly, Spigot pointed at the video monitor.
“Isn’t that the Mayor?” Spigot asked, his voice incredulous. “I heard they did things differently there in San Francisco, but I have to say, this is a new one on me.”
Carlin sputtered, nearly speechless as the camera panned the crowd. “Wait, wait,” he gasped. “There’s another one.”
Spigot whipped his head to look at Carlin; then he quickly returned his gaze to the screen. “Another what? Another Mayor?”
“There’s a whole group of them . . . ” Carlin took in a deep breath and attempted to describe the scene in his most serious broadcasting voice. “It appears that the starting line has been taken over by an entourage of naked Mayors.”
“What is this madness?” Spigot replied with an incredulous frown.
Carlin’s voice cracked as he struggled to maintain his composure. “Actors, I’d have to guess.”
A howl of anguish broke through the video as the image shifted to a tall spindly man in green leggings waving an oversized pair of scissors in the air.
Spigot leaned back in his chair. “Well, this’ll rack up another delay getting the stage started, but I must say, it’s quite entertaining watching him chase after those buggers.”
Chapter 55
MONTEREY
I DECIDED TO take the scenic route down to Monterey, avoiding the commuter traffic that clogged the main southbound interstate. Just outside of San Francisco, the Corolla veered west onto the exit for Highway One.
The road quickly joined the coast, curving in dramatic S-turns as it parted a seam between the cliffs and the sea. I rolled down the windows, let the ocean breeze whip through my hair, and listened to the foaming waves crash against the beach below.
Cut off from the Bay Area’s main transportation arteries, the coastline was remarkably remote and, for the most part, I had the road to myself. The only exception was
a man in a black leather jacket who zoomed past on a motorcycle, his face anonymous behind his helmet’s tinted visor.
It would take about four hours, five tops, I figured, to drive down to Monterey, check out the Larkin House, and get back to the Green Vase. By the time I returned that afternoon, I hoped to have uncovered the location of Oscar’s hidden Bear Flag.
I should have known it would turn out to be far more complicated than that.
IVAN BATRACHOS PARKED his stolen motorcycle in an open slot near the wharf in downtown Monterey. He pulled off his helmet, hung it on one end of the handlebars, and left the keys in the ignition. This was the motorcycle’s drop-off point. The police, he expected, would eventually reunite the bike with its original owner.
Ivan stretched his legs, enjoying the picturesque harbor view. The Larkin House was a short walk on foot from this location, and he had plenty of time for a cheap breakfast at one of the seafood places on the pier. He unzipped his jacket and conscientiously tapped his fingers against the silver flask tucked into the inside pocket. A little food on his stomach would probably help him down the floral liquid inside.
A SHORT HOUR’S drive down the coast, the cliffs gave way to rolling dunes and low-lying vistas filled with strawberry and artichoke fields. Highway One swung a long curve around the inner rim of Monterey Bay, taking me ever closer to my destination, the former adobe of the American Consul, Thomas Larkin.
At the time of the Bear Flag Revolt, Monterey was the largest settlement in Northern California, the seat of what limited power the Mexican government could muster. Nowadays, the town sat sandwiched between Santa Cruz’s surfer hangout and Carmel’s glitzy multimillionaire retreat. The Monterey of the twentieth century was predominantly known as a family tourist destination, featuring a worldclass aquarium, Steinbeck’s Cannery Row, and some of California’s best-preserved historical landmarks.
I parked the Corolla down the street from the Customs House and set out on a wide pedestrian walkway overlooking the harbor. Hundreds of sailboats were packed in along the water’s edge, their un-sheeted masts forming a dense thicket across the blue horizon. Sea lions belched and barked from every available inch of rocky beach, wallowing about on the pebbly sand, showcasing their buoyant blubber as well as their exceptional side-whiskers.
Staring at the upturned face of a nearby sea lion, I couldn’t help but reflect on my Sonoma Barracks encounter with General Vallejo. It was still hard for me to believe it had been Frank Napis beneath that costume. After all my encounters with the man, how could I have been fooled by his disguise? I had been so certain it was Clem behind that bushy facial hair.
As I approached the front porch of the Customs House, I once more resolved to dismiss my concerns about Napis. Turning my thoughts instead to the Bear Flag story, I picked up the tale where the man impersonating General Vallejo had left off the previous day.
The Bear Flaggers’ capture of Sonoma triggered a chain reaction up and down the California coast. Larkin frantically passed the news on to U.S. Navy Commodore Sloat, who was berthed on the Savannah near the mouth of the Monterey Bay.
Sloat puzzled over the development. Frémont had absented himself from the Osos’ daylong booze fest at Vallejo’s hacienda, remaining behind at Sutter’s Fort, but everyone in Northern California knew he was the one responsible for their actions. By Sloat’s estimation, Frémont had directly violated the President’s orders to wait for confirmation of a formal declaration of war before initiating any hostilities. Perhaps, Sloat reasoned, Frémont had received new information from the Texas front—or from his influential father-in-law. In any case, the Commodore found himself in a decidedly uncomfortable position.
Finally, after much discussion with the hand-wringing Larkin, Sloat decided to send a group of men ashore to take Monterey. Castro and his soldiers were several miles away at San Juan Bautista, so Sloat’s crew met little resistance. On July 7, the American flag was raised on the pole outside the Customs House where I now stood.
Two days later, a similar action took place in Yerba Buena. Under orders from Sloat, an equally befuddled Captain John B. Montgomery sent men to land from his rig, the Portsmouth. William Leidesdorff supervised the raising of the American flag; then a group of soldiers, led by the grandson of Paul Revere, rode inland to Sonoma to replace the Bear Flag with the Stars and Stripes.
Young Revere found the Bear Flaggers now under Frémont’s direct command. Wary of the political ramifications of being seen as the instigator of the Sonoma initiative, Frémont had waited until the Osos sent word that they had successfully taken Sonoma before overtly taking charge. Sensing that the initial threat of a Mexican military response had passed, Frémont stepped up to declare himself “Military Commander of the U.S. Forces in California” and quickly renamed the group the more officialsounding “California Battalion.” Frémont then led his roughneck cavalry to Monterey to rendezvous with the increasingly anxious Commodore Sloat.
It was here, I mused as I turned away from the harbor onto the quiet Calle Principal, where Frémont’s fortunes began to fade.
Unbeknownst to anyone in Northern California, the U.S. had formally declared war with Mexico a few days after the Bear Flag Revolt, but it would take several weeks for that information to reach the West Coast. In the meantime, Sloat began interrogating Frémont—what authority had he relied upon for this preemptive seizing of the California Territory? Headstrong, egotistical, and easily affronted, Frémont did not respond well to Sloat’s questioning of his motives and rationale.
In the months following the Bear Flag Revolt, Frémont’s patriotic reputation would be subsumed in the military scramble to ensure the U.S. kept hold of the territory whose capture he had so rashly precipitated. Once the new state of California was safely secured, Senator Benton would use up much of his political capital defending his ill-begotten son-in-law.
Many of Frémont’s former associates would also come to rue their affiliation with the impetuous explorer. In order to distance themselves from the fallout of Frémont’s shenanigans, they would begrudgingly agree to help mask his pivotal role at Sonoma, repainting the revolt as a spontaneous uprising—instead of one masterminded by the Pathfinder.
ON A QUIET Monterey street around the corner from the Larkin House, the Mayor’s Life Coach pulled a large white van into a shaded parking space. Sam had conveniently handed over the keys to the vehicle after he and the frogs finished their task at the Mayor’s office that morning.
The Life Coach glanced in the rearview mirror at his bristly white mustache and scraggly eyebrows, ensuring that his false hairpieces were still firmly attached to his face. As he exited the van, he smoothed his hands over his rumpled linen suit. Then, he locked the door and slipped the key into one of his pockets.
The morning’s bright sunshine cast a warm glow on the sidewalk as the Life Coach strolled around the corner to the Larkin House. My son, he thought as a slight facial tick tweaked his upper lip, has proved useful once again.
The Life Coach strode briskly up the porch steps and gazed at his full reflection in the adobe’s front windows. Clem’s Mark Twain outfit had been a simple enough disguise to copy. It had easily fooled that silly accountant who had seen him sitting across the table from Monty at the Sonoma restaurant—he had seen the surprised look on her face through the window.
Now, he was ready to give her an up-close viewing.
“Clem,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped from the end of the porch through a gate to a side courtyard. “I know who you really are.”
A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest as he fed a key into the lock of the door to the main house.
“Oscar, you’re no match for the likes of Frank Napis.”
Chapter 56
THE LARKIN HOUSE
AFTER A SHORT walk down Calle Principal, I stood in front of the two-story structure of Consul Larkin’s former residence, unaware of the danger that lurked within. A cream-painted composite of adobe and brick with a fir green
trim, the building fit in seamlessly with the surrounding neighborhood, a quiet mix of residential and discreetly commercial buildings.
At first glance, the house didn’t have the look of a hundred-and-fifty-year-old building, but as I took in the details, I began to see evidence of its longevity. A wide balcony stretched around the circumference of the house, reminiscent of the architectural style of the Sonoma Barracks I’d visited the day before. I climbed a short flight of steps to a front porch whose flooring was paved with smooth timeworn bricks.
At the end of the porch stood a green-painted gate marked “Entrance.” Pushing it open, I found a courtyard that spanned the adjoining half-acre lot. The area was filled with redwood trees whose tops soared hundreds of feet above the roof of the house.
Beneath the sky-high canopy, the yard looked as if it could use a good pruning. Several overgrown bushes and shrubs crowded in among the tree trunks. Toward the opposite side of the courtyard, I could just make out the edge of a large stone shed.
Immediately to my right, a door led into the main house. A sign hanging over the knob indicated that the curator had stepped out and would return within the hour. Inching up onto my tiptoes, I tried to look through the dusty panes of glass to the interior.
As my forehead touched the surface of the door, it swung inward, creaking open a few inches. The lock hadn’t engaged properly, it seemed, when the curator left the premises for his break.
I leaned back from the doorway and checked through the courtyard gate to see if anyone was approaching from the street, but it was empty. There was no telling how long the curator would be gone. Slowly, my head swiveled back toward the entrance of the house.
The door squeaked on its hinges as I pushed it fully open and crossed the threshold to a small parlor. Family photos and several midsized paintings hung from walls painted a dull off-white color. A pair of mismatched love seats lined the longer sides of the rectangular-shaped room; a fireplace occupied the wall at the far end.
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