How to Moon a Cat (8 page)

Rupert bounded up to the buggy and lifted himself onto his back haunches, sniffing loudly as he looked inside. After a few preparatory tail swishes, he jumped into the stroller. His back feet caught the edge of the netting, impeding his progress, but he eventually squirmed his way into the passenger compartment. A moment later, his head poked out the opening. With a furry grin on his face, he looked approvingly up at Monty.

I shook my head at the cat-modified carriage. “This will never work,” I protested, pointing to Isabella. Her tail bristled in offense as she glared at the stroller. “There’s no way we’ll get her in that thing.”

Isabella sent me a sharp rebuking look, even more deprecating than the one she had just issued the Cat-mobile. Monty stepped back as Isabella stiffly approached the buggy. Slowly, she circled the exterior, closely inspecting the wheels and the passenger compartment’s fabric covering. After a last icy glare at me, she issued a sharp
chirp
of warning to Rupert and leapt gracefully inside.

Reluctantly, I dropped the duffel on the floor and approached the stroller.

“They can’t spend the whole trip in there,” I said, putting my hands on my hips as I peered down at my cats. “They won’t be allowed inside the hotel.”

Monty pushed the cart forward, carving an arc around me. “I’ve got it all worked out. If we can’t sneak them into the rooms, they can sleep in the parking lot. There’s plenty of space in the van.”

 

 

THE VAN—RUPERT’S
orange-tipped ears perked up at the reference. He poked his head out of the carriage and licked his lips hungrily. For several months now, Rupert had been convinced that the primary function of Monty’s cargo van was to transport not artwork—but fried chicken.

Rupert looked directly at his person and sent the clearest message he could muster.

“Take me to the chicken delivery van!”

An emphatic “
Wra-ooo!”
was all she heard.

 

 

HAROLD WOMBLER HOBBLED
down Jackson Street toward the white cargo van parked against the curb alongside the red brick front of the Green Vase antiques shop. The threadbare fabric of the contractor’s overalls hung limply from his bent arthritic frame. With each stilted step, the day’s sunny breeze rifled through the gaping holes that flapped at the garment’s knees.

Harold allowed himself the rare pleasure of a short smile. It takes a certain expertise to sculpt a pair of overalls into such a perfectly comfortable fit, he thought with pride.

An extra gust of wind whistled down the sidewalk, causing Harold’s loose pant legs to balloon out behind his bony frame.

“Proper ventilation,” Harold mused with satisfaction. “That’s the key. Makes you feel as if you’re not wearing anything at all.”

He grunted out loud. While the occasional nudist wouldn’t draw a raised eyebrow in some parts of the Bay Area, the well-heeled patrons of Jackson Square would certainly object if they caught sight of one here. Harold chuckled to himself, imagining the scene.

With a sly smirk, he turned to glance into the nearest highbrow antique store. The stiff-suited proprietor and his Prada-clad client stared back reproachfully. Harold continued down the street, adding an extra jiggle to his lurching gait for the watchers’ benefit.

Midway down the next block, he reached the van. He crept stealthily along the outside of the vehicle until he could peek over the hood to the front windows of the Green Vase.

A stringy long-legged man in green spandex leggings pranced back and forth in front of the cashier counter. It was difficult to see past the man’s flailing appendages, but he appeared to be pushing a large baby stroller around the showroom.

Feeling the ever-present drizzle of congestion seeping from his nose, Harold retreated behind the van and reached into a pocket for a handkerchief. He let loose a loud honking blow that filled the center of the cloth; then he stuffed it back into his overalls.

As Harold returned to his peeping position, he spied a woman with brown hair and thick-framed glasses standing near the front of the store. The woman faced the street, but her attention was focused on the stroller in front of the cashier counter. Her hands were planted defiantly on her hips. Harold could read the skepticism on the downward tilt of her face.

“Come on, Carmichael,” he grumbled bitterly. “It’s time to work your magic.”

Harold’s upper lip curled with disgust as he watched Monty turn the stroller in a giddy circle around the woman. The springing curlicue locks on the top of his head bounced in time to his over-energetic demonstration of the stroller’s cat-friendly features. Harold shook his head, grateful that he was on the opposite side of the glass, shielded from what was surely an ostentatious oration.

As Monty stepped back from the stroller, Harold knitted his eyebrows with concern. “Don’t back off now, nitwit,” he snarled. “Close the deal.”

Just then, Harold spied two pairs of orange-tipped ears poking out the top of the carriage.

“Well then,” he groused crankily as the expression on his wrinkled face began to soften. “About time.”

While Harold continued to monitor the scene, the pudgier male cat hungrily licked his lips, straightened his posture, and let loose a long howl. The female sitting in the stroller beside him pawed the air imploringly, her open mouth presumably sending convincing cat sounds to her owner.

Finally, the brown-haired woman threw her hands up in the air, as if submitting to what she knew to be a ridiculous proposal. Harold waited until he was certain the woman had agreed to bring her cats with her on the trip to Nevada City before turning to hobble back up the sidewalk.

A long, painful block later, Harold’s limping figure reached the spot where he’d parked his truck. With an impish wave to the antique dealer glaring furiously from inside the adjacent storefront, he pried open the driver’s side door and hefted himself into his rusted rig. After a last sarcastic grimace at the shopkeeper, Harold plugged the key into the ignition and chugged off down the street.

A block later, the pickup paused at a stop sign, and Harold lifted his baseball cap to smooth the greasy black hair crammed beneath. A recently acquired item, the cap was crisper and newer than anything else on or about his entire person. The cap’s bright green fabric was as-yet unmarred by the grease and dirt stains that decorated the rest of Harold’s clothing.

On the front of the cap above the brim, gold-colored thread traced out the image of a large bear riding a bicycle.

IT TOOK THE
better part of an hour to pack up all the cat-related essentials needed for the trip, but Monty’s van eventually pulled out of Jackson Square fully loaded with cat food, cat water bottles, two cat-filled carriers, and the cat-modified stroller.

The most important cat-related item rode in the back cargo area. Rupert had closely supervised the anchoring of the red igloo litter box to the brackets on the van’s floor. Once the igloo was secured, Monty hung an old bed sheet from a rod in the ceiling to mitigate the inadvertent spray of litter into the rest of the cargo space. After a test run, which included a lengthy energetic digging session, Rupert gave the setup his official stamp of approval.

I leaned back against the front passenger seat with a sigh of exhaustion, still trying to figure out how I’d been talked into bringing the cats along on this trip.

“What a morning,” I thought wearily as I stared up at the gray synthetic cloth that covered the ceiling.

The roof of the van was one of the only interior spaces that remained unmodified by Monty’s creative hand. Most of the personalizing changes reflected his current fascination with the politics of state and local government. The van’s front bucket seats had been fitted with leather seat covers decorated with the state seal of California. A necklace of campaign buttons dangled from the rearview mirror, whose flat reflective surface had been turned to a position more optimized for viewing the image of the driver’s hair than that of the traffic behind us. Finally, affixed to the center of the plastic dashboard, a shinyhaired bobble-head figure of the Mayor bounced and wiggled with each bump, rut, and pothole on the street below.

Monty’s fingertips tapped merrily against the steering wheel as he drove through the financial district. His green eyes focused on the road ahead, but the broad grin on his face indicated that his thoughts were elsewhere—no doubt envisioning his role in the upcoming ribbon-cutting ceremony and the coinciding photo shoot where he would be modeling his glamorous green bike gear.

The van chugged up the on-ramp onto the lower deck of the Bay Bridge and merged easily into the nearest eastbound lane. Despite our delayed departure, the bridge was only lightly populated with Saturday morning traffic. The bobble-head on the dashboard fell into darkness as the van slid under the shadow of the upper deck’s grimy undercarriage.

Unlike the scenic view that greeted westbound commuters entering San Francisco on the bridge’s top level, departing vehicles on the lower span were treated to a deeply rutted roadway topped by a bleak expanse of chipped concrete columns and cracked metal fittings. The crumbling construction didn’t inspire much confidence, particularly when one considered the two hundred feet of empty airspace that filled the void between the bottom of the bridge and the choppy water of the bay.

Instinctively, I gripped the plastic armrest formed into the paneling of the passenger side door, mindful of the seismic demons that lurked beneath the bridge’s shaky footings. It wasn’t until the van popped out into the Oakland sunlight on the opposite side of the bay that I unclenched and breathed out a sigh of relief.

A glance back to the cargo area confirmed that the cats had both settled into the ride.

After making several loud snorkeling sniffs as the van left Jackson Square, Rupert had now assumed his regular slumbering position inside his plastic carrier. He lay flat on his back, his front and back legs curled up limply in the air. His breathing had transitioned into a heavy wheezing snore. He would likely be out for the duration of the trip.

The occupant of the second carrier, in contrast, remained alert and ready for action. Isabella sat stiffly erect, her head slightly hunched down so she could see out the carrier’s front metal screen. Her right paw occasionally scratched the towel she was sitting on as her blue eyes honed in on the steering wheel. She looked up at me sternly.

“
Mrao
,” she commanded. It was only twenty minutes into the trip, and Isabella was already asking to move up to the driver’s seat.

With a placating smile at my frustrated cat, I turned back to face the roadway just as the van joined the interstate that would take us to Sacramento and, beyond, Nevada City. Since we had at least two more hours to go, I decided to adopt Rupert’s approach to traveling and snuggled down into my seat for a nap.

 

 

THE OCCUPANTS OF
the van were unaware of the small convoy of vehicles accompanying them on the road to Nevada City that morning.

Eighty miles ahead, a perky pink convertible with a roll-down top and whitewall tires approached the outskirts of Sacramento. An elderly woman in a fluttering multicolored scarf and rose-tinted motor goggles manned the wheel. She wore a pleasant smile on her face as she gazed out at the bright red blooms of the oleander bushes growing in the interstate median.

It was a perfect day for a drive to the mountains, Dilla Eckles thought as her foot pressed down on the gas pedal and she weaved into the left-hand passing lane.

“Ah, the Bear Flag,” she called out enthusiastically, speaking loudly so that she could be heard over the roar of the motor. “Oscar worked on that project for quite some time.”

She glanced over at her husband’s frail figure. He sat in the passenger seat, mummified beneath several layers of scarves and blankets. “The mountain air will do you good, dear,” she said, her voice layered with concern.

Through a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, Mr. Wang surveyed the low, sandy bottomlands that flanked the road. He took in a deep breath, summoning all the strength he could muster; the ache in his bones had grown more and more burdensome in recent weeks. With effort, he reached his left hand across the car’s interior and rested it reassuringly on Dilla’s knee. It was best, he’d decided, that his wife didn’t know about the seedy brown sedan following them a couple of car lengths behind.

 

 

THE SEDAN WAS
an older model vehicle, recently purchased for cash at a low-end used car lot. A thick colordulling coat of dust and grime masked a rippling of dents in the side paneling. The front windshield’s only visibility was through the portion of glass cleared by the arc of the wipers. Despite its decrepit outward appearance, the old sedan had more than enough power to keep the pink convertible in sight.

The driver leaned back in the worn bucket seat and thoughtfully stroked his chin. With a yawn, he wiped a crumb from his cheek, a remnant of the hasty breakfast he’d picked up on the way out of town.

Behind the dusty screen of the windshield, the driver’s flat featureless face and thin, almost indistinguishable lips were as nondescript as the car. As the rusted rims of the sedan spun along the flatlands of the Sacramento Delta, Frank Napis glanced up at a tiny stuffed bear hanging by a string from his rearview mirror. He tapped the bear with a stubby finger, causing it to swing back and forth.

Sitting in the passenger seat beside Napis, a second man stared out the half-moon section of clear glass on the windshield’s right side. A narrow scar ran along the man’s jawline, far more noticeable now that his head was shaved bald. His golden-brown locks had been shorn off nearly a year ago, when he’d been sent back to prison for the attempted poisoning of a woman who ran a Jackson Square antiques shop.