How To Tail a Cat (12 page)

Chapter 25

THE JAPANESE TEA GARDENS

WHILE THE CURRENT
Mayor continued to insist to anyone who would listen that he’d seen an albino alligator taking a guided tour of City Hall, the proprietor of James Lick’s Homestyle Chicken left his fishing partner on Pier Seven and hobbled aboard a Muni streetcar headed toward the Inner Sunset district.

Half an hour later, Lick pulled the rope above his window, signaling his stop request to the conductor. At a street corner near the southern length of Golden Gate Park, Lick hobbled down the grated steps to the sidewalk.

As the Muni car rumbled off, continuing its winding caterpillar march to the coast, Lick slid his laminated senior pass into his back pocket, hefted a heavy canvas grocery bag over his left shoulder, and lumbered down the block toward the park.

• • •

CLOSER TO THE
outside than the inside of the bay, beyond the protective mouth of the Golden Gate, the working-class neighborhoods in this part of the city bore a disproportionate share of the Pacific’s cold, brooding fog.

The area’s long, straight streets lacked the imaginative curves and elevation so prominent in other regions of San Francisco, allowing the weather to dominate the landscape. The fog’s drab, color-leaching pallor settled in on these parallel rows of square, squatty buildings, often socking in residents for weeks at a time.

It was no surprise, then, that the recent stretch of sunny days had been greeted more joyfully in the Sunset than almost anywhere else in the city.

• • •

LICK THREADED HIS
way through the unusually vibrant bustle, navigating around the tables of a local diner that had been dragged out onto the sidewalk for the morning’s breakfast service.

After maneuvering past a group of previously pale, now pink-tinted eaters, Lick followed a line of joggers across a busy four-lane intersection and proceeded down a shady, tree-lined lane.

The layout inside Golden Gate Park broke with the uniformity of the surrounding streets. As the road entered the first of many sweeping turns, the sidewalk spun off a network of winding footpaths that quickly disappeared into the thick greenery.

Many found themselves disoriented by this labyrinth of trails, but Lick knew the route by heart.

Without hesitation, he veered off through a narrow opening in the bushes, taking a little-known shortcut to his destination.

• • •

A SHORT DISTANCE
later, the pointed tips of the Japanese Tea Garden’s painted pagodas began to peek through the trees. Emerging from a dense thicket, Lick made his way toward the swooping red and gold roof that marked the entrance.

The gardens were open, free of charge, for the next half hour, and he walked through the front gates without hindrance. Numbers of local Asian residents were already inside, some practicing their morning meditation while others sipped tea beneath the central pavilion, taking in the scenery.

Despite the growing crowd, a tranquil hush prevailed over the peaceful area. Only the occasional squawk of a duck or the call of a passing loon broke the silence.

An inviting path meandered through the grounds, running alongside and over a rock-lined creek. Several plump goldfish floated in the shadows, waiting for their morning meal to drop into the water.

Lick paused at a wooden bench near the front entrance, gripping its railing for support as he rested a sore knee. While he waited for the pain to subside, he gazed thoughtfully at a collection of miniature shrubs. Each mound of branches had been painstakingly trimmed and trained into a sculpted, compact shape.

Yawning, he looked back toward the front gate, as if he were expecting someone, but after a moment’s pause, he set off along the path.

• • •

NOT FAR DOWN
the trail, Lick stopped and bent over the stream to stare at a particularly fat, languid fish. As he shifted the grocery bag to his opposite shoulder, an elderly woman with curly gray hair sidled up next to him.

“Tonight’s special?” Dilla Eckles asked cheerily.

“I don’t think this fellow would go with the rest of my menu,” Lick replied dubiously.

He offered Dilla the crook of his elbow. As they began a slow stroll through the flowering grounds, he scratched his chin and added, “Now, a catfish, I might be tempted to squeeze onto the list . . .”

• • •

IN SOME RESPECTS,
they looked like a typical retired couple out for a little morning air. Lick had adjusted his hobo garb so that he looked more scruffy than homeless. His walking partner wore sensible walking shoes, ankle- length capri pants, and a simple white shirt.

Any sense of normalcy, however, ended with Dilla’s headpiece, a feather-topped creation with piles of plumage that hid most of her curly hair.

“I’ve been waiting for just the right weather to bring out this hat,” she said proudly as she and Lick rounded a bridge fashioned into the shape of a waterwheel. “I thought this would be the perfect day to introduce it to San Francisco.”

Lick gave Dilla’s head a skeptical sideways glance.

“I got the design concept from England,” she explained. “You should see the fashions
those
ladies wear, especially at the horse races.”

She turned a pivot to show off an extra-long clump of feathers poking out of the hat’s back brim. Lick had to duck to avoid being poked in the eye.

His companion didn’t appear to hear his muttered comment as he returned his gaze to the path.

“I didn’t know the English used piñatas.”

• • •

LICK AND DILLA
continued their casual walk through the gardens, Dilla chatting merrily about her new hat, Lick issuing an occasional grunt whenever she paused for his feedback.

At the far end of the grounds, they turned onto an extra loop that led into a secluded patch of redwoods.

Lick motioned to a shaded bench overlooking a manicured setting of bushes and raked gravel. As soon as his weight hit the seat, he reached to rub the soreness in his right knee.

“What did you need to see me about, Dilla?” he asked, his fingers working a knot in the portion of his thigh just above the kneecap.

Dilla pursed her lips, her soft face taking on a worried expression. The hat had been a cover for more than her head.

“It’s about Sam,” she said with a tense sigh. “I think he . . . well . . . he might be in a spot of trouble.”

Lick slid the canvas shopping bag from his shoulder and asked casually, “What kind of trouble?”

Dilla fiddled nervously with the feathered fringe of her hat.

“You know my son,” she replied nervously. “He takes up some strange notions. First it was the frogs, and now it’s . . .”

Lick issued another noncommittal grunt, still apparently preoccupied with his knee.

Dilla’s voice took on a deeper layer of strain.

“I’m afraid he may have
borrowed
something . . . something that I’ll need your help to return to its proper place.”

Straightening his posture, Lick stroked the paunch of his belly and leaned against the back of the bench.

Wordlessly, he reached his hand inside the grocery sack, pulled out a large plastic bag, and held it up for her to see.

Dilla read the label on the outside of the packaging and gasped.

“Osca—” she whispered before swallowing her surprise.

The description read: “Compacted fish pellets, specially formulated for domesticated alligator consumption.”

Chapter 26

THE BEST OF FRIENDS

AT ITS SURFACE
,
downtown San Francisco was a puzzling network of narrow, often congested streets, many of them designated for one-way traffic—although drivers frequently failed to obey those instructions.

Cable cars trundled up the center medians of roads that crested so steeply, it was almost impossible to clear the summit’s intersecting lanes. Bike messengers weaved deftly in and out of a sea of moving bumpers, while impatient pedestrians risked life and limb darting through crosswalks against the light.

Even the most routine of journeys required a certain amount of faith, hope, and reckless daring. It was the organized chaos typical of many a thriving metropolis, underlaid with San Francisco’s peculiar brand of West Coast whimsy.

Few people understood just how far beneath the surface that whimsy went.

• • •

WHEN THE GOLD
Rush tsunami of Forty-Niners hit Northern California’s isolated backwater, the surging wave of population triggered decades’ worth of frenetic construction. The city that resulted from this hasty, haphazard growth hid the shadowed skeleton of its past deep within its architectural footings.

Below the layers of asphalt and concrete, intertwined with the subway lines and half incorporated into the sewage system, lay a series of tunnels whose framework traced back to the late 1800s. Dirt paths that had once skirted the shoreline had become underground passageways that threaded through the base of the modern-day city.

One tunnel, in particular, roughly followed the line of a downtown alley marked with a street sign reading “Leidesdorff.” This secret passage ran beneath the financial district, connecting the lower levels of the Palace Hotel, on one end, to Jackson Square—specifically the basement of the Green Vase antiques shop—at the other.

• • •

THE TUNNEL WAS
a dark, clammy place filled with insects, rodents, and other rank undesirables. A permanent dampness seeped into every available surface, the combined result of the surrounding water table and the constant drip of leaking sewage pipes.

Many San Franciscans might have found this odorous environment off-putting, but the two residents navigating the tunnel that morning were happily enjoying the experience.

They were an unlikely pair: one large and lumbering with a ruddy face and broad shoulders, the other toothy, brutish, and positioned low to the ground.

Despite their intimidating size and bulky physique, both characters were likable, sympathetic types. Together they proceeded down the slime-walled corridor, enjoying its dank, musty smell as they conversed, albeit one-sidedly, in the darkness.

• • •

THE TALLER OF
the duo reached into his pocket and pulled out a round pellet shaped like a hockey puck.

“And so, I gave up my job as a janitor at City Hall to become a frog expert,” Sam said affably. “Changed my life. Best decision I ever made.”

His short-statured partner lumbered along in companionable silence as a rodent scampered across the path.

“Myself, I actually prefer to travel below ground,” Sam said jovially as he tossed the pellet through the air to his partner. “Fewer hassles. A lot less traffic.”

As if on cue, the blare of a car horn echoed down from the street, causing several insects to scurry into their holes.

“It’s far more discreet,” Sam added with a wink as his albino friend snapped at the treat. “You don’t have to worry about drawing attention to yourself.”

• • •

UPSTAIRS FROM THE
Jackson Square entrance to the tunnel, in the apartment above the Green Vase showroom, Isabella perched atop a pile of books—one of many arranged on the floor in front of the bedroom bookcase.

Her person sat in the middle of the piles, studying the alligator lamp under the beam of her uncle’s heavy-duty, broad-beamed flashlight.

With each pass of the light over the globe’s ceramic surface, the niece picked up new details of the images embedded within. Every so often, she let out an excited “Ooh” or a thoughtful “Ah.” Each exclamation was followed by a diligent search through the reference books surrounding her on the floor as she sought to compare the revelation against the descriptions in the texts.

Isabella knew there was little to be gained from this effort, but she indulged her person anyway. It was early yet, and there was plenty of time to guide the woman to the next clue in her hunt.

Besides, Rupert was still in the kitchen finishing his breakfast.

• • •

“ISSY,” THE NIECE
said, interrupting the cat’s internal musings. “I need to check something in the book you’re sitting on. The one about the aquarium.”

Despite Isabella’s peeved expression, she was soon unceremoniously dislodged from her chosen pile. After giving her person a meaningful stare, Isabella strutted a slow circle through the books, trying to decide on her next perch.

“Check this out, Issy,” the woman exclaimed as she adjusted her glasses to read the fine print beneath one of the book’s black-and-white photos. “The same architect designed both the Bohemian Club’s San Francisco headquarters and the original Steinhart Aquarium. There’s definitely something going on here.”

“
Mrao
,” Isabella replied encouragingly as she continued to survey the piles.

The cat had just settled onto a new stack when she heard a slight grating, several floors below.

Practically inaudible to human ears, it was the type of sound that, even if her person had noticed, she probably would have dismissed. Humans, in Isabella’s opinion, filtered out a great deal of important information.

Isabella concentrated on the bedroom floor, listening intently.

The hair along the center of her back formed a narrow spike as a second barely perceptible shuffling floated up from the basement.

Noiselessly, Isabella hopped down from the books. Leaving the niece to ponder the connections between the Bohemian Club and the Steinhart Aquarium, Isabella trotted silently out of the bedroom.

Moments later, she passed Rupert bent over his food bowl beneath the kitchen table. Her tail swished back and forth as she hurried down the stairs to the showroom.

When she reached the first floor, she proceeded immediately to the closed hatch that covered the drop-down stairs leading to the basement.

Isabella’s whiskers twitched as she sniffed the wooden floorboards. The scents below confirmed her suspicions.

Someone—or some
thing
—had just come through the tunnel entrance.