How To Tail a Cat (13 page)

Chapter 27

JACKSON SQUARE ASSIGNMENT

SPIDER JONES CRUISED
his bike along Columbus Avenue, standing on his pedals as he coasted down the road’s gentle slope. He still wore the coveralls from his fake-janitor session on City Hall’s second floor earlier that morning. The loose leggings flapped against his knees as he threaded his bike through traffic.

The stoplight ahead flashed yellow, and an exhilarated thrill coursed through his body. With a youth’s brazen daring, he switched to a higher gear and vigorously pumped his legs. After the extra kick of energy, the bike swung into the wide turn for Jackson Square at its highest speed.

Brakes screeching, Spider sliced through the intersection, dodging, at the last second, a handful of pedestrians and a swerving taxicab, the latter of which blasted him with a frustrated honk.

Spider simply grinned good-naturedly and waved as he pedaled away.

• • •

THE YOUNG MAN’S
cheeks were still flushed with adrenaline when he reached Jackson’s quiet, tree-lined lane. Panting, he pulled up in front of a row of two- and three-story redbrick buildings.

He stopped his bike next to a small antiques shop whose storefront was framed by a pair of crenellated iron columns. A row of square windows faced the street; every other one of the glass panes was embedded with green-tinted glass formed in the shape of a vase. A sign reading “CLOSED” hung on the inside of the shop’s iron-framed door.

Dropping his feet to the sidewalk, Spider lifted his baseball cap and wiped his brow. After adjusting the cap’s brim, he returned it to his head and removed a small notepad from the front pocket of his coveralls. He had to dig a little deeper to find the short pencil he’d stashed in the same compartment.

Pad and pencil at the ready, Spider began taking notes about the person the Previous Mayor had instructed him to follow during his brief tutorial session at the French restaurant the previous evening.

According to the PM, the man would be spending his morning in Jackson Square—not at the antiques shop where Spider had parked his bike, but inside the art studio across the street.

Spider had given his next assignment a nickname while riding across town that morning. As he stood on the sidewalk, glancing up every so often at the art studio, he wrote the words across the front of the notepad in bold block print: “OPERATION CARMICHAEL.”

Chapter 28

A BUSY SCHEDULE

THREE FLOORS UP
from the sidewalk where Spider stood scribbling in his notebook, a fluffy orange and white cat emerged from a dome-shaped litter box in the apartment above the Green Vase showroom.

The litter box had lost some of its shiny red luster over the course of its past year and a half of use, but the hard plastic container still retained all of its functionality. This was a testament to its quality of manufacture—given the daily rigors of Rupert’s energetic digging.

The white ruff of hair on Rupert’s chest puffed out as he stepped onto the bathroom mat. This morning’s litter box dance routine had been a particularly sublime performance, even by his standards. He noted with pride the scattering of litter he’d managed to spray across the floor outside the dome’s curving walls, admiring the trajectory like a golfer studying the arc of a completed putt.

This day was off to a splendid start, Rupert thought as he gave himself a good overall shake to knock loose any particulates that might still be clinging to his fur.

Once he was satisfied that he had dislodged the largest clumps, he waddled into the bedroom, ready to begin his day.

Contorting his body into a stiff arching stretch, he gazed happily across the sunlit space. He was ready to get down to business.

He issued a wide yawn and headed for the bed.

• • •

RUPERT STROLLED PAST
his person, who was sitting on the bedroom floor in front of the bookcase. He paused briefly to study the books, the brass lamp, and the flashlight gathered around her.

“I think it’s got something to do with the aquarium,” the niece murmured.

Rupert cocked a furry eyebrow, momentarily intrigued.

“The Steinhart Aquarium,” she clarified, seeing his questioning look. “The treasure has to be related in some way to the aquarium.”

At the word
treasure
, Rupert drifted off into a second yawn. Sleepily, he hopped onto the covers and began searching for a morning nap spot.

He had almost settled on the perfect cushioned location when his person stood up, pushed her heavy brown hair away from her face, and put her hands on her hips.

“It’s time to hit the basement,” she announced as she stepped toward the stairs beyond the bedroom door. “There must be something down there that will show me the connection.”

Snuggling determinedly into his spot on the bed, Rupert cracked open one eye as if to issue a correction.

It’s
time
for a nap, he thought drowsily.

• • •

THERE WERE FEW
places Rupert disliked more than the basement. It was a dark, dusty place—and more than a little bit creepy. If his person felt like she needed to dig around down there in all of Oscar’s junk, so be it. He had no intention of accompanying her.

His sister, however, had other ideas.

• • •

AFTER SPENDING HALF
an hour hovering over the showroom’s closed hatch to the basement, listening to the mysterious intruder tromping around below, Isabella had reluctantly left her post.

Being an independent-minded cat, she hated to admit there was anything she couldn’t do. She considered herself just as capable as any human—if not more so.

Try as she might, however, she had been unable to lift the cover from the recessed compartment in the flooring that contained the hatch’s handle. She had attacked the flat piece of wood from every possible angle, but it had refused to budge. After much frustration, she had finally reached an uncomfortable conclusion: she needed assistance.

She proceeded upstairs to fetch her person.

• • •

ISABELLA ARRIVED ON
the third floor just as Oscar’s niece finished her study of the alligator lamp.

“Hey, Issy,” the woman said as she marched purposefully toward the steps. “You up for a trip to the basement?”

You’re so well trained, Isabella thought, gazing fondly at her person.

Isabella turned to follow the niece down the stairs, but, with one foot hanging over the top step, she stopped short. Considering the potential size of the creature lurking in the basement, they might need reinforcements.

She looked back toward the bedroom, her eyes narrowing on the orange and white heap snoring on the covers.

Trotting quickly around to the opposite side of the bed, Isabella issued a sharp, commanding “
Mrao
.”

Rupert curled his body into a tight ball and covered his face with his front paws. He began to wheeze out a loud snore—which transformed into a startled
snort
as Isabella pounced on his fluffy back end, her claws fully extended.

• • •

MIDWAY DOWN THE
stairs to the second floor, Oscar’s niece nearly lost her footing as a white blur zoomed past her on the steps.

Chapter 29

A SCALY VISITOR

ACCOMPANIED BY AN
enthusiastic Isabella and an extremely reluctant Rupert, Oscar’s niece traipsed down the stairwell to the Green Vase showroom.

Thunking the flashlight against the palm of her hand, she continued to ponder the image of the albino alligator she’d studied on the brass lamp’s ceramic globe.

“The aquarium,” she mused out loud, as she shifted her reflections to the wording on the fried-chicken flyer she’d slid into her back pocket. “It’s the Steinharts again.”

Halfway down the steps, she ducked her head to avoid a low-hanging beam. Then, with another
thunk
of the flashlight, she said optimistically, “Maybe I’ll find something in the basement that will help me figure this out.”

At the foot of the stairs, Isabella turned to look up at her person. The cat’s furry expression appeared to give confirmation to the niece’s basement speculation.

“
Mrao
.”

• • •

A MOMENT LATER,
the woman stepped onto the showroom’s wooden floor. Blinking, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the bright sun streaming in through the front windows.

A slender vase rested on a counter near the front door, its green color a match for that of the similarly shaped images embedded in the windows overlooking the street.

Throughout the room, rows of bookcases and display tables held a wide collection of Gold Rush–era antiques. After several months of the shop being closed to the public, a fine layer of dust had begun to accumulate on many of the items.

Fighting off a sneeze, the woman reached out to the headrest of a worn leather dentist recliner. Clumps of white hair covered the recliner’s seat, an indication that it had become one of Rupert’s preferred sleeping spots.

Rupert yawned sleepily at the recliner as his person set the flashlight on its seat. Kneeling on the floor near the bottom of the stairs, she slid a pinky finger into a tiny hole in the paneling that had been fashioned to look like a knot in the wood. With a slight tug, she pulled off an oval-shaped cover, exposing a recessed cavity that housed a small handle.

Isabella shook her head with disgust, annoyed by the limits of feline dexterity.

Flicking a lever, the niece extended the handle. She squinted to discern the outline of the trap door, which had been disguised in the pattern of the floorboards; then she braced her feet on either side of the hatch, took a firm grip on the handle, and pulled upward.

A loud clapping sound signaled the release of a set of rickety drop-down stairs unfolding into the basement below.

Picking up the flashlight, the woman switched the beam to its highest setting and shone it into the unlit basement. Isabella led the way as her person tromped down the stair’s loose slats.

Rupert lingered on the showroom floor near the hatch, nervously pacing back and forth, reluctant to join the other two. But after a barking
chirp
from his sister, he began a slow descent.

• • •

AT THE BOTTOM
of the steps, the niece tugged on a string hanging from a bare lightbulb mounted against the ceiling. The light came on, but added little in the way of useful illumination.

Maneuvering around the stiff figure of a stuffed kangaroo, the woman panned her flashlight across the crowded basement, angling the beam toward the far end of the room. The light bounced over several large pieces of furniture covered with drop cloths and then skimmed over the redbrick walls.

It had been several months since the underground tunnel leading into the basement had been used—at least as far as the niece was aware—and she gave the bricks that concealed the tunnel’s entrance only a cursory review before turning her attention to the jumbled collection of boxes and crates that took up the majority of the floor space.

“Steinhart . . . Steinhart . . . Steinhart . . .” she repeated softly to herself as she selected a box and began thumbing through its contents.

Losing no time, Isabella immediately set off in search of the creature she had detected earlier. She lifted her head, trying to see over the boxes and crates, as her ears widened, her sonar on high alert. Gracefully, she leapt through the air, clearing several rows in a single leap, before disappearing from view.

Rupert took a few apprehensive steps to follow his sister, pushing his way into the dark spaces between the boxes and crates.

A moment later, Oscar’s niece looked up from her box and wrinkled her nose.

“Do you two smell something funny?” she asked, perplexed.

Her question was met with a hissing response.

Spinning the flashlight toward the rear of the basement, the woman caught a brief flash of Isabella slinking across the concrete floor, clearly engaged in a concentrated stalking mode.

“I thought we finally got rid of the mice.” She sighed in frustration.

She stepped around the box to see what Isabella was hunting—and almost got run over by Rupert’s barreling white figure. He narrowly avoided plowing into his person on his headlong sprint for the stairs.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, hurrying to see what kind of animal Isabella had cornered in the rear of the basement.

Continued hissing led the woman to a drop cloth–covered wardrobe leaning up against the back wall.

Isabella crouched in front of the wardrobe, a line of hackles clearly visible along her spine. She let loose a vicious, teeth-baring snarl as the bottom of the cloth rustled with movement.

Nervously wielding the flashlight, the woman pinched a piece of the cloth between her fingers, lifted it up—and froze at the sight of the ghoulish white alligator sprawled across the concrete floor.

The alligator turned toward the niece, his gray eyes blinking in the glare of her flashlight.

His sharp jaws snapped at the air.

Chomp
.

Chapter 30

EVERYONE LIKES CHICKEN

THE FLASHLIGHT WENT
flying as the niece scooped up Isabella. Desperately trying to keep hold of her protesting cat, who was still hissing and spitting at the scaly intruder, the woman ran pell-mell to the hatch, wildly hurdling over boxes and crates.

The moment she cleared the top of the stairs, she turned and kicked the trap door closed. The stairs folded back into the ceiling—even as another grinding
chomp
echoed up from the basement.

Breathing heavily, she stared down at the wood paneling, trying to process what she’d seen.

She might have begun to second-guess what had just happened had Isabella not continued to growl at the floor.

“Good grief,” the woman sputtered, instinctively jumping away from the hatch as the floor shook from the crash of a crate toppling over in the room below.

• • •

THERE ARE SEVERAL
potential courses of action a person might take in response to a reptilian invasion of her basement. A telephone call to the emergency operator probably ranks high on the list.

But as Oscar’s niece stood in the Green Vase antiques shop, listening to the ongoing bumping beneath her feet, she decided against this approach—at least for the time being.

Perhaps in some southern swampy regions of the country, animal-control officers have set up hotlines specifically dedicated to this type of emergency.

That was not the case, however, in San Francisco.

After careful consideration, the niece headed for the upstairs kitchen. Isabella closely followed and watched as her person reached for the receiver of the old handset-style telephone mounted onto the wall near the sink.

“
Wrao
,” Isabella concurred, her sharp eyes conveying a wise expression.

The woman’s trembling fingers began to dial a private line to a business located a few blocks away. It was a phone number she had committed to memory several months earlier, only to be used for emergency purposes.

Of all the possible contingencies that might have arisen, however, this was not one she had contemplated.

Anxiously, she waited for the phone to ring through to James Lick’s Homestyle Chicken. She could think of but one albino alligator known to reside within the city limits. The current occupant of the Steinhart Aquarium’s signature Swamp Exhibit had been featured regularly in the news over the last year.

“I guess I’ve found my connection,” the niece muttered, recalling the image from the brass lamp.

She brushed her hair back from her forehead and sighed testily.

It would have been nice if she had been warned before the alligator landed in her basement.

• • •

HAROLD WOMBLER STOOD
at the counter in the steaming-hot kitchen of the North Beach fried-chicken restaurant, a potato peeler in one hand, a half-peeled spud in the other. His greasy black hair was tucked under a hairnet, on top of which rested a green paper hat with the restaurant’s gold logo printed on the side.

After finishing off the potato, he plunked it into an iced bucket of salt water. Dropping the peeling implement onto the counter, he stepped back and rubbed the small of his back. A three-foot high pile of unskinned russets awaited his attention.

Harold squinted at the heap of potatoes; then he glanced down at the bin where he’d been collecting the shavings. It had been a long morning’s work, and he wasn’t anywhere near completion.

“Don’t know how I got talked into this job,” he grumbled bitterly.

• • •

HAROLD WAS ABOUT
to resume the task when the telephone on the opposite end of the kitchen let off a jarring ring. His bleary, bloodshot eyes stared accusingly at the device’s imposition, but by the third ring he began to move toward it.

“All right, already. I’m coming.”

Harold’s stilting, limping gait wasn’t designed for speed. By the time he reached the receiver and picked it up, he could sense the desperation on the other end of the line.

“What?” he answered crankily.

He didn’t bother to identify himself or the restaurant. The number for this phone was only known to a few individuals—and none of them would have used the line to order food.

He heard the woman from the Green Vase antiques shop draw in her breath.

“Are you, by any chance, missing an alligator?” she asked tensely.

After a moment’s hesitation, she cleared her throat and added, “An albino one?”

As if the clarification would make a difference to his answer, Harold thought with a grimace.

He pursed his thin lips before formulating an answer.

“Alligator?” He coughed out an intrigued grunt. “Hmm. You don’t say.”

Harold’s eyebrows knitted together as he turned to look at the walk-in freezer located behind the wall where the phone was mounted.

“What have you got in your fridge over there?” he asked cryptically.

“My
fridge
?” the woman replied in an exasperated tone.

Harold gummed his dentures thoughtfully. “I hear dem gators like chicken.”