How to Moon a Cat (33 page)

The man in the kangaroo suit unsnapped the fastenings to his headpiece and tilted it up to take a sip from the flask. The face beneath the headpiece was vaguely reminiscent of a man who had once run an antiques shop in San Francisco’s historic Jackson Square neighborhood.

Sitting on the man’s left shoulder was a hairless mouse in a furry green jacket. Several large purple petals appeared to have been stuffed into the front of the mouse’s jacket. The petals’ upper fringes formed a purple ruffle against the mouse’s tiny chin.

The moon tilted its rays into the window of the stone building. Inside, a man in a rumpled linen suit crouched next to the bulging belly of a stuffed kangaroo. Frank Napis’s thin lips curled beneath his false white mustache as he flicked on an electronic device and aimed it at the dead animal’s bulging stomach.

A bald, brawny ex-con in a black leather jacket paced back and forth behind Napis and the kangaroo. The skin on Ivan Batrachos’s shaved head crinkled apprehensively as he took a swig from his own silver flask. Then, wiping his lips, he bent down next to a brown-haired woman bound to a wooden chair and offered her a drink. With a grimace, she took a reluctant gulp—just as the whirring sound of an electronic razor filled the night air.

A FEW MINUTES
later, Frank Napis bent over the nowbald stomach of the stuffed kangaroo.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, running his fingers over the beast’s shaved belly, just above the opening to its pouch. “I knew it. You can see the outline of the package inside.”

He pulled a small pocketknife from the coat of his linen suit and carefully traced it over the rough surface of the de-furred skin.

“Right about here should do it,” he said, aiming the knife at a seam along the bulge.

Even though the animal had been dead for years, I still couldn’t bear to watch. Wincing, I turned my head away from both Napis and the kangaroo. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Ivan’s face. For some reason, he appeared to be holding his breath. Instinctively, I did the same.

The next thing I heard was a loud
pop
, followed by a hissing release of aerosolized air. I whipped my face forward to see a reddish-brown plume rising from the kangaroo’s punctured stomach. A dense, powdery mist began to fill the room.

Frank Napis spun around, his puffy face filled with rage. His entire upper torso was covered in a rust-colored ash. His hands reached out, as if to throttle me. He took one staggering step forward—before collapsing into a gasping heap at the kangaroo’s feet.

Ivan coughed out a hoarse “sorry” before taking another pull from his flask and ducking out the front door.

“Hey!” I called out in frustration. “Don’t leave me in here!” I nearly choked on the involuntary breath that followed. The ropes binding me to the back of the chair seemed only to tighten as I struggled against them.

Ivan had left the door slightly ajar. Through the halfinch opening, a trickling stream of water began to enter the room. The fluid quickly spread across the floor, soaking the kangaroo’s feet along with Napis’s linen suit.

I tried to convince myself the water was nothing but the delusional side effect of the toxin that had just been released, but it was no use. An overwhelming sense of panic began to wash over me. I pulled my tennis shoes up to the rim of my chair, fearful of the drowning powers of the water that had begun to pool below.

Just then, a tiny hairless mouse wearing a furry green jacket poked his nose through the crack in the doorway. I watched, awestruck, as he began paddling across the room. His scurrying strokes were somewhat hampered by a packet of tulip petals stuffed into the front of his jacket, but he gradually made his way to my chair.

Nimbly, the mouse scaled the chair leg, scampered across my lap, and climbed up my left arm to my shoulder. He bent his chin down toward his chest and, with a flash of his tiny incisors, pulled a tulip petal out of his jacket. Gripping the oval-shaped disc in his front paws, he made a chittering mouse sound; then he rushed toward my face and pushed it through my protesting lips. The water on the floor began to recede as the tulip’s flowery texture coated the inside of my mouth.

I had just started chewing on the mouse’s last petal when the front door swung fully open. Harold Wombler appeared in the entrance, flapping his green baseball cap as if to help push the toxic dust from the room. Policemen in gas masks swarmed past him. The officers tromped loudly over to Napis’s comatose form, rolled him onto a stretcher, and carried him outside to a waiting ambulance.

As the brown fog began to clear, I realized that a man in a kangaroo suit had knelt to the floor near my chair. Without hesitation, the mouse hopped onto the man’s outstretched hand. After gently tucking the mouse into a pocket hidden in his furry chest, he unsnapped the head portion of the costume and lifted it up.

I found myself face to face with the man I’d last seen in the Sonoma Barracks posing as General Vallejo—minus the walrusy side-whiskers.

I managed one last word before passing out.

“Oscar . . .”

A WEEK LATER,
I pushed a cat-filled stroller down Jackson Street, heading toward the financial district. After the stroller outings in Sacramento and Nevada City, it seemed quite natural to be walking around San Francisco with my feline cargo.

Isabella now enjoyed being rolled around to visit and investigate new places—so long as her human driver obeyed her constant flow of navigational instructions. She hopped inside the carriage whenever she saw me preparing to go out. Rupert wasn’t nearly as keen about the idea, but he refused to be left behind.

Of course, there were many places where it wasn’t practical to bring the cats, but I had been assured they had a standing invitation to today’s destination—which was more than I could say for myself. While my cats were welcome at Wang’s flower shop, I was starting to get the distinct impression that I was persona non grata.

Mr. Wang had postponed meeting with me several times since I returned home from Monterey. It had taken a great deal of persistence on my part, but at last I had wrangled his agreement to see me that afternoon. Despite all of his stalling tactics, I was determined to get some answers about the events that had taken place in the Larkin House courtyard—and, most importantly, about my uncle.

However, as I rounded the curve of Columbus and crossed over into the financial district, I nearly turned back for the Green Vase. Monty stood on a street corner outside the Transamerica Pyramid building, cheerfully waving at passing vehicles and pedestrians. A small crowd had formed on the sidewalk in front of him; several cars honked their support.

Monty was milking his newfound celebrity status for all it was worth. State and local news media had covered each of his streaker-chasing episodes during the bike race, and the story had spread with each occurrence. His face was now instantly recognizable throughout Northern California, particularly in downtown San Francisco.

Meanwhile, the Mayor’s Life Coach had disappeared, leaving the embattled politician without much-needed emotional guidance for his paralyzing frog phobia. Monty had already been promoted to fill the vacancy. His star, it appeared, would continue to rise.

Despite the throng of onlookers blocking Monty’s view, I was unable to slip past unnoticed—the bright green cat stroller didn’t help me blend in to the surrounding foot traffic. Grimacing, I returned a weak wave from the opposite side of the street and powered ahead at maximum speed.

Down the next block, I found the flower-filled facade of Wang’s flower shop. Lilly greeted me at the entrance and ushered me inside. She glanced curiously at the cats inside the carriage as I guided the stroller’s swiveling wheels around the front rack of flowers to the open area at the back of the store.

Wang sat in his wheelchair, waiting with a wan smile on his face. “Please come in,” he said as I took a seat on a chair beside him.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries with the cats, he got right down to business. “I’ve just spoken with my former colleagues in law enforcement. Let me give you an update on Frank Napis.”

Once he’d recovered from the paralyzing dose of spider toxin he’d received from the punctured stomach of the kangaroo, Napis had been transferred to a high security prison cell at San Quentin. This time, Wang assured me, Frank Napis had been put away for good. It would be a long time—if ever—before I would have to worry about the likes of him again.

The news brought a welcome sense of relief, but it wasn’t the main topic I’d come to discuss with Wang.

“That’s all well and good,” I replied politely, “but I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Ivan Batrachos?” Wang cut in with a mischievous grin. “I understand he’s very happy to be out of prison.”

Despite abandoning me in the toxin-clogged shed in the Larkin House courtyard, Ivan had received special accommodations from the prosecuting authorities for his assistance in Napis’s arrest. He had agreed to work with Wang and his police colleagues as part of a deal that gained him early release from his latest prison stint.

Wang had been hesitant about the arrangement at first and had worried about Ivan’s true allegiances throughout the operation. But with Harold vouching for his former employee, Wang had reluctantly agreed to go along with the plan.

In the end, it turned out Ivan’s motivations were based primarily on revenge. He had blamed Napis for triggering the parole violation that led to his last year of incarceration and had been more than willing to return the favor.

“Okay,” I said, rubbing the back of my head in remembrance of the thunk I’d received from Ivan. He still hadn’t redeemed himself in my book. “But what about—”

“The Bear Flag?” Wang broke in again.

“I gather that’s not what was in the kangaroo?” I said with a frustrated sigh.

Mr. Wang’s gray eyes flickered as he stroked his long wispy beard. “Now, why did you think the Bear Flag had anything to do with the stuffed kangaroo?”

“Well, there was the stoat reference in Oscar’s DeVoto book,” I offered. “And the writing on the back of the Frémont picture in the Larkin House . . . ”

I stopped as Wang wheezed out a chuckle. He leaned over so that he could pull a piece of paper out of his pants pocket; then he handed it to me. I unfolded the sheet and scanned the contents. Printed inside was a copy of an article written by a group of Bear Flag historians, the original source of the writing Oscar had referenced. I read the familiar passage:

“Shoat?” I sputtered. “What’s a
shoat
?”

Wang nodded. “A shoat is a little suckling pig. When your uncle copied the text, he substituted a
t
for the
h
. He flagged the page in DeVoto and left the book out where Napis would be sure to see it. He knew Napis wouldn’t be able to resist a clue to a treasure of such historical significance—especially since his interest had already been piqued by Oscar’s letter to the Board.”

“And the writing on the back of the Frémont photo?” I asked, feeling more and more deflated. “Calling him a kangaroo?”

Wang shrugged dismissively. “Consul Larkin’s observations of Frémont’s character certainly helped with the ruse.”

I was growing rather exasperated by this conversation. “All right,” I said briskly. “Enough beating around the bush. I came here to talk to you about my uncle.”

Mr. Wang cleared his throat uncomfortably. His fingers fiddled with the wisp of his beard as he looked up at the ceiling. “Well, you see . . . ”

Just then, the front door swung open and Monty paraded inside. “Greetings, friends and neighbors!”

NOT FAR AWAY
from Wang’s flower shop, in a narrow North Beach alley around the corner from Jackson Square, a man in a rumpled linen suit pulled a red bicycle to a stop behind a newly opened restaurant. Succulent smells floated out of the kitchen, the hallmark of the proprietor’s signature dish, crispy fried chicken.

Whistling contentedly, Clem parked the bike inside a small shed, which contained, in addition to a wide array of cycling equipment, a number of curiously shaped boxes and crates. After securing the lock on the door to the shed, he walked around to the front of the restaurant where an eager crowd of joggers had gathered.

A man in a dirty green baseball cap and shredded overalls worked his way through the crowd, handing out rubber masks and explaining the rules of the contest. After completing the designated route and returning their masks, each of the runners would be treated to a full meal inside the restaurant.

 

 

WILL SPIGOT AND
Harry Carlin stood near the center of the group, stretching their limbs in anticipation of the coming sprint.