How to Moon a Cat (21 page)

“Captain Frémont’s arrival in Monterey didn’t go unnoticed by the Mexican authorities. General Castro, the head of the local presidio, wanted to know what an American army officer was doing in his neck of the woods.”

Clem raised a stubby finger skyward. “Frémont responded that he was a famous mapmaker—a Pathfinder, so to speak—and he was just stopping by as part of his geographical explorations.”

Clem scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Now, Castro may have been exiled to the outer edges of a forgotten parcel of the Mexican empire, but he wasn’t the dullest tool in their shed of generals. Monterey and its surrounding environs were well mapped out, and none of its current inhabitants had any trouble finding their way around town. They certainly didn’t need this flamboyantly dressed American to guide their way.”

Clem blew out a guffaw. “No, Castro wasn’t buying this story. And after he received reports that Frémont was stirring up the local Americans with all sorts of rebellion talk, Castro politely invited Frémont to take his mapmaking expertise elsewhere—outside the boundaries of the Mexican Territory of California.”

Clem cowered on the edge of the wagon, wringing his hands in emulation of the nervous American Consul. “Larkin was beside himself with worry. He was convinced Frémont was about to provoke an international incident—the kind the President of the United States had tasked him with preventing. So Larkin pleaded with Frémont to return to his designated post—in
Oregon
.”

Clem popped back up, slapping his hands together with a loud clap. “Our Pathfinder would not be so easily deterred from his self-appointed mission,” he said, wagging his finger. “Frémont huffed out of town all right, but he didn’t go far. He and his men hiked up the nearest mountain overlooking Monterey to a place called Gavilan Peak. This gathering of, ahem, mapmakers, built themselves a roaring campfire and invited the local Americans up for a powwow. It wasn’t long before all sorts of crazy insurrection talk began to be thrown about the embers.”

Clem stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “Now, of course, an expedition such as this needs a constant resupply of provisions, fresh transport, and the like. Since Frémont and his men were several days’ ride away from Sutter’s Fort, he decided to, ah,
borrow
what they needed from a local Mexican farmer.

“That was the last straw,” Clem said, shaking his head. “Castro gathered his troops and prepared to march up the peak to arrest Frémont as a horse thief.”

Clem struck a pose of mock innocence. “Naturally, Frémont was outraged that such a charge should be levied against him, a man of such stature and celebrity. Frémont called his rum-drunk men to action. It was time for them to stand up for their principles . . . ”

Clem drew back from the stage and scratched his whiskery chin. “Yes, well, hmm, principles.” He looked out across the audience with a skeptical expression. Then, clearing his throat, he continued, “It wasn’t exactly clear what principles the Pathfinder and his men were vowing to defend, but Captain Frémont nevertheless proclaimed Gavilan Peak—or at least the immediate area surrounding his campfire—to be the liberated and highly principled property of the United States government. Frémont vowed he would be bloody and lifeless before he surrendered the smallest inch to those greedy, obstinate, horse-hoarding Mexicans . . . ”

Clem’s voice trailed off as he issued the audience a sly wink. Then, abruptly, he pulled himself inward to a crouched, cringing position.

“Meanwhile, Larkin had worked himself into a foaming frenzy, certain that he would be blamed should this Don Quixote Pathfinder get himself fricasseed. Frémont was vastly outnumbered, and the closest American forces that might be summoned to rescue him from Castro’s men were on a Navy ship several hundred miles out in the Pacific Ocean. Larkin mustered his last ounce of gumption and told Frémont to pack up his floppy hat and buckskin pants and hightail it back to Oregon—before Castro marched into his camp and shredded him to pieces.

“It was an ignominious end to a one-sided standoff,” Clem said as a wry smirk settled onto his face. “The Pathfinder finally convinced himself that his patriotism would be better served if he temporarily ah,
repositioned
his camp to a more strategic location.

“And so, tail tucked between his legs, Frémont gathered his small group of explorers and hiked down from Gavilan Peak. Reluctantly, he set his compass north and began trodding in the cold, wet direction of . . . ”

Clem sucked in a deep breath, and then breathed out a loud, exhausted, “
Oregon
.”

RUPERT YAWNED AND
rolled over onto his stomach, an action that had the immediate effect of awakening his hunger. After a quick glance at what he could see of the van’s cargo area, he stepped out his carrier’s open door with a long stiff-legged stretch.

He took a sip from his water dish, smacking his lips together as he sampled the liquid. His person had brought along a bottle of the filtered water from the Green Vase’s refrigerator. It was slightly staler than he preferred, but, given their current mobile circumstances, he could cope.

The food she had left out for him, however, was another matter entirely. He sniffed disdainfully at the dry giblets his person had sprinkled into his bowl. Once his expectations had been raised to the level of fried chicken, those crunchy orange triangles simply fell below the mark.

Twitching his whiskers, Rupert ambled to the front of the van to discuss the matter with Monty. Rupert had slept through much of the morning’s stroller outing in Nevada City and had missed the streaker action at the starting line. He wasn’t sure why Monty had been muttering about hooligans and criminal charges, but he had his own ideas on where his tall friend might direct his efforts.

He slunk around the back of Monty’s chair, crawled up into his lap and began kneading his stomach.

“Oh, hello there, Rupert,” Monty welcomed him. “What do you think of my shirt? Pretty cool, huh? The fabric’s so lightweight and breathable.”

Rupert paused for a moment and gazed solemnly into Monty’s green eyes. Not your best look, mate, he thought silently. But I’d be willing to look past this horrendous wardrobe decision if you’d get me some real food.

Rupert resumed his kneading, this time poking the pads of his feet a little harder into the paunch of Monty’s stomach.

“Hey, hey, watch the threads there, Mister,” Monty said sternly, gently lifting Rupert off his chest.

Rupert decided to switch tactics. Purring loudly, he summoned his best hypnotic trance. I’m hungry, he thought with intense concentration as he stared into Monty’s face. You’re hungry. Let’s go get ourselves some fried chicken.

Rupert felt his hunger surge as his mind fixated on an imaginary plate of his favorite food. His stomach rumbled; his mouth salivated. Then, suddenly, he stopped to consider the size of Monty’s potential appetite. After a brief reflection, he amended his mental message.

You’re only a
little
bit hungry.

A motion of color in the rearview mirror caught Monty’s attention. “Was that a rider?” he asked suddenly. He glanced from the mirror down to Rupert. “I think we’re right next to the race route. Shall we go take a look?”

Take me to the fried chicken, Rupert repeated over and over again, his eyes crossing as he focused on Monty’s forehead.

Monty opened the driver’s side door and scooped Rupert up into his arms. Feeling somewhat optimistic, Rupert draped himself over his pal’s slick green shoulders as Monty walked down to the corner where Harold Wombler stood on a curb next to a discarded water bottle.

“Hi again, there, Wombler,” Monty said cordially. “Are you waiting on the racers?”

Harold turned to look at Monty, a crass expression on his loose, wrinkled face.

“What’s that sound?” Monty asked as a mass of riders came around the bend.

Still gripping Monty’s shirt, Rupert turned his head in the direction of the commotion. His entire body froze in panic as he temporarily forgot about his fried chicken fixation. Never in his short fluffy life had he seen such a buzzing whirring tornado of motion.

Aaaaah!
Rupert thought, flexing his claws through the thin fabric of Monty’s shirt.

“Aaaaah!” Monty screamed as a searing pain lanced across his chest.

 

 

INSIDE SUTTER’S FORT,
Clem paused mid-sentence as a man’s high-pitched, bloodcurdling scream rang out from the parking area behind the fort.

I glanced down at the stroller.

“
Wrao
,” Isabella said sharply, drawing some curious looks from the children standing nearest to us.

“Better head back to the van,” I whispered in agreement.

 

 

“HARRY, DID YOU
hear something?” Will Spigot’s forehead creased as he tried to interpret the sound.

“I believe it was a siren,” Harry Carlin replied calmly. “Perhaps a fire truck or an ambulance. They have quite a few of those here in this country.”

The television monitor behind the broadcasters flashed an image of the top curve of the race route’s downtown loop. The video briefly honed in on the strange spectacle of a tall skinny man in a shredded green nylon shirt jumping up and down as he held a fluffy white cat over his head.

 

 

ISABELLA AND I
returned to the van to find the back door propped open. Monty sat on the edge of the cargo area, his green legs dangling over the bumper. Shirtless, he was applying bandages to a number of deep red scratch marks on his chest. It looked as if his upper torso had been run through a lawnmower.

Rupert sat on the floor of the van next to him, curiously watching the second first aide process in as many days. He looked up at me as I approached, a hungry expression on his furry face.

“
Wao?
” he asked hopefully.

 

 

WILL SPIGOT FLASHED
a wry grin at the camera. “Our riders have just made the last turn of the downtown loop, a few blocks to the east of us, and they’re now charging down L Street toward the finish line. They’re just specks of dust from our view in the broadcast booth, but you can see them clearly here on the video screen.”

“There’s just the little matter of our friend out in front there,” Harry Carlin said with a wince. “He’s put up a gallant fight, but the peloton are almost upon him. They’re going to sweep past him, I’m afraid, and leave him in their dust.”

Spigot had no sympathy. “It was a foolish move, wasn’t it? The computer told us all along that he had no chance.” He nodded to the video monitor. “Yes, see, there he is being pushed off to the side. Look at his face. He doesn’t know what’s hit him. After all that, he’ll cross the line at the bottom of the pack.”

With a shrug, Spigot turned his attention to the charging peloton. “The sprinters’ teams are angling for position,” he said eagerly, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. “They’re setting up their lines, looking to catapult their top riders out across the finish line. It’ll be down to the wire, this . . .”

THE MOON ROSE
over Northern California into a clear Sunday evening. It glanced down at its ever-slimming crescent body, admiring the sharp, seductive points that had begun to form on its narrowing top and bottom. Swiveling its hips flirtatiously, the moon sashayed inland to Sacramento’s brightly lit skyline.

The city was still celebrating the thrilling Stage One finish of the Tour of California that had swept through its downtown streets earlier that afternoon. In the grassy area outside the State Capitol buildings, fans milled about sponsor tents, buying souvenirs, perusing displays touting the latest technological advances in cycling equipment, and, of course, discussing the day’s racing.

An enormous video screen positioned at the edge of the hospitality area played a constant loop of hastily spliced together footage of the down-to-the-wire finish. Several sprint specialists had challenged the pack in the last hundred meters, but the winning rider was a cherry-faced Englishman with a solid, squatty build who was known throughout the cycling world by his self-proclaimed title, “The Fastest Man in the World.”

The video clip finished with a scene from the podium presentation. Basking in his latest victory, the Fastest Man leapt merrily onto the top pedestal to receive a bouquet of flowers and cheek-to-cheek kisses from local beauties in short skirts and tight-fitting blouses. A moment later, a representative from one of the race sponsors stepped up behind him to fit the yellow jersey around his shoulders.

Beyond the crowd, the rider who had led the peloton for the last lap and a half of the downtown loop lay spread-eagled in the grass, spent and exhausted from his exertions.

The moon skirted around the video screen and found its way to the cycling teams’ tour buses. In a cordoned-off area set up for media interviews, one of the sport’s most famous cyclists—a man referred to by many as the Elder Statesman—held court amid a swarm of blinding flashbulbs and prodding microphones. He had recently returned to racing after a few years’ retirement, deciding to give it a go at one more round of glory and, perhaps, one last yellow jersey.

Despite his lean musculature and brawny physique, the gray flecks in his closely cropped hair accented the fact that he was close to twenty years senior to the youngest riders in the race. While his aging body might struggle to maintain the level of fitness required for this demanding sport, his years of experience had given him a definite advantage when it came to handling the press. The iron muscles of his face exuded an air of confidence, a cloak he wore so effortlessly few dared to question it.

The Elder Statesman’s silver-blue eyes surveyed the surging chaos of the scene around him. Then, with a few strong, simple words, he expertly corralled the sea of interrogators, calmly but sternly coordinated the order of their questions, and, bit by bit, measured out his responses, providing them no more information than he had previously determined he would release.