How to Moon a Cat (29 page)

Carlin chuckled politely. “We had quite a thrilling end to yesterday’s stage in Santa Rosa. The breakaway managed to pull the wool over the eyes of the peloton and crossed the finish line well ahead of the main pack. Thanks to that time advantage, one of those riders will be exchanging his team jersey for yellow today.”

Spigot propped his elbows on the counter of the broadcast booth. “Yes, my little friend from Sacramento has taken home a prize after all,” he said affably. He cocked his left eyebrow knowingly. “He’d better enjoy this moment of glory though, because I don’t think any of us fancy he’ll be wearing it by the day’s end.”

Carlin cleared his throat. “Ahem. Well, today’s course takes us from San Francisco down the coast here to Santa Cruz. The riders will be following Highway One most of the way . . . ”

“I say, I’m feeling a bit hungry,” Spigot cut in. He lifted his head into the air, sniffing loudly.

“Your breakfast isn’t holding, then?” Carlin asked worriedly. His broadcasting partner tended to get cranky when he was hungry.

“Oh, I had a fine breakfast,” Spigot replied as a man in a furry brown kangaroo suit walked past the broadcast booth. “Fancy eggs and bacon. But I just caught a whiff of something in the air. One of the vendor stands has cooked up what smells like an absolutely delectable dish. I believe it’s fried chicken . . . ”

A BROAD-SHOULDERED MAN
with reddish orange hair whistled merrily as he parked a large white van in the basement level loading dock on the side of San Francisco’s City Hall. It was a busy Tuesday morning, and the security guards manning the building’s main entrance glanced only briefly at the video screen feeding images from the outside entrances. They had their hands full with a far more pressing issue on the first floor: One of the members of the Board of Supervisors was protesting the search of his briefcase.

Sam stroked the name tag sewn into the chest of his faded gray-striped coveralls. His face was covered with a rough reddish stubble, and his thick hair had the dull sheen of accumulated grease—the result of a few days’ abstinence from showering and shaving. It was almost a year since he’d relinquished his janitorial job at City Hall, but, he thought proudly, he could still play the part convincingly. That, combined with the updated security badge clipped to the front of his coveralls, should be enough to get him inside the building.

He had enjoyed his years working at City Hall, but he had to admit he was far happier in his current employment. Instead of passing his time watching all the interesting people that visited the building’s famous rotunda, he now devoted his observational energies to his beloved frogs. He still worked a few hours a month at the Castro Street card shop, but he spent most days with his little green friends.

This last week, he’d been out in the field gathering data for some scientists from UC Davis who were studying a rare amphibian species they’d identified in the Sacramento Delta. He would have been tromping through the wetlands that very morning if he hadn’t received an urgent message requesting his services here in San Francisco.

Still positioned in the driver’s seat, Sam took in a few analyzing sniffs of the van’s interior. Despite his own rank, sweaty smell, he thought he detected a peculiar animal scent inside the van. He noticed a light dusting of white hairs on the dashboard. Feline, he surmised as he wrinkled his nose.

He preferred more of a citrus fragrance himself. He patted the front pocket of his coveralls. He would install one of his extra-strength orange air fresheners once he had completed this little errand. Mr. Carmichael, Sam felt certain, would appreciate the improved aroma.

Monty, Sam mused with a wry grin. That fellow only grew curiouser and curiouser over time. The outfit he was wearing today had really taken the cake. Sam had been sneaking peeks at those shiny green leggings all the way to Golden Gate Park—that was where Monty had got out and handed him the van’s keys.

Shaking his head, Sam turned toward the glass-sided terrarium resting on the front passenger seat.

“Green leggings,” he said to the two frogs with feathery orange mustaches sitting inside. “What could be sillier than that?”

Sam tapped the security badge on his chest once more. “Are you ready for your tour of City Hall?” he asked the frogs as he picked up the terrarium by its rooftop handle and clambered out onto the pavement. Confidently, he walked up to the loading dock door and waved his badge in front of the scanner. There was a slight click as the lock disengaged.

City Hall’s basement level was quiet and empty. Most of the building’s activity at this hour, he knew from experience, was taking place on the main floor above him.

Carrying the frogs, Sam crept silently down a side corridor and slipped through an unmarked door to a narrow staircase that would take him up past the street level to the second floor. He whispered chattily to the frogs as he made the ascent, recounting several interesting tidbits about the building’s long history as well as his memories of San Francisco’s Previous Mayor, of whom he was still quite fond.

“Now, then, the Current Mayor,” Sam said as they reached the landing at the top of the stairs, “the one you’re about to meet—I haven’t got much to say about him.”

But he went on to tell the frogs several minutes’ worth of details anyway. They politely nodded along throughout this entire dialogue as if they appreciated his informative insights and commentary.

Sam pulled up the sleeve of his coveralls to check his watch. Any minute now, the Mayor’s receptionist would leave her desk and walk down the hall for her second cup of coffee.

“Every morning at precisely eight forty-five . . .” Sam murmured down to the frogs as he stepped cautiously into the recess behind a wide marble column.

Just then, the door to the Mayor’s office popped open, and a stern woman in a gray wool skirt and solid practicallooking pumps stepped briskly outside. Sam scooted across the polished floor to catch the edge of the door with his fingers as the woman clipped smartly down the hallway.

Inside the Mayor’s office suite, the plush red carpeting muffled Sam’s footsteps. Noiselessly, he crossed the reception area and entered a small meeting room adjoining the Mayor’s inner office.

After softly pulling the door shut behind him, Sam stepped around a table and chairs to reach the floor-toceiling windows that looked out over the wide balcony the room shared with the Mayor’s adjoining office. He sat the terrarium on the floor and pushed open the bottommost pane.

“Wait here,” he whispered to his inquisitive green friends.

The frogs watched as Sam squeezed himself through the opening in the glass and crawled across the balcony to peek into the room next door. The tip of Sam’s freckled nose grazed the bottom rim of the windowpane as he watched a man in a black suit, narrow blue tie, and swept-back, gel-coated hair enter from the reception area.

The Mayor strolled across the plush red carpet to a leather recliner positioned behind an enormous wooden desk. He folded his newspaper and placed it neatly on the desk’s polished surface next to his half-drunk paper cup of coffee. Then he turned in his chair to stare at a large oval mirror affixed to the nearest wall.

Sliding backwards across the balcony on his stomach, Sam returned to the meeting room. Carefully, he lifted the frogs out of their tank. He petted each one gently on the head and brushed his fingers through the feathery orange hair of their mustaches before he set them outside on the balcony.

Then, he reached into a side pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a pair of tiny gold-rimmed tricycles.

 

 

THE MAYOR BREEZED
into City Hall that morning, a man of recently regained poise and confidence. There would be no more hiding from the press. No more ducking cameras. No more sneaking up the back stairs to his office. Today was a new day, he vowed, and he would attack it with gusto.

He had nodded to the security guards as he stepped through their scanners. He’d waved at the group of tourists standing next to the visitor’s information kiosk. He’d even smiled at the President of the Board of Supervisors on his way up the central marble staircase.

The light streamed through the enormous arched windows below the rotunda’s soaring dome as the Mayor marched purposefully down the second floor hallway toward his office suite. Near-perfect weather was in the forecast for the afternoon. The rain from the previous day had moved inland, and the trailing fog was scheduled to clear the city by mid-morning—which was fortunate because he had several public appearances planned, the first being the San Francisco starting line for Stage Three of the Tour of California that would take place in just a few hours’ time.

The Mayor brushed a hand over the top of his carefully styled hair. Everything, it seemed, was falling into place. His secretary had even convinced the race organizers that, due to other pressing engagements immediately following the race send-off, he would be unable to don a cycling outfit—or a hair-crimping bike helmet. Yes, he thought with a deep bolstering sigh, a fabulous day awaited him.

He strode purposefully into his office, stepped behind his large wooden desk, and eased comfortably into the leather chair behind it. After neatly arranging his folded newspaper and coffee cup on the wide polished surface, he prepared to begin his important morning ritual. It was one he had practiced several times with his Life Coach. He’d felt a bit self-conscious about it at first, and he dared not let anyone see him talking to himself in this manner, but he’d found it actually did make a difference.

And so, the Mayor straightened his tie and turned to face his image in a mirror he’d hung on the nearest wall.

“I am the Mayor,” he said slowly and distinctly. “I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And doggone it. People like me.”

Then he smiled. The same broad steady grin he’d given to the President of the Board of Supervisors just minutes before.

The Mayor was about to repeat the mantra when he noticed a slight movement reflected in the bottom corner of the mirror.

“What the—?” he exclaimed, startled as he swiveled around in his chair toward the wall of windows that looked out over the balcony.

Timidly, he stood up from his desk and walked over toward the windows. Halfway across the room, he was seized with a feeling of complete and utter terror. His slender hands trembled. The recently tanned skin on his face paled to an icy blue.

It couldn’t be. He blinked rapidly and squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment before reopening them—but the horrifying image had not disappeared. It was still there, outside on the balcony.

Two small frogs in feathery orange mustaches were riding tiny tricycles across the stone floor on the opposite side of the windows.

The Mayor scampered back across the room, pulled out his leather recliner, and crawled beneath his desk. With a shaking hand, he reached up to grab the receiver of the phone. The tip of his finger fumbled along the base of the unit until it found the bright red call button that connected to his receptionist.

“Yes, sir?” her crisp efficient voice answered immediately.

“Mabel,” he said, sounding feeble and hoarse. “Something’s come up. Please cancel all my appointments for today.”

“Sir?” she replied, sounding concerned.

“And Mabel,” he added sheepishly.

“Yes?”

“Call the Life Coach. Tell him I need him here immediately.” The Mayor cringed as he thought of the scene on his balcony. “Tell him it’s an emergency.”

MONTGOMERY CARMICHAEL BUSTLED
down a sidewalk near the west end of Golden Gate Park, pushing his bicycle along beside him. His plastic helmet swung from the handlebars as the metal soles of his bike shoes clacked against the pavement. He was heading, as planned, to the San Francisco starting line for the next stage of the Tour of California.

It had been a somewhat shady move, he conceded—sabotaging the Mayor—but he’d discussed it at length with his trusted mentor, the Life Coach, during their lunch in Sonoma, and they’d both agreed he had no other choice.

As it turned out, the Life Coach was the one who had brought up the idea in the first place. Testing the Mayor with a surprise frog appearance on the balcony outside his office, he had assured Monty, was an excellent way to measure how far the Mayor had progressed with his therapy sessions. The Life Coach had hoped that an unexpected frog sighting might actually boost the man’s shaky confidence.

Lucky for me, Monty thought smugly, the Mayor still has a ways to go on that front.

Monty quickened his step, his mind set on righting the wrongs of the two previous starting-line ceremonies. This was his last chance to get a race-themed photo for his political portfolio, an album that would be used to develop the advertising strategy for his upcoming mayoral campaign.

The Life Coach had helped Monty with the logistics of sneaking the frogs into City Hall. He’d called in a few favors to get an extra security badge and had tracked down Sam from his fieldwork in the delta.

Monty had been in charge of obtaining the actual frogs. That had been the most delicate aspect of the operation, but Harold had begrudgingly agreed to let Sam borrow them.

Apparently, the frogs had put on quite a show on the Mayor’s balcony. Minutes ago, Monty had received an urgent phone call from the Mayor’s receptionist. She had apologized for the last-minute notice, but could he, possibly, step in for the Mayor at this morning’s race festivities?

“Could he step in for the Mayor?” he asked himself rhetorically, puffing his chest out proudly. In his mind, he practically
was
the Mayor—that’s what the Life Coach was always telling him.

When the Mayor eventually departed for the Lieutenant Governor’s position in Sacramento, Monty planned to run as his replacement. San Francisco, in his modest opinion, could do no better than a Mayor Carmichael.