How to Moon a Cat (6 page)

The man lifted the helmet from his head and posed with his narrow chest proudly distended as if he’d just reached the summit of a mountain. The brown curls that typically sprang from his scalp had been mashed into a towering cone-shaped pile. His thin lips spread into a sly smile as he waited for applause.

We stood, curly-coned to goggle-strapped head, for a long moment before the man ripped his mirrored sunglasses from his face and squinted critically at me.

It was a testament to Montgomery Carmichael’s selfassured cheekiness that after surveying my orange nylon coveralls, dust-covered face, and forehead-topping mask and goggles, he asked incredulously, “What’s with the outfit?”

MY NOSY NEIGHBOR
was a regular, if uninvited, guest to the Green Vase showroom and the apartment above. A closed or even locked door was no barrier to his intrusion. I had, unfortunately, grown accustomed to his spontaneous appearances in my kitchen, but I thought I’d confiscated all of his spare keys to my front door.

Monty ran an art studio across the street from the Green Vase, although the number of paintings on display there had dwindled substantially over the past year. He’d been spending the majority of his time at City Hall, where his prestige and influence—inexplicably—continued to grow.

Last summer, the Mayor had appointed Monty the city’s commissioner for the historical preservation of Jackson Square. The post was meant to be ceremonial, as evidenced by its basement-level office and nominal remuneration. It was created to placate the city’s many historical societies after the dissolution of the Jackson Square Board that spring.

The position’s limited mandate had done nothing to dampen Monty’s enthusiasm. He’d simply set out, through sheer bluff and bravado, to expand the boundaries of his authority.

The metal brackets poking out of the bottom of Monty’s bike shoes clacked against the floor tiles as he hobbled across the kitchen to inspect the hole in the tulip-printed wallpaper.

I held out my hand, palm upward.

“Key,” I ordered with a stern frown. He tossed it casually through the air to me.

“Is this the last one?” I demanded as Monty’s eyes swept from my renovation gear to the protective sheeting I’d stretched across the kitchen counters.

“What’s all this?” he asked, predictably turning a deaf ear to my question. His thin figure wobbled wildly as he pivoted on his metal-bottomed shoes to point a knobby finger at the hole in the wall. “Looks like a bit of offpermit work to me.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes at the ceiling. While Commissioner, Monty had imposed a new set of guidelines regarding maintenance and repair of the city’s historically designated buildings. These rules had changed frequently, morphing spontaneously to accommodate the capricious whims of the Commissioner. Despite numerous requests, I’d been unable to obtain a copy of these oftquoted regulations. I had serious doubts as to whether a formal paper version even existed.

Nevertheless, Monty had proceeded to barge his way into all the homes and businesses in Jackson Square under the pretext of inspecting them for compliance. Anyone who resisted his entry was confronted with a blustery charade in which he waved a blank tablet in the air and threatened to begin issuing citations.

“You’ll have to talk to Rupert,” I replied flatly to Monty’s raised eyebrows. “He tore into the wall last night.” I crossed my arms over my chest, waiting for the act to play itself out.

Rupert adopted his best “Who, me?” impersonation, and Monty’s admonishing expression broke into a broad smile. He directed his pointed finger at Rupert. “Lucky for you, I’ve given up the commissioner’s position.”

The whole of Jackson Square had breathed a collective sigh of relief a few weeks back when the Mayor promoted Monty to his cabinet, prompting his resignation from the commissioner’s seat. Due to current budget restraints, his replacement had yet to be named. After Monty’s tenure, we were all hoping the position would be eliminated—permanently.

Many puzzled, however, over Monty’s new role in the Mayor’s cabinet. As far back as anyone could remember, no mayor in the history of San Francisco had employed a personal life coach on his staff of advisors. Certainly, none had included an assistant life coach, the job title Monty had assumed.

While Monty touted his own credentials at every opportunity, an aura of mystique surrounded his boss, the Mayor’s Life Coach. Despite numerous attempts by both the media and the Board of Supervisors, the anonymous figure had never been seen, heard, or even photographed. Every aspect of the man’s identity remained cloistered in secrecy.

On the streets of San Francisco, perplexed citizens scratched their heads in confusion. What exactly was a life coach, they wondered, and why did the Mayor need one? Moreover, particularly in these tough economic times, how could the Mayor possibly justify a life coach’s
assistant
?

Given Monty’s frequent visits to the Green Vase, I’d had plenty of opportunities to quiz him on the topic of life coaching, but thus far, I had declined to do so. Quite frankly, I was afraid to ask.

Presumably, the life coaching staff at City Hall was tasked with pulling the Mayor out of the midlife crisis that had dogged him for the past several months. It had been a tough year for San Francisco’s beleaguered Mayor. He had never quite regained his gravitas following last summer’s infamous frog invasion of City Hall.

There had been widespread press coverage mocking the Mayor’s desperate panic-stricken retreat from the masses of frogs milling about the rotunda beneath City Hall’s decorative dome. The Mayor had refused to return to his office until several SWAT team sweeps confirmed that every last amphibian had been evacuated.

The Mayor’s attempt to explain the situation to a local television reporter had resulted in an awkward and embarrassing interview that he had eventually terminated by walking out. After that experience, he had declared a moratorium on further interaction with the press.

Prominent newspaper columnists had responded by openly questioning the Mayor’s prospects in the upcoming gubernatorial race as well as his mental stability. Mayoral recall proposals began routinely appearing in the “Letters to the Editor” section of the
Chronicle
.

To make matters worse, a local prankster in a chicken costume who occasionally showed up at the Mayor’s public appearances had modified his act to reflect recent events. His expanded routine now included an innovative frog-hopping bird dance, a video of which had become an instant download sensation on the Internet.

The Mayor’s main political opponents had also cashed in. The website for the President of the Board of Supervisors featured a frame-by-frame color photo analysis of the Mayor’s indecorous departure from the frog-infested City Hall. The gubernatorial candidate for the opposing political party had adjusted his stump speech to include several oblique frog references, each instance generating raucous cheers from his supporters.

With the Mayor under constant assault from all quarters, his poll numbers had taken a swan dive.

After several tortured months of refusing to comment on or otherwise discuss the frog debacle, the Mayor had announced his withdrawal from the governor’s race. He’d issued a brief statement and left town for an extended Hawaiian vacation.

When the Mayor finally returned to City Hall, he was accompanied by a new fiancée, a suitcase full of coconuts, and the elusive, seemingly invisible Life Coach. The lengthy vacation, engagement, and motivational guidance, however, had done little to buoy the Mayor’s spirits. When spotted by a roving camera crew the previous week, he’d looked as if he wanted to crawl under a rock and hide.

Throughout all this turmoil, Monty had remained one of the Mayor’s most ardent supporters. It was this unwavering adoration, I suspected, that had earned Monty the invitation to the Mayor’s secret Hawaiian getaway. After a brief visit to the islands, Monty had arrived back in San Francisco with a light freckling on his normally pale face and the new head-scratching title of assistant—or apprentice, as he preferred to be called—life coach.

In recent weeks, the city’s political rumor mill had been running hot with speculations that the Mayor would throw his hat into the race for lieutenant governor. Despite the political baggage of the frog-fleeing incident, pundits predicted he would be an easy front-runner in that contest, which was far less competitive than that for the office at the top of the ticket. If elected, there was a good chance the Mayor would take Monty with him to Sacramento.

Four Monty-free years, I thought with a longing sigh as I watched my green spandex-clad neighbor prance around the kitchen. It was almost too much to hope for.

At least Monty’s obsession with San Francisco politics had temporarily distracted him from his previous favorite pastime. It had been several months since Monty had approached me with another bizarre theory regarding my Uncle Oscar’s death—or lack thereof.

In the weeks following Oscar’s passing, Monty had dreamed up numerous scenarios speculating on ways my uncle might have faked his death and assumed a disguise, perhaps in order to elude the likes of Frank Napis. According to Monty, it was entirely possible that a costumecamouflaged Oscar was walking around Jackson Square, right under our noses.

I had at first let my imagination—and Monty’s endless stream of ridiculous theories—persuade me that maybe, perhaps, there was a chance that Oscar was still alive. Truth be known, I preferred to think of him that way, off on a wild adventure instead of cold, dead, and buried in the ground. But I had long since dismissed those fantasies and, thankfully, so had Monty.

I watched as Monty’s eyes darted from Rupert to the dusty green vase.

“Aha!” he said, spinning around the table to swoop it up. “You found a replacement.” He brought the container close to his face and slowly rotated it under his nose, carefully inspecting the curves of the glass as he tapped the surface with his fingers.

“It’s hard to say for sure . . . ” he droned slowly as he turned the vase to squint down the opening into its interior. “But I’d have to say this is a match to the one you broke last summer.”

I glanced grimly at the chunky cat sitting on the floor near my feet. “Actually,” I said, clearing my throat with a light cough, “I’m pretty sure it was Rupert who did that one in.”

Rupert looked up at me with another innocenceproclaiming expression.

“And what do we have here?” Monty asked, picking up the furry stuffed animal holding the paper flag. He sniffed the bear with the pointed tip of his nose, as if he were a wine connoisseur testing an elite vintage.

“It was in the vase,” I replied. “I thought it was a dead mouse . . . ”

“So you heard?” Monty asked excitedly as his eyes scanned the writing on the back side of the paper flag.

“Heard what?” I replied, confused.

“About Nevada City.” Monty dropped the stuffed animal onto the kitchen table and gestured down at his shiny green leggings. “That’s what I came over to tell you about. I’m heading up there this weekend.”

I STEPPED WARILY
back from the table, instantly concerned. During my brief tenure at the Green Vase, coincidences had a nasty tendency to result in disaster: a moment of hunger instantly sated by a cupcake whose frosting was spiked with a spider venom toxin, a transportation need suddenly fulfilled by a MUNI bus with faulty brakes. I had learned to be skeptical of any fortuitous convergence of circumstances, particularly when it landed so neatly in my lap.

“Why are you going to Nevada City?” I asked suspiciously, the nerves along my spine contracting with apprehension.

Monty wasn’t the least bit fazed by the conspicuous overlap in geographical references. “I’m representing the Mayor at the opening ceremony for the Tour of California,” he said proudly. “I’ll be making appearances for him at a couple of the host cities for the Northern California stages. Let’s see, Nevada City, Sacramento, Davis, San Francisco . . . ” He ticked off the names on his fingers as he spoke. “Of course the Mayor might decide to take that last one.”

He thumped his narrow nylon-covered chest. “I’ve become rather important, in case you hadn’t noticed. It’s all set. I head out tomorrow.”

I rubbed my temples, pondering. If the Mayor had started asking Monty to represent him at public events, he must be getting desperate.

“And—the outfit?” I asked, wincing. “Is that an assistant life coach uniform?”

“You know I prefer Life Coach
Apprentice
,” Monty corrected me crisply. “This is my cycling gear.” He strutted a circle around the kitchen table with a catwalk swagger. “What do you think?”

The baggy shorts hung loosely from his narrow hips, swishing against the spandex leggings as he walked. Rupert trotted behind him, curiously watching the wiggle of the padded cushion sewn into the seat of the shorts.

“I think it’s quite slimming, don’t you?” Monty turned his head from me to Isabella seeking approval.

“
Wran
,” Isabella opined, her pinched face emphasizing her negative assessment.

Monty plopped down on the nearest chair, swiveling his hips to adjust the rear padding. “There’s going to be a photo op at the start of the race, so I stopped by a bike shop this morning and got myself fitted.”

His fingers plucked at the loose fabric of the shorts. “They tell me the cushioning makes the plastic bike seat more comfortable to sit on.” He bounced up and down on the wooden chair, his narrow face scrunching up as he judged the effect. “I have to say, there’s quite an improvement even with regular furniture. You know, they should put this type of padding in everyday clothing. I might have to start a new fashion trend with this.”

I pointed to the black plastic helmet resting on the table next to the dusty green vase. “And the helmet? Do you have cufflinks to match the helmet?”