How to Moon a Cat (9 page)

It had been a difficult internment at San Quentin for Ivan Batrachos. The pallor of his once-rich olive skin evidenced the strain of his confinement; his eyes bore a gray listless gloss.

This was Ivan’s first full day of freedom, but he evidenced no trace of joy, relief, or celebration. He sat in the sedan, rigidly immobile except for a faint twitch that transmitted along the bulge of his right arm through to where his muscular hand formed a tightly clenched fist.

 

 

BACK IN SAN
Francisco, Harold Wombler’s rusted-out pickup pulled onto an eastbound lane of the Bay Bridge. He drove along the lower deck with a casual, relaxed air, not the least bit worried about the possibility of earthquakes or the span’s structural integrity. If it was his fate to die in a watery grave of twisted metal, so be it. He wasn’t going to waste a second of his life fretting about the possibility.

With a maximum highway speed of forty-five miles per hour, the truck would have been quickly outpaced by the other vehicles, even if it had left the city at the same time. But as the truck’s ancient engine squeaked and squalled across the bridge, Harold had no concerns about catching up with the convertible, the sedan, or even the large white van. He knew where they were all headed, and he would get there eventually.

As the pickup began a slow, rumbling trek along the inland interstate route to Sacramento, Harold glanced over at his passengers, one of whom he’d picked up at the Green Vase on his way out of town.

On the frayed cushion of the truck’s bench seat, avidly watching the colorful stretch of oleander flashing by on the median, sat a pair of small green frogs wearing feathery orange mustaches.

Next to the frogs rode a tiny hairless mouse, recently outfitted in a furry green jacket.

A COUPLE OF
hours up the road, the tiny mountain town of Nevada City bustled with activity as it prepared to welcome the Tour of California. Banners greeting the cyclists were plastered across the windows of homes and businesses. Red, white, and blue streamers decorated fence posts and mailboxes; lampposts were adorned with pairings of California state and U.S. flags.

Cycling fans had begun to filter into town, filling the restaurants and bistros, dramatically increasing the percentage of spandex leggings walking the streets. Sidewalk conversations all trended in one way or another toward the upcoming race.

Spread across the lower hills of the Sierra Nevada, Nevada City’s historic settlement straddled the top end of Highway 49, Gold Country’s main transportation corridor. The town captured the woodsy, peaceful, easygoing essence of the surrounding pine-tree forest. The damp moisture of an elevated ocean breeze fed a fuzzy green layer of moss that covered the north-facing surface of almost every trunk.

Known primarily as a weekend getaway for mountain bikers, nature lovers, and the occasional mining enthusiast, Nevada City was located about an hour northeast of Sacramento, safely outside the hubbub of the capital city’s sprawling suburbs. A steady influx of graying retirees swelled the ranks of the town’s full-time residents, mixing with an eclectic group of artists, hippies, and life-enjoyment specialists.

The laid-back mountain community also saw its share of Bay Area yuppie-naires, cash-laden bankers, lawyers, and high-tech entrepreneurs seeking out the perfect wilderness setting for their enormous vacation homes. Over the last couple of years, these McMansion-style estates had popped up like mushrooms, seemingly overnight, in nearby meadows and forest clearings. As it turned out, the owners of these properties were just as transient in their departure as in their arrival—the state’s recent economic downturn had led to a plumage of colorful FOR SALE and FORECLOSURE signs on many of these expansive front lawns.

The silent hills of the Sierra Nevada were unmoved by such fluctuations in fortune. They had seen boom and bust cycles before; they accepted both with equal passivity.

Time moved slowly through this region. The relics of an earlier era’s flirtation with the fickle whims of the mining industry were strewn across the landscape. Discarded water cannons that once pummeled gold dust from eroding hillsides sat rusting in dried up riverbeds. Wooden flumes that had been used to funnel river runoff to these canons crisscrossed the forest.

During the height of the Gold Rush, the mining camps surrounding Nevada City had attracted some of the Sierras’ highest concentrations of gold-seeking immigrants. The area’s population exploded, leading to a proliferation of miner-friendly taverns and saloons along the town’s main thoroughfare of Broad Street.

Several of Nevada City’s modern-day establishments claim heritage back to that wild and woolly Gold Rush–era, although nowadays, they cater to a somewhat less grimy clientele. Certainly the two distinguished gentlemen bellied up to the wood-paneled bar on the first floor of the National Hotel bore little resemblance to the grisly miners who once straddled their seats.

As the leading television broadcasters for the sport of professional cycling, Will Spigot and Harry Carlin were celebrities in the biking world, their faces instantly recognizable to the sport’s myriad fans. Spigot and Carlin had been covering the professional cycling circuit together for as long as either one of them could remember. They were a well-oiled team, accustomed to each other’s commentating style and personal eccentricities. Cycling fans loved to listen to their banter.

Will Spigot was a white-haired fox of a man with a slight build, sharp angular features, and a cheeky British wit. He relished the thrill of a close race, easily losing himself in the action until he was nearly as breathless as the panting riders whose progress he described.

Once the day’s racing was done, Spigot turned his attention to life’s finer comforts. He considered himself an expert on all aspects of high-end food, wine, and lodging, and he could provide extensive discourse and advice on these topics for every city, town, and hamlet that had hosted an international cycling stage within the past twenty-five years. He was a gentle, kindhearted man to all those around him—except when it came to the whims of his palate and the pleasures of a restful night’s sleep. Waiters and hotel staff crossed him at their peril.

Spigot’s broadcasting partner and long-suffering traveling companion was Harry Carlin, a fellow Brit and retired professional cyclist who had competed at the highest echelons of the sport during his day—long before cycling reached its current level of commercial success. As such, Carlin had a much greater tolerance for the hassles and inconveniences of travel. Truth be known, he rather enjoyed the humorous and unpredictable exploits that life on the road provided.

A rugged square-faced character, Harry was an intellectual, keenly interested in the world around him. He spent the cycling off-season on his farm in Africa, diligently researching the cultural and historical background of the coming stops along the racing calendar as well as any notable landmarks falling near the route. No tidbit of trivia escaped his study. Carlin worked hard to interject these obscure facts into his racing commentary—often over his partner’s objections.

Will Spigot glanced around the bar at its dainty mirrors, vintage wall mountings, and glass-fronted liquor cabinet before turning his gaze to his broadcasting companion. Carlin, he suspected, was the one responsible for choosing the location for their pre-race telecast.

Spigot waited for the last of the monitors and mikes to be connected; then he cleared his throat and began his introduction.

“Welcome to Nevada City, California. We’re coming to you live from the
historic
bar of the National Hotel.”

The camera panned from Spigot’s wry grin to Harry Carlin’s earnest countenance.

“This is the start of a new era for the Tour of California,” Spigot said affably. “For the first time since its inception, the starting date has been moved from February to May. This was due in part to the absolutely abysmal weather that plagued the Tour last year, when I believe it rained each and every day we were here—took me a month to dry out afterwards.” He shuddered with remembrance. “We’ve been assured that won’t happen
this
time.”

Carlin nodded his agreement as Spigot continued.

“Apart from the weather, the change in the starting date is meant to bring California’s tour into the meat and potatoes of the cycling calendar. It’s only been around for a few short years, but the Tour of California has rightfully become one of the world’s most preeminent professional cycling races. Many of the sport’s topflight cyclists will be competing here this week. The event is now being seen as an important warm-up for the granddaddy of them all, the Tour de France.”

He turned to look at his colleague. “Harry, we should have an excellent week of racing ahead of us.”

Harry Carlin leaned toward the camera as it swung his direction. “Will, I couldn’t agree with you more. It will all start here tomorrow morning in Nevada City, on Broad Street, right outside of where we’re sitting. The riders will make a parade circuit through this quaint little town and then kick out onto Highway 49 for the ride down to Sacramento.”

Carlin arched an eyebrow at Spigot. “You know, it’s a rather interesting place, this Nevada City. Most of the buildings up and down Broad Street, including this one, go all the way back to the Gold Rush days.”

Spigot’s mouth twisted cynically. “Yes, well, a bit of history is all fine and good,” he replied with a sour expression. “But you can take an idea a step too far. Not everything is meant to be retained and, ahem,
preserved
.”

Carlin winced visibly. “Oh dear, this is about your room, isn’t it?”

Spigot tilted his head skeptically. “I haven’t had time to fully inspect the accommodations, but I must say, I have concerns.”

“I’m sure we’ll get the full report tomorrow.”

“You bet you will.”

“All right then, William,” Carlin said with a chuckle. “Now, about the race . . . ”

MONTGOMERY CARMICHAEL STRUMMED
his fingers against the dashboard’s plastic rim, thinking about how much he loved his big white van.

It was an amazing machine, a tank and a mobile mancave. Whenever he was behind its wheel, he felt invincible. There was no task he couldn’t accomplish, no cargo he couldn’t haul.

Several years ago, he’d unbolted the second and third rows of seats from the floor, creating a cavernous storage area in the back half of the van to accommodate the numerous pieces of artwork that flowed in and out of his studio. Today, he thought with pride, that same open space was loaded with his flashy new road bike, several pieces of luggage, two cat-filled carriers, and enough cat-related paraphernalia to support at least twenty cats for a week, if not longer.

Monty beamed out the front windshield as the van passed through the eastern outskirts of Sacramento. His right hand skimmed down the dashboard and flipped on the radio. Then, his long bony fingers twirled the dial, searching for a local sports’ station.

“Aha, that’s it!” he exclaimed as the static of two British voices began to emit from the van’s speakers.

The broadcasters were discussing the next day’s race route. After the riders left Nevada City, they would navigate a winding path through the forest until they reached the interstate. Once they crossed beneath, they would swing out into the delta for a wide loop before turning toward the finish line in downtown Sacramento. A spark lit Monty’s eyes as the inspiration for an idea registered across his face.

He glanced over at the dozing woman in the passenger seat.
Perfect,
he thought with a mischievous grin. There’ll be no opposition to this little detour.

Monty hit the blinker as he approached the next exit ramp. A moment later, the van left the interstate for a narrow two-lane road that disappeared almost immediately into a dense thicket of pine trees.

From one of the plastic carriers in the back cargo area, a concerned voice called out, “
Mrao.
”

 

 

RUPERT GAZED SLEEPILY
up at his carrier’s plastic roof as his furry body soaked in the soothing hum of the van’s rumbling motor. His joints were perfectly relaxed and loosened from the vibration of the wheels rolling along the road below. He stretched his mouth into a wide yawn. He could ride like this for hours and hours . . . that is, until it was time to eat.

Rupert’s mouth snapped shut as he considered the arrival of a future hunger. He lifted his head to look out over the soft cushion of his belly. He had expected Monty’s van to be stocked with his favorite food, fried chicken. Certainly, there was enough room here in the cargo area for cooking equipment and a small stove, but he hadn’t seen anything resembling fried chicken in the packages that had been loaded up that morning.

Rupert’s blue eyes narrowed into slits as he stared at the corner of Monty’s elbow, all he could make out from the crate’s position on the floor. He would take this matter up with Monty at the next stop. That—and the strange clothes he’d started wearing. All that shiny green spandex was not a flattering look for a creature who had so little body fur to begin with.

Just like that mouse, Rupert mused drowsily as the image of the tiny bald rodent skittered across his brain. He cringed at the recollection of the animal’s wrinkly pink skin.

Fur, in Rupert’s fluffy-haired opinion, was the only way to go.

 

 

I WOKE TO
a swerving sensation and the voices of two men with foreign accents coming from the radio. The men were engaged in a vigorous discussion apparently related to the upcoming bike race, but I had no idea what to make of their references to field sprints, breakaways, and a person who called himself King of the Mountains.

Of one thing I was certain: The van was no longer on the interstate.