Nine Lives Last Forever (15 page)

“Absolutely not,” Dilla huffed her rebuke. “And don’t you tell anyone any different.”

Harold stood up and brushed a few crumbs from the folds of his ragged overalls. “One last word about Carmichael,” he said, taking a step toward Dilla. “I picked him up this morning—as you requested,” he added pointedly. “But I still don’t know why you wanted to get him involved.”

Harold waved his fingers in the air in front of Dilla’s face. “He’s got loose lips. Bound to spill the beans.”

The serenity of Dilla’s smile permeated even the thick rubber of the mask. “I’m rather counting on him for that.”

Harold grunted. “You’re sure he’s not collaborating with . . .”

Dilla’s voice grew more serious. “I’ve never been completely certain which team he’s on,” she admitted. She reflected, internally, that she could say the same of her lunch companion. “But this should be a good way to find out.”

“FROGS, YOU SAY?”
Monty asked with exaggerated puzzlement as he pushed back from the hatch. He sat on the floor of the Green Vase showroom, nervously brushing his hand through the thick, bouncing curls springing from the top of his head.

“Frogs,” I replied suspiciously, swinging the flashlight in front of me as I marched up the stairs from the basement. My feet stomped against the shaky steps as I held the flashlight in front of me, flourishing it at the green frog-shaped cufflinks on the wrists of the white collared shirt Monty wore beneath his gray sweater.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Monty demurred, but the tone of his voice lacked sincerity. He scooted back from the hatch’s open hole, crab-walking on his hands and feet in hasty retreat.

Rupert and Isabella followed me up out of the basement as Monty slid his feet underneath his bony frame and popped up to full height. He sidestepped around the leather dental chair, swiveling it like a shield between us. His thin lips spread into a rigid grin, but the forced effort made his narrow face seem strangely contorted.

I tried to effect my most intimidating stare, but a pungent whiff of engine oil tripped up my concentration. I bent over the chair toward Monty, sniffing as I confirmed the source of the smell. Rupert hopped up onto the leather seat cushion of the dental chair and added his own loud, snuffling sounds.

I pulled back from the chair and delivered my verdict. “You smell like an auto repair shop,” I said, crinkling my nose.

Monty’s lips tensed tightly. “New aftershave,” he replied pertly.

Rupert issued a disapproving sniff and bounced off of the chair.

“Let’s get back to the frogs,” I repeated accusingly, trying to redirect the conversation as I returned the point of my flashlight to Monty’s frog-shaped cufflinks. “I just found a frog in my basement.”

I intentionally omitted mention of the frog-sighting from the upstairs apartment. Not in a million years would I confess to Montgomery Carmichael that I had seen two mustache-wearing amphibians in my bedroom.

“A frog . . . in your basement?” Monty raised his eyebrows as he stretched his long neck to look into the dark hole of the hatch. “You don’t say.”

“Just like the one from City Hall,” I pressed, squinting my eyes at Monty.

My mind scrambled to pull the scattered pieces together. There had to be some connection between Mark Twain’s famous frog story and the inexplicable frog invasion of both City Hall and the Green Vase. I felt certain that Monty knew more than he was letting on.

Monty stroked the point of his chin as he continued to peer curiously down into the hatch.

“What a strange ecological coincidence,” he said before turning away. With a skip of his leather loafers, Monty danced around to the front of the dental chair and dropped lightly onto its seat. He pulled the recline lever to extend the seat to a flattened position and leaned back, closing his eyes.

I rolled my upper lip inward, contemplating Monty’s unconvincing bluff. I needed a bigger stick to prod him with.

I walked up to the cashier counter and pulled out one of the Mark Twain books. Slowly, I returned to the back of the showroom and circled around to the front of the dental chair. All along the way, Rupert trotted on the floor near my feet, his eyes hopefully following the book, as if it might suddenly transform into a plate of fried chicken.

With a stiff outstretched arm, I waved the green book in front of Monty’s possumed face.

“So, you’ve got one of these, too,” Monty said assessingly, cracking open one eye.

“
Too
?” I pressed. “How many are there?”

“What else have you got?” Monty asked loftily, ignoring my question.

I crunched my lips together, pushing out a sigh of frustration as I crossed my arms over my chest.

Monty reclosed his eyes and mimicked a snore, but a confident, knowing smile was now spreading across his face.

Ruefully, I reached into my back pocket. Monty’s eyes slanted open, watching as I pulled out the black-and-white photo and laid it on the wide armrest of the dentist recliner.

Monty’s eyes popped fully open. “Aha!” he said, quickly snatching up the photo. He slammed the recliner into reverse and sprang up from the chair.

“Do you see them?” I asked as he paced toward the front of the store, closely studying the photo as he walked. “Dilla, Wang, Oscar, and . . .”

“Your good friend Frank,” Monty filled in sarcastically. Once more, his long, bony fingers pulled through the curls on the top of his head, this time conveying the reflexive action of a person deep in thought.

“Is this . . . the Vigilance Committee?” I asked tentatively.

Monty glanced back at me, his superior smirk my confirmation.

“I . . . just don’t . . . understand,” I stuttered in protest as I trailed behind him. “What is . . . what is . . . Frank Napis doing in the photo?”

Monty looked up at me, his expression brashly confident. “You don’t know very much about all of this do you?”

I wiped a hand across my forehead. The little bit I knew about Oscar’s Vigilance Committee days still didn’t make much sense to me.

The Uncle Oscar I had known was a gruff, isolated hermit of a man. He’d never once mentioned city politics or given any hint of the populist aspirations purportedly espoused by the Vigilance Committee. Oscar had been an island, self-sufficient and inaccessible. It was difficult to imagine him mixed up with an antiestablishment movement, particularly one that had apparently threatened the power structure of City Hall.

“Oscar just didn’t seem like the type,” I sighed.

Monty leaned up against the cashier counter as he stared into the black-and-white photo. “I never would have guessed it myself,” he acknowledged frankly. “Old Oscar, fighting for the common man, wrangling with the octopus, so to speak.”

“Wrangling with the—what?” I asked.

“The octopus,” Monty nodded smugly. “That’s old-time slang for the many-armed monster of big business.” He squiggled his arms in the air to illustrate the reference. “Weaving its tentacles into every aspect of life and politics.”

I stepped back to avoid Monty’s wildly swinging arms, shaking my head skeptically.

Monty shrugged his narrow shoulders. “The phrase goes back to Adolph Sutro, you know, the millionaire populist. He ran for Mayor back in the late 1800s. All of his campaign literature talked about chopping the arms off of the octopus.”

I scrunched up my face, unconvinced. “Are you sure we’re talking about
my
uncle? He just wasn’t . . .”

Monty pumped his eyebrows at me. “Don’t think of him as your dear old Uncle Oscar. Try to picture him more as—the Lone Ranger.”

I put my hand on my hips. “My Uncle Oscar? The man who threw you out on your ear every chance he got?”

“Ah yes.” Monty rubbed his right earlobe, remembering. “The Lone Ranger—with a dark side.” Monty’s face suddenly brightened. “Able to fake his own death with the use of a special spider toxin and tulip extract antidote . . .”

Groaning, I leaned over Monty’s shoulder to take another look at the black-and-white photo.

“Why is Oscar dressed up like Mark Twain?” I asked, still thrown by his strange costume.

Monty let out a spurt of laughter. “You really don’t know about the frogs, then?” he asked, shaking his head with a giggle.

I glared sternly at Monty; I was growing irritated by his antics. “How do
you
know so much about this?”

Monty thunked his finger against the pointed tip of his nose, causing the cartilage to quiver in vibration. Then, he swung his hand toward me, palm facing outward.

“Wait,” he said as I gripped the edge of the counter in frustration.

Monty placed the green Twain book on the cashier counter next to the photo and flipped it open to the featured essay,
The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County
. He motioned his hand between the essay and the Twain-impersonating Oscar.

I stared at the two items, trying to understand the meaning Monty apparently deemed so obvious. Nothing came to me.

“Why is there a frog in my basement?” I finally demanded testily.

“It probably came in through that nasty tunnel of yours,” Monty said with a dismissive shudder. He raised his finger professorially. “I’m far more interested in the frog at City Hall.” He winked encouragingly. “That’s the one you should be asking me about.”

I sighed, trying to draw on my last reserves of patience. “Okay, fine. What was the frog doing at City Hall?”

Monty clapped his hands together gleefully. “It’s the VC’s calling card. The sudden appearance of frogs, that is.” Monty’s eyes were now gleaming with excitement. He pointed enthusiastically at the photo. “Back then, back when the Vigilance Committee was active, that was their code, their symbol—their mark.”

Monty stepped back from the counter and slashed his right arm through the air as if he were holding a sword, making three wide strokes in the shape of a Z.

“Perhaps less of a Lone Ranger,” Monty said slyly, pinching his fingers over his lips and drawing out a long, curving mustache. “Your Uncle Oscar had more panache than that. He was more like . . .
Zorro
!”

I pursed my lips to stifle a retort as my eyes focused back in on the photo where Frank Napis and my uncle stood, shoulder to shoulder, smiling in a friendship I knew to be fake. The sight made me cringe.

“And, now?” I asked, afraid I already knew the answer. “What is the significance of a frog appearing now?”

“It means they’re back!” Monty announced exuberantly. “The VC is back in action!”

He started jumping up and down on the squeaky floorboards, triumphantly throwing his hands in the air before finally bubbling out.

“And the best part is—
I
’ve been recruited!”

MONTY BEGAN RUNNING
celebratory victory laps around the Green Vase showroom as he reveled in his pronouncement. I picked up the photo from the cashier counter, this time focusing on the background of the scene.

Dilla, Mr. Wang, Frank Napis, and Oscar appeared to be standing outside of a small storefront on a busy neighborhood street. The number for the store’s street address was painted on a glass door behind the group. Squinting through my glasses, I could just make it out: 575.

“Do you know where this was taken?” I asked, pointing at the photo. “It looks like it’s in San Francisco?”

Monty spun around, flipping his head toward me in surprise. “You really don’t know?”

I shook my head. I was growing weary of feeling so uninformed.

The shadow of an orange and white MUNI bus lumbered past the window, and Monty’s eyes brightened with the flicker of an idea.

“Grab your coat. I’ll take you there,” he said brightly, picking up the photo. “If we hurry, we can catch the bus at the corner.”

“Oh no,” I moaned as Monty grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the front door. “Not the bus.”

I snatched my jacket from a peg near the cashier counter as Monty yanked me outside of the Green Vase.

“It’s unhealthy, this phobia you’ve developed about buses,” Monty opined as he dragged me down Jackson Street. “I’m staging an intervention. Come on, it’ll take us right there.”

Monty waved frantically at the driver who downshifted the bus to an idle, holding it at the corner. Monty sprinted ahead of me as the side doors of the bus unfolded. With a flourish to indicate his thanks to the driver, he bounded up into the carriage.

I hung back, balking from an overwhelming sense of dread, but Monty waved urgently for me to follow him inside. Monty paid my fare as I reluctantly started off after him.

I should have trusted my instincts. I should have resisted Monty’s persistent hand gestures. I should have known better than to get on that bus.

 

 

I BROKE INTO
a sprint to catch up to the front door of the bus before it took off. As I climbed up the steps, I glanced briefly at the driver. His face was turned away from me; he appeared to be adjusting the driver’s side mirror. Something struck me funny about the way he stuck his arm out over the back of his shoulder to wave me past, but I thought nothing of it until later in the ride.

Even though the bus was practically empty of riders, Monty strode purposefully toward the rear seats, plopping himself down onto a bench near the back.

Monty reached his seat just before the bus lurched forward, but I was still walking, midway down the aisle. The momentum of the sudden acceleration nearly knocked me off my feet. I had no chance to regain my footing. The bus immediately swung into a sharp right turn, causing my hips to bang against the metal framing of the nearest seat.

Gripping onto a seat back, I hauled my wobbly legs down the remaining length of the bus, finally landing with a hard bump on the bench across the aisle from Monty.