Nine Lives Last Forever (32 page)

“But what about Oscar?” Another wave crashed on the rocks, nearly drowning out my words.

“Oscar?” Dilla asked, her face truly puzzled.

Monty pointed the snorkel at her. “Last night, Sam told us
Oscar
was his father.”

I gulped, blinking as the scene from the attic flashed before me.

“What are you talking about?” Dilla demanded. “Frank Napis, or whatever name he’s using today, that man is Sam’s father. He was my, let’s see”—she began ticking off on her fingers—“third husband, I think. Not a good choice, I’ll grant you that.”

Miranda’s painted lips curled tightly. She raised four fingers on her left hand and, scowling, mouthed, “Fourth husband.”

I pushed back a strand of flying hair and tried to tuck it behind my ear. “But, Sam said . . .”

Dilla clapped her hands together. “Oh look, there’s hubby number eight, hobbling down the trail through the ruins.” She hopped up and down, trying to draw his attention. “Wang, you old coot! We lost him.” She winced, watching his progress over the rocks. “Oh dear, if he falls, he’s going to break a hip.”

“Mr. Wang? He’s your current husband?” I demanded.

“Number eight,” Miranda confirmed flatly.

“Yes, yes, dear, I’ve been with Wang for several years now. Why else would I have come up with that costume? I wanted us to match for once.”

Mr. Wang, I thought, was going to have some explaining to do the next time I cornered him for a conversation.

Miranda rolled her eyes and began to walk back toward the ruins. She waved toward Mr. Wang, who had almost made his way down the hill; then, she pulled out her mobile phone and began to dial.

Dilla leaned toward me. “I knew Frank was hiding behind that ridiculous mustache the whole time he was running that antique store next to the Green Vase. We all knew it, even Oscar.” She shook her head sadly. “Wang and Oscar thought it was better for us to keep an eye on him, so that we knew what he was up to.”

Dilla waved her hands dismissively. “I was fine to let Frank parade around in all of his silly costumes, so long as he stayed away from Sam. I didn’t want Frank showing up out of the blue, upsetting him.”

She shook her head. “Sam’s my son, but even I have to admit he’s a little, well, just a wee bit off sometimes. Lately, he’s been trying to tell me that he’s communicating with Frank’s ghost.” She scrunched her face in frustration. “That’s why I wanted to get Frank out of the picture for good this time—to protect Sam. Frank threatened he’d pay Sam a visit if I didn’t find the missing VC gold and hand it over to him. I don’t know how the police managed to miss him up there at the Cliff House.”

I was still struggling to keep up with Dilla’s disclosures. “But, Sam pointed at
Oscar
in the picture . . .”

“Trust me, dear,” Dilla said bluntly. “I’m rather an authority on this subject. Sam’s father is Frank. Frank Napis.”

I suddenly saw an image of Frank Napis, dressed up as Mark Twain, playing cards in the attic with Sam.

“Frank Napis has been hiding out in City Hall for the last several weeks,” I said with a rush of concern. “He’s been with Sam the whole time.”

SAM WOKE UP
Sunday morning on the cot in the attic above the dome of City Hall. He yawned and stretched his arms as he looked out across the sparkling view of the city. Behind him, a gentle chorus of waking frogs murmured in the glass tanks. In his opinion, there could be no better place to greet the day.

He glanced over at the card table and smiled. His father had been there sometime during the night. Sam rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully as he examined the card his father had played.

“Cunning, old man,” Sam mused. “I didn’t see that coming.”

Sam plopped down into the folding chair next to his hand of cards. A square plastic container had been placed in the center of the table. Moist droplets had condensed on the interior of the lid from the hot food inside.

Fried chicken, Sam thought. It was one of his favorite meals. It was so nice of his dad to have left the food for him. The security guards that worked the night shift were fond of it, too. They were always appreciative when a box of fried chicken unexpectedly appeared at the security station.

He thought back to the previous evening. It was just like his dad to warn him ahead of time that he would have visitors. The conversation had played out just as they’d planned. The woman had been shell-shocked when he’d brought out that old black-and-white photo and redirected her pointing finger to the man in the white suit and false beard. Sam smiled, remembering the woman’s stunned reaction. Yes, he was certain, she had believed his little fib about his father.

Still reflecting on the scene from the previous evening, Sam cracked open the lid of the plastic container and took a whiff of the chicken.

It was slightly different from the concoction his dad usually left him. A handwritten note taped onto the lid read “Extra Spicy Recipe.” Perhaps, Sam thought, that explained the burnt red color of the crust.

Sam pulled out a leg and tentatively bit into it, testing the heat of the spices. The crust was still crispy, the meat underneath tender and juicy. He smacked his lips together, savoring the treat. He was a little disappointed, he had to admit. Despite the warning, the flavors weren’t that spicy after all.

Sam walked over to the bench near the entrance of the room and picked up the book with the bright green cover. His dad had dropped it off for him a couple of days ago.

The frog story in the book was a bit distressing, Sam thought, as he continued to munch on the chicken, but he had assured all of his frog companions that they needn’t worry. He wouldn’t let anything like that happen to them.

As Sam flipped through the pages with his greasy fingers, he thought he heard a slight gurgling sound somewhere in the room. One of the hoses he’d hooked up to the frog tanks must have come loose, he thought. Sam lay the book on the card table and began searching through the tanks, exchanging pleasantries with the frog inhabitants as he checked the tubing.

He paused at the card table to pick out a second leg of chicken. This piece wasn’t nearly as good as the first. There was some sort of strange aftertaste in the crust.

“Probably the spices,” Sam reported to the frogs as he made a sour face.

A small pool of water began to form on the floor of the attic as Sam returned his attention to the tanks. All of the tubing appeared to be functioning properly, but the dripping sound had now increased to a trickling stream. A pool of water seeped out around his feet, soaking the soles of his boots. At this flow rate, the source of the water should be easy to spot. He continued to look through the tanks. Where was the leak?

As Sam passed from tank to tank, he began to notice a flush, feverish feeling on his forehead. He wiped a cold, clammy hand across his face. The plump of his cheeks pulsed with a steamy heat.

The water was rising faster now, threatening to soak his cot and the few personal belongings he had stored in the room. Sam dashed around trying to lift items up off of the floor.

His head started to pound with the drum of an excruciating headache. He’d never known any sickness to come on so fast. He’d take an aspirin, he told himself, as soon as he dealt with the water leak.

The water continued to creep up his legs; the level was now just below his knees. He sloshed through the room, still fruitlessly searching the water lines feeding into the aquarium tanks.

Several of the frogs hopped out of their tanks into the water flooding the attic, splashing joyfully as they swam about the room, their aquatic realm suddenly expanded.

In no time at all, the water rose another foot. Sam glanced down, disbelievingly, at the liquid circling around his waist. He could no longer see his feet—the water had turned green from the amphibian bodies zooming through it, their muscular back legs kicking with the force of a foaming frog frenzy.

The water soaked through his overalls so that the fabric stuck to his skin, increasing its weight. It was becoming difficult to wade through the heavy, pressing liquid.

The card table began to float, the playing cards sliding on its surface. His father’s chair toppled over. Sam watched, panicked, as the feathery orange mustache slid off of the metal seat. He thrust his hands down into the water, trying to catch the floating hairpiece.

The water was cold and frigid against the feverish heat of his skin. His arms and legs flailed about, bumping up against a myriad of swimming frog bodies. The mustache was nowhere to be found.

Struggling, Sam lifted himself up from the water. As his head rose above the surface, he saw a movement in the spired ceiling of the attic. Balanced on top of one of the rafters, the two sides of its long, feathery hairpiece fluttering like wings, sat the missing mustache.

Sam watched, awestruck, as the mustache flew gracefully from one beam to the next. He had never known it to behave in such an odd fashion.

Sam held his hand up above the water, stretching it out as if offering a human perch. The mustache’s hairy wings beat back and forth with contemplation. Sam cooed at the tiny beast, trying to entice it toward him.

He soon regretted the action. As the mustache approached, it sharpened into a hostile arrowlike shape, targeting Sam’s head. Sam ducked down into the water, trying to fend off the attacking creature’s sharp pecks.

As Sam’s head sank beneath the water, the dark liquid grabbed hold of him, pulling him down with forceful icy fingers. Multitudes of green bodies swarmed over his face, blocking his view of the ceiling above. His arms and legs flailed about as he struggled to gain leverage on the slippery floor. Fluid began filling his lungs, constricting his breathing. His body was burning, screaming for oxygen. He had to get back to the surface.

A grim, wrinkled man appeared as if from out of nowhere. The edges of his grisly black hair floated in the water as he stared down at Sam. He wore a ripped-up pair of overalls that were far more frayed, Sam thought, than his own.

The man came at him, arms outstretched, reaching for his face. Sam resisted, but the wiry old man was much stronger than he looked. The man’s fingers clawed at Sam’s mouth, trying to pry it open. Sam knew he couldn’t let that happen; he was holding his breath beneath the water. It was all the air he had left.

But the man could not be stopped. He was relentless in his assault. The skin on his hands was so loose and wrinkly that it slipped beneath Sam’s grasp.

The water pressed down on him, stealing his last seconds. It was over; he was done, slipping from consciousness.

A cool flowery liquid filled Sam’s mouth and sank down his throat. His tense muscles relaxed. His jaw slackened as he savored the rush of air that accompanied the sweet floral taste that, for some strange reason, reminded him of fried chicken.

The next minute, Sam felt a compote of crushed tulip petals being crammed into his mouth. He began to chew, releasing the petal’s fresh, flowery juice.

The strength slowly seeped back into his body, and he sat up on the quickly draining floor. Mystified, he watched as the water rushed through the windows, gushed out over the balcony, and flowed down the gold detailing of the dome.

Looking around the room, he found himself alone. The strange intruder who had nearly strangled him beneath the water was gone.

ABOUT A WEEK
later, Monty and I climbed aboard an orange and white MUNI bus at the corner of Jackson and Battery. After carefully scrutinizing the number and destination listed on the front of the bus and comparing it with a detailed map of the city’s bus routes, I had convinced myself that we were headed for the Castro.

Nervously, I gripped the curved corner of my seat cushion as I watched other patrons enter and exit the bus with a relaxed normalcy I was still unable to muster. I turned my gaze to the window and tried to tamp down the sickening brew of anxiety that was stirring in my stomach.

Monty leaned back in the seat next to me, not the least bit concerned about our rumbling speed or the identity of our driver—I had asked to see his MUNI identification card before boarding.

The bus slowed to an idle at the triangled corner of Market and 17th, waiting for the light to change and release us for the broad, sweeping left-hand turn onto Castro. Monty nudged my shoulder.

“You’ll need to pull the rope to get the next stop,” he said, grinning at my white-knuckled fingers, which were still clamped down on the seat cushion.

Gulping with apprehension, I released my right hand and swung it up to catch the rope that hung beneath my window. A slight buzz registered my signal, and I saw the driver nod toward me in the rearview mirror, acknowledging my request.

Monty used the back of the nearest bench seat to pull himself up as the bus made the wide turn onto Castro. The afternoon sun shone down on the street, the gentle downward slope shielding it from the day’s otherwise brisk breeze.

The bus came to a creaking halt outside of the Castro Movie Theater. The vehicle’s accordion doors unfolded, and Monty bounded out onto the sidewalk. With my nervous, shaking feet, I followed him as quickly as I could, but Monty had already strutted halfway down the block by the time I was clear of the bus.

I caught up to him at the corner and together we waited for the bus to drive past before crossing the street and entering a small card shop at address number 575.

A Warhol-style mural took up much of one wall. The bright, stylized painting depicted Harvey Milk’s wide, grinning face, positioned so that he was looking out through the card shop’s glass fronting to the street.

A small bell rang as Monty pushed open the door, and we walked inside. A counter at the back of the store was manned by a red-haired, clean-shaven gentleman in a crisp white T-shirt and jeans. He looked up from a newspaper that was spread open across the counter and beamed at us in recognition.