Nine Lives Last Forever (33 page)

“Hello!” Sam greeted us joyfully, almost unrecognizable in his clean clothes and recently showered state. He stepped around the counter and swung his arms around Monty’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight bear hug.

“Hi, there, Sam,” Monty managed to squeeze out from inside the smothering embrace.

“What do you think of the store?” Sam asked, clearly excited by his new job. “I get to use the cash register and everything.”

“It looks great, Sam,” I said, trying to stay out of bear hug range without seeming standoffish.

Sam thumped his chest and grinned bashfully. “My mom put in a good word for me,” he said sheepishly. “She said this would be a much safer job than City Hall—what with all of its recent flooding.”

Monty and I nodded along. I knew from personal experience that the powerful spider toxin hallucinations were difficult to shake. It seemed easier to let them drift slowly from Sam’s memory than to try to convince him that it had all been a dream.

“Course, I’m just here part-time,” Sam said as he leaned up against the counter. “The rest of the day I spend out with the frogs.”

He picked up the newspaper from the counter and pointed to the lead story. “They wrote all about it in today’s paper. There’s even a quote in here from me!”

I had read the article myself earlier that morning. In the aftermath of the frog invasion of City Hall, the Mayor had been more than eager to support the initiative turning the Sutro Baths ruins into a frog preserve—not the least because this provided a convenient location to relocate the hundreds of thousands of frogs that had taken up residence in the rotunda. Crews were working around the clock to implement the desalination renovations to the seawall. Accommodations for City Hall’s non-native frog species had been hastily prepared in an empty pavilion at Golden Gate Park, which was now destined to become a permanent frog exhibit.

It had taken the better part of the previous week to round up all of City Hall’s amphibian inhabitants. Occasional brown smudges on the rotunda’s pink marble were still being found by the early morning cleaning crew.

The story had been extensively covered by both local and statewide news media—and endlessly mocked by the nation’s late-night comedians. The image of the Mayor’s horrified face as he fled down the steps of City Hall was now deeply embedded in the minds of the state’s potential voters. Seizing the opportunity, several additional contenders had entered the gubernatorial race, including the President of the Board of Supervisors. Most political observers expected the Mayor to announce his withdrawal shortly.

My gaze travelled to the feathery orange mustache that lay on the counter next to the newspaper. Sam picked it up when he saw me staring at it.

“It’s so my dad’s ghost can find me again,” Sam explained. “Since I’m no longer working at City Hall.” He seemed puzzled at my worried expression. “You know, the next time he comes back to visit.”

MR. WANG AND
I slowly walked along a shaded sidewalk in Redwood Park, passing trunk after soaring trunk until we arrived at a bench near the frog fountain.

I pulled Mr. Wang’s wheeled oxygen tank behind me, carefully maneuvering it so as not to disturb the plastic tubing wrapped around his head. As we sat down on the bench, Mr. Wang closed his eyes and took a deep, fortifying draw from the tank.

From my coat pocket, I pulled out the worn piece of paper with Oscar’s handwriting on it. “So,” I said, hopefully holding out the paper. “
Follow the frogs
?”

Wang reached out with his bony hand and patted me on the knee. “Amazing little creatures,” he replied with a chuckle. “Frank knew something was up the minute those frogs started showing up at City Hall.” He struggled to clear his throat. “Unfortunately, I had no idea he was hiding in its dome.” His expression turned serious. “We got to Sam and the security guards just in time with the tulip antidote.”

I sighed ruefully. “Monty was convinced we would find Sutro’s missing gold up there.”

The narrow corners of Mr. Wang’s mouth dipped downward. “Well, you did, didn’t you?”

He grinned at my puzzled expression. “For a while after the shootings, Oscar left the remaining gold ingots in their original hiding place inside the merry-go-round’s frog. Then an opportunity came along to put them to a good use—one that the entire city could enjoy. I think old Adolph Sutro would have approved.”

“What was it?” I asked, shaking my head in bewilderment.

“The frogs did their best to show it to you. They took you to the closest possible viewing location.” Mr. Wang’s thin lips smirked. “You were standing right beneath it.”

“The dome!” I said, finally catching on. “It went into the replating of City Hall’s dome?”

Mr. Wang nodded and took another concentrated pull from the oxygen tank. “Anonymous donation, of course.”

Mr. Wang’s bony fingers fiddled absentmindedly with the plastic tubing that fed into his nostrils. “You know, Oscar never got over the Milk and Moscone murders. He always suspected the shootings were part of a greater conspiracy, one that involved Frank Napis.”

Mr. Wang heaved out a rasping sigh. “Frank and Oscar were fellow janitors there at the time. Frank switched shifts with Oscar for the morning of the shooting. Otherwise, it would have been Oscar who caught the Supervisor sneaking in through that window.”

Mr. Wang shrugged. “Oscar never found any concrete proof to back up his suspicions, but when Napis popped up in Jackson Square, Oscar vowed he would keep a closer eye on him this time.” He shook his head sadly. “His surveillance of Frank had seemed like a fairly innocuous obsession—at least until a couple of months ago.”

The water from the fountain surged, and the bronze frogs sparkled in the splash. I couldn’t help but wonder about my uncle, all of his secrets, and the questions that still lingered about his death.

“It’s strange to be with you again,” I said slowly. “After I thought you were dead.”

Mr. Wang’s gray eyes gazed blankly into the pumping water of the fountain.

“I sometimes wonder . . . about Oscar . . . about his death?” I gave him a pleading, questioning look.

Mr. Wang leaned back on the bench and looked skyward, his expression unreadable. “You know, Rebecca, your Uncle had a great fondness for cats. He thought a person could glean a great deal of wisdom and insight from the feline species.”

I laughed. “What does that have to do with . . . ?”

Mr. Wang smiled wryly and tugged on his wispy trail of beard. “Your uncle used to say, if you used them wisely, you could make nine lives last forever.”