“For chrissakes, Porter. I can deliver. You’ve gotta believe me.” A trickle of sweat broke out on his upper lip.
Half of me believed him and half of me didn’t. Still, I needed someone like Aikens if I was ever going to be redeemed for the botched reptile shipment. Clearly, the air courier’s death could never be rectified.
“Then here’s the deal. You’re not to catch or raise anymore endangered butterflies. And believe me, I’ll know because I intend to stop by and check.”
The truth was I’d never be able to tell one type of caterpillar from another. The only giveaway would have to be what they ate, since both San Bruno elfins and Mission blues feed on very specific plants.
“Sure, no problem,” Aikens agreed, his tongue lapping up a wayward bead of sweat.
“By the way, those butterflies in your ice chest? I’ll be taking them with me when I leave.”
“What the hell for?”
“I’m going to drive back up to San Bruno Mountain and release them.”
“What, are you kidding me?” Aikens gasped, beginning to hyperventilate.
“Why? What’s the problem? You said yourself that they’re not dead, but only stunned. Those butterflies are far more valuable back in the wild where they can breed than lying pinned in a case in someone’s collection. Oh yeah, and as for the chrysalis of that San Bruno elfin? You’d better make sure that butterfly stays alive once it hatches, because I fully intend to release it as well.”
“What are you doing? You’re killing me here!” Mitch protested. “You’re taking all my heavy hitters. How am I supposed to pay the bills? Huh? You ever stop to think about that? Aw jeez, and I promised to buy Ma a new vibrating chair for her birthday. Those babies were gonna bring me in some much-needed bucks.”
“Thanks for reminding me. That’s the other thing. I want the names and addresses of those people that were lined up to buy your elfin and Mission blue specimens.”
Mitch raised his hands, as if to fend me off. “No can do.”
“Wrong answer,” I responded in a threatening tone.
“Hey, cool your jets, Porter. It’s just that I don’t have any takers for the hot stuff yet.”
I sincerely doubted that, but there wasn’t much I could do to prove it at the moment.
“Sorry, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to come up with something better. I really want to trust you, Aikens. But my boss will kill me if I walk out of here empty-handed. You’ve got to give me a piece of information as a show of good faith before I leave.”
“You mean other than letting you take my most valuable butterflies?” he muttered.
“First of all, you’re not letting me take them. I’m keeping you out of jail. Let’s get that straight. Now give me a name.” I menacingly rattled the handcuffs.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m thinking.” Aikens scratched his chin with two grubby fingers. “Okay. There’s this guy that goes by a weird handle. Calls himself Horus. Or at least that’s what other collectors call him. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, word has it he sells the kind of rare butterflies that no one else can find. Seems he’s got the magic touch. All I know is that the guy lives somewhere here in Northern California.”
“Thanks for narrowing down the territory for me. So, have you ever bought anything from him?”
“Me? No way. Uh-uh,” Aikens responded a bit too emphatically. “His prices are way too rich for my blood. Besides, I’ve heard that he’s very discriminating when it comes to his clientele. Only deals with big-money A-list collectors. You know, the kind that’ll drop five, ten thou without giving it a second thought. If you’re looking to nab one of the head honchos in the butterfly trade, then this is your man.”
Either that, or Aikens was hoping to knock a competitor out of his path.
“That’s still not good enough,” I replied, yanking his chain.
Aikens stared in disbelief, as if I’d lost all my marbles. “Whadda ya talking about? I’m giving you the Hope diamond here. Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”
I jangled the cuffs once more, enjoying the sensation of them in my hands.
“All right, but you better find out a whole lot more about this Horus and do it quick.”
Horus, huh? He could have called himself Ali Baba or Dick Cheney for all I cared. What mattered was that this guy was going to be my ticket out of purgatory.
I picked up the ice chest, opened the door to Aikens’s bedroom, and nearly tripped over the cat. The pervading stench raced into my nose, giving me a whole new respect for household deodorizing products. I decided right then and there that part of Mitch’s punishment would be to make him clean up his room and change the kitty litter.
Then I hotfooted it down the hallway, but not fast enough. Ma Aikens caught me as she walked out of the kitchen with two mugs in hand.
“Hey, where are you going so soon? I just made us a coupla cups of joe. We didn’t get a chance to bond yet.”
“Sorry, but I’m already late for an appointment. I’ll have to take a rain check,” I apologized, balancing the ice chest on one knee while trying to open the front door.
But Ma Aikens had a desperate look in her eye. “Hang on there a minute. I’m sure we can work something out. Mitch isn’t such bad husband material when you stop and think about it—particularly for a girl your age. After all, it’s not like you’re twenty-five and still have the pick of the litter.”
The woman was lucky I had my hands full; otherwise, I’d have been tempted to deck her. Instead, I rushed out to my Ford, placed the cooler in the back and took off, heading for San Bruno Mountain. Only then did I allow myself to think back on what Aikens had said.
He was right. Butterfly collecting didn’t have the same negative connotation attached to it as harpooning whales, killing tigers for their parts, or shooting tame gazelles on hunting ranches. But then there had also been plenty of buffalo roaming around on the Western plains two hundred years ago, until man got through with them. For that reason alone, endangered species deserve protection, and rare butterflies certainly fit into that category.
One thing that’s remained consistently true is that whenever there’s money to be made, wildlife has always been on the losing end—and the rarer the animal, the bigger the profit. Aikens was just one more greedy consumer plundering the resources for his own personal gain.
I finished my drive up San Bruno Mountain, parked in the lot and opened the ice chest. There on top lay the same collection of comatose butterflies that I’d seen earlier in the day. Wings spread open, they dozed in glassine envelopes, their colors even more exquisite than I had previously remembered. It became immediately apparent why people are so enchanted by their beauty. Being alone, I now took the time for a closer inspection.
I instantly recognized the monarch, a butterfly as regal as its name, with brownish orange wings outlined in black. Another one had silver patches on the underside, making me wonder if it might not be a threatened San Francisco silverspot. But the butterfly I remained most enamored of was the dainty blue and lavender specimen. Aikens had as much as admitted by his silence that this was the endangered Mission blue butterfly. How strange to be in the presence of one of the last of its kind, and know that it might soon vanish.
I gathered all the envelopes and trudged back once more to the meadow, this time carrying a treasure trove of living riches with me. The other difference was that the grassland was now golden, reflecting the glow of the gilded sun.
I sat down in the grass and spread out the envelopes before me. Then I carefully ripped them open, one by one. The butterflies slowly awoke from their deep slumber, as if magically revived by the warmth of the sun. Each fluttered its wings and took off to resume the life of which it had nearly been robbed. Only the Mission blue lagged behind to momentarily light on my arm.
I held my breath and didn’t move, hoping to freeze time. Funny the games we play. I tried to make a deal with God, asking that for every moment my winged friend stayed like this the impendin
g doom of a mammal, a bird, or a butterfly be reversed. But the Mission blue chose not to linger.
It was then I remembered a tale I’d once heard. Whisper a wish to a butterfly and it will journey to heaven, where your request will be granted. I softly murmured my heart’s desire: that all those creatures I loved so much be saved. Then I took a deep breath and quickly exhaled, hoping to help the Mission blue on its way. My plan must have worked, for within the blink of an eye, the beating speck of blue vanished into the deep azure sky.
I dialed the car phone and checked my voice mail while heading home. The sole message was from my boss. He always liked to hear that the weekends were quiet. I returned his call, having decided to keep the information I’d learned to myself for now. The reason was simple. I was hoping to protect my ass.
“All clear on the western front?” Agent Brad Thomas asked, after we’d said our hellos.
“More or less,” I responded. “There was just one phone call. A tip about a guy netting butterflies on San Bruno Mountain.”
“Did you follow it up?”
There it was: I could already hear the tension building in his voice. Thomas had made it perfectly clear there was to be no more trouble while I remained on his watch. I’d become known as a liability within the Service that no resident agent in charge wanted to touch. Thomas was simply the latest in a long line of managers on whom I’d been dumped. The timing for him couldn’t have been worse. He’d hoped to lay low for the next twelve months until his retirement.
“The guy claimed to be innocent, so I just gave him a warning,” I fudged, choosing not to mention what had really taken place. Thomas would doubtless put the kibosh on my work with Aikens should he get wind of it.
Any leeway I’d once had went up in flames along with the disastrous results of my controlled delivery. Ever since then I’d received strict orders to do nothing but write up tickets on simple violations. That being the case, I figured why give Thomas any unnecessary agita?
“Good,” Thomas replied, with an audible sigh of relief. “That’s what I like to hear. Things will be fine as long as you keep your nose clean.”
I chafed at the words, but kept my mouth shut. It was clear I’d become Fish and Wildlife’s number-one scapegoat. I could live with that. But what stuck in my craw were my boss’s recent words of warning.
“There are more important things than making cases.”
Not to my mind, there weren’t. It made me brazen enough to stick a toe into the murky waters of “things that I might be allowed to do” and see how far I could push it.
“By the way, the man that called with the tip was Dr. Mark Davis from Stanford University’s Center for Conservation Biology.
“Uh-huh,” Thomas indifferently responded.
So far, so good. Even better, I could hear a ball game playing on his TV in the background. Maybe he’d be distracted enough to agree to let me do some work.
“Davis mentioned that one of his colleagues, Dr. John Harmon, was hired as a consultant by Fish and Wildlife. Harmon went up to Mendocino two weeks ago to search for the Lotis blue butterfly. The problem is, nobody’s heard from him since.”
Apparently, Thomas wasn’t as distracted as I had hoped.
“Yeah, I’d been told there was going to be a final look-see for that thing. But I’m sure if something were wrong the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Department would already be looking into it. Besides, our division didn’t hire him. Most likely, it was the Endangered Species Office. Let them deal with whatever’s going on. He’s not our responsibility.”
“Well, seeing as how I’ve never been to Mendocino, and tomorrow’s my day off, I thought I might take a run up there,” I casually suggested.
“Go! Go! Go! That ball is out of here!” Thomas erupted, at the sound of a bat solidly smacking against a ball. “Yeah, fine. Play tourist all you want. Just make sure you do it on your own time.”
“Out of curiosity, do you happen to know the area where Harmon was conducting his search?” I gingerly questioned, as the crowd on TV broke into a roar.
“Huh? Oh, I heard there were a few spots that were going to be checked. The person who probably knows the Lotis blue best is an entomologist up in that area by the name of Bill Trepler. The problem is, he’s impossible to deal with. The old bastard despises Fish and Wildlife nearly as much as he hates endangered species.”
“Oh yeah? Why is that?”
“Let’s just say he’s a biologist who’s gone over to the dark side.”
I immediately got an image of Darth Vader carrying a butterfly net.
“You want to translate that for me?”
“For chrissakes, Porter. He hires himself out as a consultant to private developers. They pay him to make sure that neither Fish and Wildlife nor endangered species bring a halt to any construction projects on their land.”
“And Trepler can guarantee that?”
“So far he’s batting a thousand,” Thomas confirmed. “We can’t get on private land without proof that an endangered species is there. Trepler’s a conservation biologist with the credentials and chops to give developers a clean bill of health. I hear the guy earns around four thousand dollars a day testifying before planning commissions, in court, and making sure that environmental impact reports go their way. He’s the man these guys call upon whenever they’re in pitched battles over land use.”
“It all sounds rather sordid to me.”
“Maybe so. But then again, it’s not your problem. Take my advice, Porter. You want to go up to Mendocino? Fine. Walk around town, buy a souvenir, have a nice meal. Just stay the hell out of trouble.”
I didn’t respond, and a moment of awkward silence grew between us.
“Sorry, Porter. I’m just blowing off steam. I’m a little anxious these days, is all. So, you caught a guy collecting a few butterflies. No biggie, right?”
“No biggie,” I agreed.
My spirits sank, knowing that Thomas was probably correct. Who was I kidding, other than myself? I’d gone from high-flying cases to chasing down a guy with a net and cooler. There could no longer be any doubt that my career was going nowhere. It had been put on ice, as surely as those butterflies I’d just released.
Four
San Francisco is a city built upon forty-two hills; a sculpture of vertiginous landscape. It has eight miles of steep inclines that plummet into wide valleys, linked by roughly three hundred and fifty stairways. This whimsical package drops off at the edge of the continent and into the arms of a beautiful bay.
San Francisco is also cold in the summer and warm in winter. Perhaps that’s partly why Kipling called it a mad city inhabited by perfectly insane people. From what I could tell, he wasn’t far off the mark. After all, what other town could lay claim to having spawned Jim Jones and his People’s Temple, along with the Manson family—in addition to being the land of Rice-A-Roni and cable cars?
Not only is San Francisco where topless dancing began, but it’s also the birthplace of the Symbionese Liberation Army, the Sierra Club, martinis and Irish coffee. The city is a stronghold of tolerance, eccentricity, and individualism—which is probably why so many people liken it to those twin Biblical hotspots, Sodom and Gomorrah. Even Sara Jane Moore chose to make her assassination attempt on President Ford here on its streets. It’s true. There’s no other place quite like San Francisco in the world.
I’d heard it said that God had deliberately tilted the continent so that all the wackos would end up in this place. Maybe so. San Francisco is a haven for aging hippies, beatniks, and drag queens. Then again, I’d lived in Miami, New York, and New Orleans and had loved each of them for those very same qualities. I felt best in a city that let its residents breathe free. Besides, if it was good enough for Robin Williams and Sharon Stone, then San Francisco was probably good enough for me.
I zipped through the southern end of the city and headed for the ornate dragon-crested gateway marking the entrance into Chinatown. Once there, I drove under the touris
ty archway that could have been filched from a bad movie set. The next instant, I was transported into a different world—one filled with exotic sights, scents, and sounds.
Thirty thousand residents crowd Chinatown’s twenty-four blocks each day, shopping for things such as herbal teas, live birds, and fermented duck eggs. My tires rolled over scads of red paper strewn in the streets. It was firecracker debris from the last Chinese New Year celebration, held over three months ago. As of yet, no one had bothered to clean it up, believing the litter to be a harbinger of good fortune. Sweeping the rubbish would only have brought bad luck. Instead, storekeepers waited for the wind to blow the mess away.
Clotheslines filled with fresh laundry hung tautly strung across ornate iron balconies. Below them, restaurants tempted me with their sweet fragrance of Peking duck. More densely populated than any other neighborhood, this is home to the largest Asian population in the West. But it’s only one fragment in San Francisco’s seductive mosaic.
I sped up Grant and crossed Broadway to enter the old community of North Beach. A former haven for writers and artists, its population was once eighty percent Italian. However, those days are long gone. Now its tiny streets are filled with an influx of Asians. No matter. Espresso machines still perk and hiss, their vapors blending with the aroma of fresh-baked sourdough bread, prosciutto and home-made spaghetti sauce—an intoxicating mixture that rushed straight to my head.
I passed signs placed by staunch locals adamant that Columbus Avenue be called Corso Cristofo Columbus. But the attempt to mark their territory didn’t stop there. Utility poles were bedecked with red, white, and green stripes in honor of the Italian flag. Alas, it was all to no avail. North Beach was already well on its way to becoming a satellite bedroom community of Chinatown. As if that weren’t enough, there was even a female Jewish wildlife agent living in their midst these days.
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