How To Tail a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Anxiously, she waited for the phone to ring through to James Lick’s Homestyle Chicken. She could think of but one albino alligator known to reside within the city limits. The current occupant of the Steinhart Aquarium’s signature Swamp Exhibit had been featured regularly in the news over the last year.

  “I guess I’ve found my connection,” the niece muttered, recalling the image from the brass lamp.

  She brushed her hair back from her forehead and sighed testily.

  It would have been nice if she had been warned before the alligator landed in her basement.

  • • •

  HAROLD WOMBLER STOOD at the counter in the steaming-hot kitchen of the North Beach fried-chicken restaurant, a potato peeler in one hand, a half-peeled spud in the other. His greasy black hair was tucked under a hairnet, on top of which rested a green paper hat with the restaurant’s gold logo printed on the side.

  After finishing off the potato, he plunked it into an iced bucket of salt water. Dropping the peeling implement onto the counter, he stepped back and rubbed the small of his back. A three-foot high pile of unskinned russets awaited his attention.

  Harold squinted at the heap of potatoes; then he glanced down at the bin where he’d been collecting the shavings. It had been a long morning’s work, and he wasn’t anywhere near completion.

  “Don’t know how I got talked into this job,” he grumbled bitterly.

  • • •

  HAROLD WAS ABOUT to resume the task when the telephone on the opposite end of the kitchen let off a jarring ring. His bleary, bloodshot eyes stared accusingly at the device’s imposition, but by the third ring he began to move toward it.

  “All right, already. I’m coming.”

  Harold’s stilting, limping gait wasn’t designed for speed. By the time he reached the receiver and picked it up, he could sense the desperation on the other end of the line.

  “What?” he answered crankily.

  He didn’t bother to identify himself or the restaurant. The number for this phone was only known to a few individuals—and none of them would have used the line to order food.

  He heard the woman from the Green Vase antiques shop draw in her breath.

  “Are you, by any chance, missing an alligator?” she asked tensely.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she cleared her throat and added, “An albino one?”

  As if the clarification would make a difference to his answer, Harold thought with a grimace.

  He pursed his thin lips before formulating an answer.

  “Alligator?” He coughed out an intrigued grunt. “Hmm. You don’t say.”

  Harold’s eyebrows knitted together as he turned to look at the walk-in freezer located behind the wall where the phone was mounted.

  “What have you got in your fridge over there?” he asked cryptically.

  “My fridge?” the woman replied in an exasperated tone.

  Harold gummed his dentures thoughtfully. “I hear dem gators like chicken.”

  Chapter 31

  SPINNING THE STORY

  WEDNESDAY MORNING ACROSS San Francisco, local television and radio stations interrupted their regularly scheduled programming with a breaking-news bulletin. An incident of great importance had taken place overnight, and the story was far too time-sensitive to wait for the evening news broadcast.

  Surprisingly, the matter didn’t have anything to do with the upcoming board of supervisors’ vote to select the next mayor or any of the recent political wrangling at City Hall—at least it didn’t appear to.

  No, all of this attention was focused on the brazen abduction of one of the city’s most famous residents.

  The news media quickly converged on Golden Gate Park, the scene of the horrendous crime. Large vehicles with satellite dishes and obstructive antennae packed the park’s winding streets as reporters and their camera crews filled the lawn outside the California Academy of Sciences.

  Most of the television channels had opted for a split-screen view. One side featured a live picture of the chaotic scene outside the Academy’s grass-roofed complex. The other half of the screen carried stock footage of the kidnapped celebrity surrounded by his adoring young fans.

  Across the bottom, a line of text read out the breaking news: “Clive the albino alligator MISSING from his Swamp Exhibit at the CAS.”

  • • •

  HOXTON FIN WAITED impatiently as his cameraman tried in vain to get an unobstructed shot of the Academy of Sciences’ front entrance. Rolling his eyes, the reporter turned to look at the surrounding circus.

  The entire facility had been temporarily shut down so that the Academy’s scientists, security personnel, and insurance specialists—not to mention representatives from the San Francisco Police Department—could determine how the albino alligator had been stolen from his exhibit.

  Helicopters churned the air above the building, their propellers swinging dangerously close to the redwoods that ringed the clearing. Beyond the throngs of media, curious onlookers crowded a taped-off perimeter, where groups of observers anxiously speculated about what could have happened to the city’s beloved alligator.

  • • •

  HOX TUGGED AT the tie cinched around his neck. He’d begun to sweat profusely in the humid heat, and the new leather shoes the station’s stylist had forced him to wear were pinching his left foot.

  But these discomforts paled in comparison to the pounding pain inside his head. The inane subject matter of his next report had given him an intense migraine.

  The cameraman finished his background shot and repositioned his gear to frame his lens around the reporter. With a sour, self-loathing expression, Hox focused his gaze on the video camera and raised his microphone.

  Best to get this over with, he thought with a groan.

  “This is Hoxton Fin, reporting under protest.”

  “Cut!”

  • • •

  THE FRAZZLED WOMAN standing beside the cameraman threw her hands up and walked toward the street. It was all the producer could do to keep from hurling her clipboard at Hoxton Fin. She’d drawn the short straw on this assignment.

  She rubbed her temple with her free hand as she stared at the melee of media concentrated on the Academy’s front lawn. Every other news crew in Northern California was here on the scene, shooting clips for their respective anchors. Her channel would be the last to get the story on the air.

  It was embarrassing, the producer thought miserably. The station manager was going to flip his lid.

  • • •

  CONSTANCE GRYNCHE—SHE HAD married her husband despite his last name—was a working mother of four. After finally seeing her youngest child off to first grade, she had resumed her long-delayed career in television news.

  It was a struggle, juggling her complicated child-care schedule with the unpredictable working hours required by her job, but, for the most part, she was enjoying the challenge. The adult interaction was a welcome change from her years in relative isolation as a stay-at-home mom, and it was empowering to once more see her name on an income-earning check.

  Connie got on well with most of the station’s reporting staff. They could share a joke, a cup of coffee, and the common goal of efficiently filming a story and rushing it into editing.

  With Hoxton Fin, however, there had been no such rapport.

  She blew out a heavy sigh of frustration. She’d take the most petulant toddler any day over this prima donna.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she summoned the deep well of patience she’d developed during her years of child rearing. Then she returned to the camera crew and pleaded coaxingly with the reporter.

  “Come on, Hox. We’re about to go live with this.”

  • • •

  AS HOX GLOWERED at his producer, a slender, wispy man set a step stool on the ground beside him. The stylist jiggled the stool to level its metal feet on the uneven grass. Then he scampered up the three short steps and bent over the reporter’s head.

 
“Back off, Humphrey,” Hox growled as the stylist’s delicate fingers splayed out to tease the center spike on his scalp.

  “Just let me . . .” Humphrey murmured, licking his fingertips as he hovered above the faux-hawk hairdo, oblivious to the menacing stare on the face beneath.

  After fiddling with the reporter’s hair, the stylist reached for a canister connected to a tool belt strapped around his slim waist and aimed its nozzle at Hox’s head.

  Hox hunched his shoulders, his face red with humiliation as Humphrey pumped the bottle of hair spray at him. Finally, at the prompting of the agitated producer, the stylist stepped back and retracted his stool.

  With a look of capitulation, Hox shrugged, cleared his throat, and addressed the camera.

  • • •

  “THIS IS HOXTON Fin, reporting from the California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park, where Clive, the Academy’s most recent celebrity albino alligator, was discovered missing in the early hours this morning.”

  Connie smiled with relief. At last, they were under way. If Hox could get through his spiel in one take, they could send the film back to the studio in time for the next half-hour update. There was still a chance she might avoid getting chewed out by the station manager.

  “Details are sketchy,” Hox continued. “But it appears the alligator left his Swamp Exhibit in the Steinhart Aquarium sometime in the middle of the night. Security cameras were somehow disabled, disguising the identity of the accomplice who assisted in the alligator’s escape.”

  The producer felt the nerves in her shoulders tighten. This was a deviation from the theft-of-alligator script they had discussed. Hox wore the overall expression of a serious professional, but she thought she detected an impish twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  Connie gripped her clipboard as Hox proceeded with his report.

  “Police are currently treating the disappearance as a kidnapping—er, gator-napping—although, technically, we’re still within the first twenty-four-hour period, and, at last check, no ransom or other demands have been received.”

  Connie thumped the clipboard against her forehead. With her free hand, she made a slicing motion across her neck.

  Hox pressed on, his voice deep with sincerity.

  “Given Clive’s adolescent age—he turned thirteen last May—it’s still possible this is all just a juvenile prank and he’ll turn up for the next feeding, apologetic for his thoughtless and reckless behavior.”

  Shaking her head, the producer turned and began walking toward the news crew’s van.

  “Clive is missing one of the digits on his right front paw, so he might have difficulty thumbing a ride . . .”

  The cameraman grinned behind the lens, letting his machine run. Hox showed no signs of letting up.

  “Please keep an eye out for him on Muni and other modes of public transportation. We’ll post his picture at the bottom of the screen along with a hotline number you can call if you should see him.”

  Chapter 32

  A GATOR’S GOTTA EAT

  OSCAR’S NIECE HUNG up the phone, exasperated by her conversation with Harold Wombler.

  “Do I have chicken?” she muttered, repeating the gist of the query Harold had put to her after hearing that an albino alligator had taken up residence in her basement. “What kind of a response is that?”

  As the woman prepared to leave for the North Beach restaurant to discuss the matter in person, Rupert emerged from his alligator hiding spot beneath the living room couch. He stepped tentatively into the kitchen looking like a prickly marshmallow, every fluffy white hair extended in caution.

  Rupert gave his person a concerned stare.

  “It’s safe to come out,” she said reassuringly. Then she paused, hesitating as she glanced down at the floor. “At least, I think it is.” She bit her lower lip nervously. “Best to stay up here until I get back.”

  As the niece moved toward the stairs to the showroom, she shook her head in frustration, still mulling over the phone conversation.

  “Not everything revolves around fried chicken . . .”

  From the feeding station beneath the kitchen table, Rupert issued a disagreeing grunt.

  • • •

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Oscar’s niece arrived at Lick’s Homestyle Chicken. She pushed open the grimy front door and stepped into the empty dining room.

  The restaurant had recently cut back its hours and was no longer serving lunch, but even the reduced schedule was more than Harold Wombler could keep up with. He spent most of each day in the kitchen, working on the preparations for that night’s meal.

  The niece found Harold at his regular station, standing by the kitchen counter next to a pile of potatoes. He didn’t appear to notice the woman as she approached. He simply picked up a large spud from the top of the heap and began mechanically running his peeler over the lumpy brown skin.

  Tapping her fingers against the counter, the niece glanced up at a small television set mounted in a corner near the ceiling.

  Hoxton Fin’s familiar image filled the screen. The television’s volume had been muted, but she could guess the story line based on the text scrolling across the bottom of the frame.

  “Did he get a haircut?” she asked, momentarily distracted by the reporter’s closely cropped head and the odd center-combed styling of his hair.

  The video switched to a shot of the Academy of Sciences’ Swamp Exhibit. A floodlight reflected off the brass detailing of the seahorse balcony as it shone down onto the empty pond and its unoccupied heated rock.

  The niece issued a stern sigh.

  “Do you mind telling me what that alligator is doing in my basement?”

  Wordlessly, Harold finished peeling the potato and tossed it into a nearby bucket. After waving a wrinkled hand over the pile, he selected another one and began running the blade over its surface.

  Gripping the metal edge of the counter, the woman leaned over the potatoes.

  “And what does this have to do with the Steinharts?” she demanded.

  Harold’s eyes remained fixed on the spud. “Don’t you reckon you’d better feed him?”

  “Feed who? The alligator?” she sputtered. “Do you know that I was almost his next meal?”

  Harold shrugged unsympathetically. “A gator’s gotta eat.”

  The niece looked as if she were about to grab a tuber and lob it at Harold’s head.

  With a wry grin, he chucked the skinned potato into the bucket and nodded toward the rear of the kitchen.

  “Come along with me.”

  Chapter 33

  PORTRAIT OF A MAYOR

  SPIDER JONES SPENT the first few minutes of Operation Carmichael standing on the sidewalk outside the Green Vase, studiously observing the art studio across the street.

  It was more modern than the rest of the buildings on the block; its exterior was made of concrete instead of brick. The glass front exposed an open interior filled with paintings and other artwork hung from the walls and propped up on several easels. A small desk was positioned near the center of the room, its surface clean except for a neat pile of paperwork.

  Spider’s pulse quickened as his target appeared from around the corner, crossed the intersection, and strolled down the opposite sidewalk toward the studio. He watched, mesmerized, as the tall, skinny man unlocked the studio’s front door and walked inside.

  Spider tucked his pad and pencil into his front pocket and reached for his handlebars. It was definitely time to move in for a better look.

  • • •

  SPIDER PUSHED HIS bike, as casually as possible, across the quiet street.

  Pausing behind a row of parked cars, he tried to come up with a cover story that would allow him to loiter outside the studio’s front windows.

  After a quick brainstorming session, he rolled his bike to a spot beneath one of the slender elm trees planted along the curb and removed a small tool kit from his backpack.

  Thinking of how proud the Previous Mayor would be a
t his ingenuity, he knelt on the ground beside the bike’s chain and began fitting a wrench over the nearest sockets.

  As Spider fussed over the perfectly functional gear assembly, he pulled his baseball cap down low over his eyes and peeked over his left shoulder at the man who had entered the studio.

  Propping his notepad on his knee, he began jotting down his observations.

  • • •

  MONTGOMERY CARMICHAEL HUNG his suit jacket on a coatrack by the door, exchanging it for a painter’s smock that he slipped on over his collared shirt and dark suit slacks.

  Slowly, he circled around a sheet-covered easel positioned in the middle of the room near his desk. The flick of a wall switch caused a light to illuminate the cloaked painting.

  Nodding his approval of the setup, Monty strode to the side of the room where a plastic case held a rack of vinyl records. He flipped through a collection of big-band hits, perusing the titles. Midway through the stack, he stopped and pulled out a worn cardboard sleeve.

  “Ah, yes, that’s it. That’s the one.”

  Gently tilting the sleeve, he slid out the selected album. Holding the edges of the record with his fingertips, he carefully blew across the grooved surface before placing the disc on a turntable and rotating the power switch to its “on” position. As the record began to spin, he carefully lifted the needle from its holder and set the point on the record’s rim.

  With a trill of trumpets, a stirring intro blasted from the sound system. But just as Frank Sinatra’s deep, crooning voice started in on one of his famous melodies, Monty scooped up the needle.

  “Please, before we get started,” he said to his imaginary audience, “I’d like to thank the board of supervisors for their unanimous vote. This moment wouldn’t have been possible without their support.”

  He dropped the needle once more, let it play another stanza, and then, with a slight scratching sound, removed it to add another comment.

  “Together, I know we can take San Francisco forward into a new era of peace and prosperity.”