Despite all this, he couldn’t help himself. His thoughts were fixated on the missing alligator.
“How does this guy walk around town with an alligator—a white alligator no less—without anyone catching him?” he muttered under his breath.
A pulsing beep buzzed in his shirt pocket.
Hox whipped out his cell phone and read the display. After a quick glance at the incoming number, he let out a groan and sent a pleading look up at the sky.
He was sorely tempted to let the call ring through to his voice mail, but after a few more persistent beeps, he reluctantly pushed the phone’s talk button.
“This is Hox.”
• • •
THE PREVIOUS MAYOR sat at a lunch table in a restaurant located at the far end of Fisherman’s Wharf. A window near his seat looked out across the foggy bay. A waiter stood a discreet ten feet away, closely monitoring the PM’s dining progress.
The PM wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin as the reporter’s deep voice growled through his wireless earpiece.
“Hoxton, how are you?” the PM asked pleasantly, ignoring the bitter tone of the man on the other end of the line.
“What’s up, Mayor?” Hox replied tersely. “I’m on my way to City Hall.”
“I’ve just finished an amazing appetizer at a place here on the Wharf,” the PM said smoothly. “It was a phenomenal concoction of raw fish, a refreshing ceviche. The citrus in the marinade had a nice tang to it. The perfect palate cleanser . . .”
“I haven’t got all day,” the reporter cut in harshly. “You didn’t call me to talk about seafood.”
The PM paused for a moment, intentionally drawing out the silence, letting his listener’s impatience build.
“Seafood . . . No, no, not exactly . . . As a matter of fact, I had in mind a discussion about a freshwater creature. I believe certain members of the species can tolerate a moderate amount of salt, but they’re definitely not your traditional ocean inhabitants.”
The PM stopped, letting a sly smile break across his face. He could hear Hox grinding his teeth in frustration.
After a sip from a glass of ice water and an unnecessary napkin dab at his mouth, the PM continued. “I thought you might be interested in a little anonymous tip.”
Hox breathed heavily into the phone. “I’m listening.”
“On my way to the restaurant—did I mention I have a lovely table? There’s a delightful view of Alcatraz. You can barely see it poking through the fog . . .”
“I’m hanging up, Mayor.”
“As I was saying,” the PM continued breezily. “On my way to the restaurant, I passed the most intriguing sight on the pier. An unpigmented swamp denizen, a bit scaly in texture . . . with a rather fearsome-looking mouth.”
The curt response came back immediately.
“I’ll be right there.”
Chapter 58
THE LAST CHICKEN
THE NIECE WALKED up Columbus Avenue toward Lick’s Homestyle Chicken, a determined expression on her face.
She had stayed up late the previous evening, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the plastic box from the Swamp Exhibit and the pile of money she’d rescued from Rupert’s rooting. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, thinking about the package. After she finally fell asleep, it had been the first thing on her mind when she awoke that morning.
“Enough is enough,” she’d decided over breakfast.
It wasn’t that she didn’t need the money—she was very nearly broke. But she was tired of being led around by her uncle’s games.
“Make sure Clive gets home safely?” she said, repeating the message she’d found in the box. “As if I’m supposed to go tromping around Mountain Lake looking for him.”
She stuffed the money into the box. “I’m done with this alligator,” she announced, putting the box into her tote bag. “I’m giving the money back.”
• • •
THE NIECE COULD tell something had changed a few blocks before she reached the empty shell that had once been James Lick’s Homestyle Chicken. The faded green awning that had stretched across the storefront was gone, and the windows were even dustier than before. It was now almost impossible to see inside.
The front door swung open at her touch.
“Harold?” she called out as she stepped cautiously inside, but she immediately sensed that she would receive no response.
The room was empty. The portrait of the original Lick had been stripped from the wall. The tables and chairs in the dining area had all been removed.
Nothing remained but a stack of discarded green paper flyers sitting on the cashier counter. She slipped the pile into her coat pocket on her way to the kitchen.
The back of the restaurant was nearly pitch-black. Reaching into her tote, she pulled out her flashlight. Even with the help of its wide beam, she still tripped on the steps leading to the second floor.
She reached the open upstairs room to find it similarly cleaned out. The terrarium and its amphibian occupants had disappeared. Missing, too, were the mouse cage and its many spinning wheels.
Trying to stifle the deflated feeling in her stomach, the niece returned to the first floor and wandered into the kitchen.
The pots and pans had vanished, along with the other cooking implements. The woman peeked briefly inside the walk-in freezer, whose heavy metal door was propped open with a small wooden wedge. The storage room was still slightly cold, but the racks that had been filled with all of those white butcher paper–wrapped packages were now completely empty.
Slowly, the niece approached Harold’s workstation. His lonely stool was all that remained. Sitting on its seat, she found the restaurant’s last green paper sack.
The bottom of the sack was warm to her touch. She unfolded the top of the bag and looked inside to find two green paper boxes.
On the top of each box, her uncle’s scrawled handwriting had printed the name of the cat for whom the contents were intended.
Chapter 59
A DISCORDANT GROUP
THE PRESIDENT OF the Board of Supervisors glanced up from his notes and looked woefully out over the cavernous meeting chamber. From his seat in the middle of the wide rostrum at the center of the chamber’s sunken stage, Jim Hernandez had a view of the cordoned-off supervisors’ area and the expansive audience gallery beyond.
The scene was enough to dampen even his habitually cheerful disposition.
As ornately decorated as the rest of the building, a light-colored wood paneling of rare Manchurian oak covered almost every surface of the room. Two long desks positioned perpendicular to the president’s rostrum provided seating for the rest of the supervisors. Each of his ten colleagues sat next to a powered-up laptop. Cell phones accompanied each supervisor, their ringers set to silent, their screens angled to provide constant text updates.
The enormous room took up a substantial portion of the west wing of City Hall’s second floor, and the gallery had seating capacity for several hundred audience members. Today, it was filled to capacity.
• • •
SO FAR, THE meeting had gone remarkably well, considering. There had been a few protesting amendments—which Hernandez had adroitly handled—and quite a bit of individual posturing, but the process for selecting the next mayor was at last moving forward. That was all he could have asked for.
However, there was one more item yet to be completed before they moved on to nominations.
Reluctantly, the president shifted his gaze past the carved wooden balustrade that separated the supervisors’ desk area and up toward the stadium-style public seating. As he surveyed the audience, his inner dread deepened.
Hernandez pushed back the floppy bangs from his forehead and pounded his gavel against the rostrum.
“We’ll now begin the public-comment period. I would like to remind all of the speakers that they are limited to just two minutes at the mike.” He cleared his throat for emphasis. “Two minutes.”
&nb
sp; • • •
THE FIRST GENTLEMAN approached the lectern set up at the front of the gallery area, and Hernandez said a silent prayer of appreciation for the lectern’s thick wooden construction. It was clear, even from his vantage point fifty yards away, that the man was completely nude.
“I would like the board to consider my application to be San Francisco’s next mayor,” the man began. “If selected, I would bring honesty and transparency to City Hall.”
Hernandez put his hands over his eyes as the man stepped to the side of the lectern and swung his arms wide.
“What you see is what you get.”
Chapter 60
BUSKER CLIVE
HOXTON FIN STOOD beside a wooden sun-bleached pier at Fisherman’s Wharf, trying to ignore the raucous, deep-throated whelping of the sea lions clustered on the floating platforms behind him.
A number of gawkers had gathered on the pier, curiously watching the arriving news vans. It was a mixed crowd, the locals being easily distinguishable from the out-of-towners. Most of San Francisco’s permanent residents were well acclimated to the city’s regular foggy fifty degrees; they wore light jackets and the occasional scarf. Tourists, on the other hand, huddled in recently purchased sweatshirts, many bearing some version of the city’s logo or initials.
Word of Clive’s most recent appearance had circulated quickly. More and more people pushed against the nearby barrier, craning to see the reporters who were filming on the pier.
Hox huffed out a resentful grunt. He wasn’t the only one who had been tipped off by the Previous Mayor.
• • •
HOX TURNED TOWARD his producer, who had arrived with the rest of the crew not long after Hox jumped out of his taxi. The news team had failed to get a shot of the elusive alligator, but the tourists who had been on the pier at the time of his arrival had provided plenty of cell-phone footage. The photos were already being uploaded to the station’s main studios.
Constance Grynche nodded her approval, indicating they were ready to begin. Hox swatted off the stylist, who had climbed onto his ever-present stool to fiddle with the reporter’s hair; then he squared his shoulders toward the camera.
Trying not to think about the absurdity of the report he was about to give, Hox brought a portable microphone to his mouth.
“This is Hoxton Fin reporting from Fisherman’s Wharf.”
• • •
AS HOX BEGAN filming his segment, one of the many buskers who performed for the tourists at the Wharf breached the crowd barriers and crept up behind the reporter, trying to squeeze into the camera’s shot. Like many of the Wharf’s street artists, the man was dressed in a shiny aluminum suit, hat, and shoes; every inch of exposed skin, including that on his face and hands, was covered in silver paint.
“Less than thirty minutes ago,” Hox intoned, unaware of the busker’s antics, “witnesses here at the Wharf reported yet another sighting of the missing albino alligator from the California Academy of Sciences.”
As the busker assumed more and more comical poses behind the reporter’s back, the cameraman glanced questioningly at the producer, but she merely nodded serenely, signaling him to continue filming.
“Although it remains unclear how Clive is being transported around the city, he appears to be on a sightseeing tour, of sorts. This is his third appearance in a highly trafficked area.”
A second silver-painted busker joined the first, lifting his friend a few feet into the air so that the man could make swooping arm movements on either side of the spike in Hox’s hair.
“I believe we have a picture of the latest sighting to show you on our screen,” Hox continued, pausing for the image to be spliced into the feed.
The cameraman blinked back tears as the busker mimed disapproval of Hox’s hairstyle, removed his own silver-painted hat, and gently set it on the reporter’s head.
Grimacing, Hox wrapped up his spiel.
“As you can see, both Clive and the man accompanying him were wearing tinfoil accessories.”
Chapter 61
THE ALLIGATOR LINE
THE NIECE TURNED the corner onto Jackson Street, discouraged and depleted. Her uncle had once more disappeared without warning, leaving her to muddle through on her own. Her tote bag hung heavily from her shoulder, the packet of money inside it weighing down her thoughts.
“Make sure Clive gets home.” She muttered her uncle’s last message as she approached the Green Vase’s front door. “How am I supposed to do that?”
Then she glanced down at the green paper sack from the fried-chicken restaurant. She suspected her uncle already had a plan in place to wrap up that detail. Likely, it wouldn’t be long before she found out what predetermined role she had been assigned. With a frustrated sigh, she slid her key into the front door’s lock and turned the tulip-embossed handle.
• • •
AS SOON AS the niece stepped inside the Green Vase, she sensed that something was out of place.
Rupert was front and center, of course, eagerly bouncing up and down, his wobbly blue eyes glued to the paper sack she held in her hand.
Isabella, however, was putting out a clear warning. The cat trotted urgently from behind one of the back bookcases, vigorously chirping with her voice as her tail swung stiffly through the air.
The niece quickly scanned the showroom. The display cases appeared to be undisturbed, and the hatch to the basement, she noted with relief, was firmly shut.
Eyes narrowing, she focused on the rear of the store, where Isabella continued to circle.
“You can come out, Monty.”
As her skinny neighbor stepped from behind the bookcase, the woman glanced toward the ceiling. The frozen hunk of chicken was in the freezer section of the upstairs refrigerator—too far away to be of use on this occasion.
“Tattletale,” Monty hissed at Isabella. She arched her back, the hair along her back bristling in response.
“What are you doing in here?” the niece demanded.
Monty dropped down onto the leather dentist recliner and kicked back the lever. He crossed his bony legs one over the other.
“I need your help,” he said with a lazy yawn.
The niece didn’t hesitate in her response. “No.”
“Aht, aht, aht,” he replied, wagging his finger in the air. His thin mouth stretched into a jubilant smile. Then he meted out the sentences he knew would have the desired effect.
“I’ve got a line on the alligator. I need you to help me return him to his rightful home.”
Chapter 62
THE NOMINATIONS
THE BOARD OF supervisors’ meeting was well under way by the time Hoxton Fin wrapped up his report from Fisherman’s Wharf and hopped a cab to City Hall. He slipped through the back doors of the meeting chambers and found an open seat next to an individual dressed in a chicken costume.
“What’d I miss?” he whispered, leaning toward his neighbor’s feather-covered shoulder.
The clucking response was uninformative, but Hox soon pieced together what had happened during the early proceedings. After a lengthy public-comment period, Jim Hernandez had opened the floor to nominations. Motions supporting Hernandez for mayor had already been defeated three times by five-to-six vote counts. They were now moving on to alternative candidates.
Hox yawned as a motion was raised to nominate the Previous Mayor. He could tell from the supervisors’ faces that this, too, would fail. It might be another couple of hours before the board moved to a meaningful vote.
A scribe from a competing paper waved at Hox from a seat ten feet away, pointed at his head, and gave Hox a mocking thumbs-up. Hox grumbled a reply, halfheartedly accompanied by a rude gesture in rebuke.
He would never admit it to Humphrey, but despite all the negative feedback—or perhaps because of it—the new hairstyle was starting to grow on him.
• • •
JIM HERNANDEZ SIGHED and tabulated the results of the most recent motion. The Hail Mary pass to no
minate the Previous Mayor had been doomed before the voting on the motion even began.
He leaned into his microphone and announced wearily, “By a count of four to seven, the motion fails.”
A cloud of speculating whispers rose from the audience as the supervisors looked at their laptops, cell-phone texts, and, finally, across the table at one another, each one sizing up their next move.
Hernandez surveyed the scene. All of the board members, himself included, were still holding out hope for his or her own nomination. He took a sip from a stale cup of coffee, his third of the meeting. It was going to be a long night.
There was a stirring on the left row of supervisors’ desks. Hernandez cleared his throat as one of the supervisors raised her hand.
“Do we have a nomination?”
The woman nodded affirmatively.
“The floor recognizes the Supervisor from Twin Peaks.”
“Thank you, Supervisor Hernandez. I would like to nominate . . .”
A ripple of murmurs swept through the audience, momentarily distracting the speaker. She glanced down at her cell phone as it vibrated on her desk and gasped with surprise.
“Clive!”
Hernandez jerked forward toward his mike. “Excuse me?”
The supervisor smiled apologetically.
“I’m sorry, sir. There’s been another sighting.”
• • •
HOX’S EYELIDS HAD begun to droop as he fought off the urge to doze off into a nap. The upper seating area had grown uncomfortably warm, particularly next to the feathered chicken costume.
But his head snapped to attention at the exclamation from the floor of the chambers. As he shifted his weight forward, a woman on the row ahead of him held up her cell phone. Reaching over the back of the woman’s seat, Hox grabbed the phone from her hand and turned its display so that he could see the image she had just uploaded.
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