“What in the . . .” the person in the chicken costume sputtered at the picture.
Instantly awake, Hox tossed the phone back to its owner and scooped up his backpack. The rest of the reporters were still gathering their gear when the heavy wooden doors to the supervisors’ chambers swung shut behind him.
Chapter 63
COMMUTER CLIVE
A CAVERNOUS REDBRICK building at the corner of Washington and Mason housed the massive iron gears that powered San Francisco’s cable car lines. The enormous round rims took up most of the building’s basement, where they spun, day in and day out, with ceaseless humming unity.
From a small museum on the powerhouse’s second floor, the public could look down on this churning feat of engineering. For those wanting to take a more hands-on approach, several refurbished cable cars were also on display.
The city was proud of its long history with the hill-climbing carts. Several groups were actively dedicated to the preservation of this somewhat antiquated mode of transportation. A number of local craftsmen worked to rehab the cars that had been decommissioned over the years.
It was one of these that creaked out of a storage barn next to the powerhouse and teetered around a sharp corner headed toward the financial district.
• • •
THE BRAKEMAN AT the helm of the cable car was an elderly Asian fellow. Despite his crippled limbs, Mr. Wang proved to be surprisingly nimble at maneuvering the heavy metal hooking mechanism along the car’s center shaft. He grinned beneath a red cap with a wide front brim, ringing a brass bell mounted to the brakeman’s station as the old cart lumbered up a steep incline.
Wang slowed the cable car at a hilltop intersection, braking for traffic to clear. Then he steered the rig down California’s dramatic slope. As the car made the turn, several drivers stopped to stare at the two passengers seated on the outer left bench.
Sam Eckles wrapped one hand around a safety pole to keep from falling out onto the pavement; with the other, he gently patted the neck of the large albino alligator sprawled across his lap.
Wearing his own red cap, Clive grinned out at a foggy San Francisco.
• • •
ABOUT A HUNDRED yards behind the cable car, a red-faced reporter with a faux-hawk hairdo chased as fast as his ampu-toed foot would allow.
Chapter 64
HIS BEST CHANCE
THE NIECE SAT on the living room couch in the apartment above the Green Vase showroom, staring at the brass alligator lamp as she waited for her ride to Mountain Lake. A few minutes earlier, Monty had set out on foot to recover his van from the alley behind the now-defunct fried-chicken restaurant. Any second now, he would drive by to pick her up.
She had at first refused to participate in Monty’s ill-conceived rescue operation, but the prospect of at least nominally complying with her uncle’s parting request—combined with the potential spectacle of her gangly-legged neighbor wrestling a live alligator—had proved too tempting to resist.
• • •
A GROGGY BURP croaked up from the opposite side of the couch, interrupting the niece’s thoughts.
Rupert lay stretched across the couch’s firmer cushions while his distended stomach struggled to digest the large chicken meal he’d just scarfed down.
The niece sighed as he let out a satisfied wheeze and rolled over onto his side. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him that the dinner was likely the last of Oscar’s chicken—at least for the foreseeable future.
• • •
A HONK ECHOED up from the street outside. The niece grabbed her tote bag and hurried through the kitchen to the stairs leading to the first floor.
The bag bumped against her hip as she skipped down the steps. In it, she’d stashed her flashlight and a first-aid kit—both of which she suspected she might need before the night’s escapade was over.
A moment later, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned to lock the front door. The van, this time driven by its rightful owner, idled on the street as she trotted around to the front passenger-side door.
“What about the cats?” Monty demanded as she climbed in.
“They’re inside,” she replied, pointing up at the second-floor apartment, where Isabella’s tiny head peeked through the binds. “Come on. Let’s get going.”
Monty looked perplexed. “But we always travel with the cats.”
The niece sighed tensely. “We’ve only traveled together once,” she corrected him. “On the trip to Nevada City.”
Once had been more than enough, she thought with a grimace.
Monty turned the key in the ignition, killing the motor.
“My instructions were very clear,” he said officiously. “For this alligator extraction to be successful, it’s essential that I bring both you and the cats.”
“Whose instructions?” she demanded, although she knew the answer. “Look, Monty, there’s no reason to drag the cats into this.”
The driver was unpersuaded. He shook his head in vehement disapproval. “No cats, no deal. It’s bad luck to try it without them.”
The niece unbuckled her seat belt and pushed open her door.
“Oh good grief.”
• • •
“OKAY, THIS IS it,” the niece called out as she hefted the second carrier into the van’s rear cargo hold. She pushed the crates up against the floor brackets so they wouldn’t slide around during the drive. Rupert yawned sleepily inside his carrier, while Isabella stared alertly out of hers.
Monty waved from the driver’s seat and cheerfully restarted the engine.
Dusting her hands on her pants legs, the woman stepped away from the bumper so she could secure the back door. But as she grabbed the handle and prepared to swing the door shut, she noticed a small round lump on the floor between the cat carriers and a black canvas bag filled with Monty’s gear.
Leaning back inside the van, she peered down at the brown fish pellet.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
• • •
MONTY SWITCHED ON the radio as the van left Jackson Square. It was tuned to a local government-access station that was broadcasting the board of supervisors’ meeting.
The president’s voice crackled desperately through the speakers, “Does anyone have a nomination? Anyone? Anyone?”
“I’m surprised you’re not there,” the niece said. She pointed at the Current Mayor’s bobblehead jiggling on the van’s dashboard. “What with your various political interests and all.”
“Oh, I offered to go,” Monty replied quickly. “But the Mayor thought there was a better chance of success if I stayed away.”
The niece glanced over at him skeptically. “Success of what?”
Chapter 65
THE VOTE
THE PRESIDENT OF the Board of Supervisors stared wearily across the supervisors’ chambers. Everyone in the room was exhausted, board members and audience alike, but having seen the process play out this far, no one was willing to leave until the final vote was completed.
Supervisor Hernandez drained his sixth paper coffee cup and added it to a growing pyramid tower on a side table beside the center dais.
After all these many hours, they were about to vote on the most ridiculous nominee of the night. In his opinion, this was a complete waste of time, but the rules of procedure dictated he go through the motions.
With a glance at the upper section of the audience, where the person in the chicken costume had been performing the moonwalk, Hernandez pounded his gavel.
“We will proceed to take the vote,” he announced dubiously.
“The supervisor from the Marina district?”
“Aye.”
Not surprising, Hernandez thought with a shrug. He was the one who’d made this oddball nomination.
“From the Richmond?”
“Aye.”
This, too, Hernandez dismissed. The supervisor who had seconded the nomination was practically obliged to carry on with this charade.<
br />
“The supervisor from Union Square and the Tenderloin.”
“Aye.”
Hernandez snorted out a short laugh. Always a comic, that one. He probably thinks of this as one big joke.
“From the Mission?”
“Aye.”
Now, Hernandez was starting to get concerned. What was going on here? He stuttered, confused, as he summoned the next vote.
“Uh . . . ah . . . Chinatown?”
“Aye.”
Hernandez cleared his throat. This could not be happening. He leaned forward in his chair and issued his sternest, most serious stare at the next representative.
“The supervisor representing the Castro?”
“Aye.”
The word echoed through the chamber. That was enough. Six votes made a majority. The rest was merely procedural. Hernandez’s face flattened with awe as he completed the tally.
“Aye . . . Aye . . . Aye . . . Aye.”
He was down to the last vote—his own. He gulped, tugged at his tie, and hoarsely spoke his name into the microphone.
“Supervisor Hernandez, on behalf of the Excelsior district.”
He paused, licked his lips, and with a punch-drunk grin gave his assent.
“Aye.”
Chapter 66
A RECOUNT
AS THE BOARD of supervisors cast their final vote of the evening, Monty steered the white cargo van into the dimly lit parking lot for Mountain Lake.
The fog had settled over the landscape, blotting out all but the nearest features: a small jungle gym with peeling paint set up in a sandy playground and a narrow path winding toward the lake’s south shore.
The niece looked out through the front passenger-side window, trying to see into the mist. She could sense more than see the lake, which lay, dark and brooding, beyond a row of scrubby trees.
Securing the brake, Monty leaped from the driver’s seat and began jogging a victory lap around the van. His high-pitched holler echoed through the foggy night.
“I am the mayor! I am the mayor!”
“I demand a recount,” the niece muttered.
From the rear cargo area, Isabella offered her own thoughts on the matter.
“Mrao,” she opined dubiously.
Chapter 67
THE NOTE
WITH THE FINAL, stunning vote completed, City Hall quickly emptied out. The supervisors and the audience members spilled down the central marble staircase, through the rotunda, and out onto Civic Center Plaza. Television news crews filmed quick summation clips and then wrapped up their gear and headed home.
Hoxton Fin sat in the chambers long after everyone else had left, still pondering how the supervisors had arrived at this bizarre result, contemplating what it would mean for the city’s future, and wondering whether the missing-alligator saga had distracted him from doing his best reporting on the interim-mayor story.
• • •
ONE LONE OCCUPANT of City Hall continued to work, his progress unabated by the selection of the new mayor, whose identity he had known for almost twenty-four hours.
A lone lamp was lit in the basement cubicle where Spider Jones sat at his desk, reviewing the documents he planned to present to the Previous Mayor at their late-night dinner meeting.
Spider glanced at his watch. He would need to leave soon if he didn’t want to be late. He gathered up the selected pile, tapped the edge of the papers against his desk so that they were neatly aligned, and slid the documents into his backpack. He wanted to have everything perfectly laid out when he presented his discovery to the PM.
He was about to reach for his bike when the night-shift janitor shuffled into the basement office area.
“Hey, Spider,” the man said, handing him a piece of paper. “Someone wants to see you upstairs.”
Spider read the writing on the paper and grinned. The PM must be trying to get out of the restaurant Spider had selected for their dinner. Leaving his bike propped against the cubicle, he slung his backpack across his shoulders and headed for the stairs.
Chapter 68
ALL THINGS IN MODERATION
THE PREVIOUS MAYOR exited a cab on Columbus Avenue near a busy bistro toward the south end of North Beach’s busy restaurant scene. He stood on the sidewalk, wincing as he stared at the black-painted storefront. The kitchen had been cooking at full capacity for several hours now. Even on the street outside the dining area, the scent of roasted garlic was overwhelming his senses.
“Touché, my young friend.” The PM sighed as he pulled a water bottle out of his coat pocket, unscrewed the lid, and took a long sip.
Reluctantly, he walked through the entrance and approached the hostess’s station for a table. A couple at a nearby booth pointed him out, waved, and clicked his picture with their cell phones.
He would have some explaining to do in his next column, he mused ruefully. The sacrifice was worth it, he told himself. He was becoming more and more worried about what Spider might have gotten himself into.
The hostess hurried up. Her face flashed a mixture of recognition and confusion as she showed the PM to a front-window booth. While she was ushering him to his seat, a waiter walked past carrying a platter of garlic mashed potatoes.
With a smile, the PM pointed at the plate.
“I think my friend would like one of those when he gets here.”
Chapter 69
THE CEREMONIAL ROTUNDA
SPIDER JOGGED UP a narrow flight of stairs to City Hall’s main floor, his loaded backpack sliding down his shoulders, the note from the janitor clutched in his left hand.
He emerged from the stairwell to find the building’s primary lighting system had been switched off. With the completion of the supervisors’ meeting, the security staff had resumed their regular after-hours routine. The dimmer secondary lighting reflected off the many polished stone surfaces, throwing shadows across the expansive interior.
Spider continued, unfazed. The rubber soles of his sneakers squeaked as he hurried across the pink marble floor beneath the rotunda. He’d worked late into the night more times than he could count in the last several months. He was accustomed to the building’s spooky evening glow.
Halfway up the central staircase, however, the spring in his step deadened at the sight of a darkened figure—not that of the Previous Mayor—standing on the landing above.
Spider stopped on the stairs and glanced around the rotunda area. Hundreds of feet of open space stretched above him, the hallways that ringed the upper levels were empty, and the floor below was vacant. He was alone with this stranger.
The man crossed through a patch of light and Spider relaxed, breathing out a sigh of relief at the chiseled face of Hoxton Fin. The reporter grunted a greeting as he passed the young staffer on the steps.
• • •
LAUGHING AT HIS moment of panic, Spider reached the landing at the top of the staircase. It was silly to have been scared, he thought as he held up the piece of paper and unfolded it to reread the writing.
Yes, he confirmed, scanning the area, this is where the message had instructed him to meet the Previous Mayor. He noted the bust of Harvey Milk positioned off to the side of the smaller ceremonial rotunda.
A second nervous sensation crept over Spider as he looked up at the round balcony right above the rotunda. He must be imagining things, he told himself, shifting his backpack from his shoulders to the ground. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was hiding in the shadows.
“Hello?” he called out, his voice pitching with anxiety.
In that odd, eerie moment, Spider remembered his previous trips to the second floor. He’d stood in just this spot, wearing the janitor’s coveralls, sweeping the mop across the floor, spying on the building’s occupants while hiding in plain sight.
Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so invisible.
Chapter 70
CURIOSITY KILLED THE . . .
“EASY BREEZY—THAT’S WHAT this is going to be,” Monty called out from
behind the van, where he was struggling into his wet suit.
The niece stood a discreet distance away, holding leash handles attached to her two cats. She’d fitted both felines with body harnesses to ensure they didn’t inadvertently escape. Isabella had slipped easily into her equipment, but the woman had had to make some widening adjustments to Rupert’s.
“So, what is your plan, exactly?” the niece asked skeptically. Charging into the lake in a wet suit didn’t appear to be the wisest course of action.
Monty stepped from behind the van’s rear doors, his body fully encased in the black rubber wet suit. He carried a snorkel mask in one hand, a pair of flippers in the other.
“Oh, come on,” he said, pooh-poohing her concern. “Didn’t you see the pictures of Clive riding the cable car earlier today? Sam had his arm wrapped around him like a puppy dog.”
Monty bowed, waving his hands through the air as if ushering a guest through a door. “I’ll just lead him right out of the water and into the van.”
The niece’s eyes widened as Monty marched past her and started off down the path toward the lake’s south shore. Clearly, Oscar and his gang hadn’t told Monty that the alligator roaming the streets of San Francisco had been a robotic imposter.
“Uh, Monty,” the niece sputtered, trying to find the right words to correct his misconception, but he was already out of earshot, the wet suit squeaking loudly as he walked.
“Monty!”
Scooping up the two cats, the niece hurried after him.
• • •
CLIVE FLOATED IN the murky, muddy water, about fifty feet from the shoreline, contemplating a late-night snack.
Feathers, he thought, gumming his large mouth distastefully as a low hooting honk resonated from across the bay on the opposite side of the Presidio’s sweeping hills.
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