“He was pretty good, don’t you think?” Dilla trilled merrily.
Wang managed a weak smile in response.
“I can’t wait to see what’s on tap for tomorrow,” she said, gazing up at a nearby streetlamp and the pairing of American and California state flags mounted just below its light fixture. “Sacramento should be beautiful this time of year.”
Wang continued his turtlelike pace down Broad Street’s steep hill, his wizened face pinched in thought. He nodded absentmindedly to his wife as he pondered what Frank Napis might be planning to do with the information he had gained inside the Nevada Theatre.
PAST THE LOBBY, through the empty theater, down a narrow flight of concrete steps to the area beneath the stage reserved for stagehands and performers, the afternoon’s Mark Twain impersonator shuffled sideways through the slim width of a dressing room doorway.
Clem carried a large plastic shopping sack in one hand; the strap of a bulky duffel bag was slung across the opposite shoulder. After a short struggle, he managed to fit both his body and the packages through the opening. Dropping his bundles on the dressing room floor, he turned to lock the door.
The room was long and narrow, its eight-foot length ample space for an actor to change costumes, apply makeup, and practice lines before a performance. One of the longer walls was taken up by a rectangular-shaped mirror, which rested on top of a slender wooden dressing table.
Clem shrugged out of his rumpled linen suit coat and, with a casual flick of his wrist, tossed the jacket onto the angled hook of a burnished brass coat rack.
Rolling his shoulders, he stretched his neck to the left and right, squeezing out the inevitable tension that had built up over an hour’s worth of theatrical work on the stage. He swooped his arms and upper torso into a few awkward yoga moves that probably did more harm than good. Then, he bent over the dressing table and stared intently at his reflection.
The basement-level dressing room had a vintage, aged look. It had escaped the modernizing renovations that had been performed on the theater’s upper level, leaving the brick walls exposed to the interior. The only recent maintenance of note was a fresh coat of baby blue paint that lightened the otherwise dark windowless space.
Over the past hundred-plus years, an endless parade of notable human faces had primped and preened in this dressing room, and the painted bricks had taken careful note of each and every one. Decades of facial images were stored within their collective memory, an unwritten record documented in their compacted clay, sand, stone, and mortar. The role of historical observer was an important aspect of their existence, one the bricks considered almost as important as the task of holding up the building. It was with this responsibility in mind that they eagerly scrutinized the reflection of the man who had just entered the dressing room.
There was a vague familiarity about his wild flyaway eyebrows and bristly mustache. So, too, the thick protrusion of his nose, which was slightly bent along its bridge as if it had seen action in a bar brawl or two. The bricks mulled over these distinguishing features as they closed in on a match to one of the thousands of faces in their memory, conferring first among themselves to ensure that they were all in agreement.
A wall took its strength from the unity and collaboration of its members. If even one brick ventured to speculate outside of the collected consensus, it risked bringing down the entire structure. Rarely did the bricks have difficulty reconciling their thoughts and, on this issue, they easily came to a unanimous decision. Yes, they concluded, the imitator bore a striking resemblance to the original.
The bricks watched as Clem gently patted the left front pocket of his collared shirt.
“Hello there, little friend,” he said as a tiny whiskered face poked out of the pocket.
A murmur of excitement passed through the wall. What’s that? the bricks puzzled, curiously edging against one another to get a glimpse of the creature that crawled shyly from the pocket and into the palm of Clem’s hand.
The bricks quickly came to a clear identification. It’s a mouse! they exclaimed in proud giddy unison. But a moment later, an undercurrent of confusion rippled through their ranks.
Strange that the little mouse has no hair . . . Odd that it’s wearing a furry green jacket . . .
Clem heard the slight floating whisper of the bricks, but he dismissed the sound as merely the natural creaks and moans of an old building. After setting the mouse on the dresser, he strode across the dressing room to the spot where he had dropped his packages. He picked up the shopping sack, carried it back across the room, and placed it on a shelf next to the dressing table.
Ooh, that tickles, the bricks thought, giggling to themselves as Clem dug around inside the bag, causing it to brush against the wall. His right hand finally emerged holding a small plastic makeup case, which he laid on top of the dressing table.
Clem returned to the area in front of the door and picked up the duffel bag. With effort, he wrapped the bag’s strap over his right shoulder and lugged it across the room to the shelf. The bulging contents strained against the teeth of the zipper that ran down the duffel’s length.
The wall winced as Clem turned, smacking the bag against it. A grumble of complaint issued from those bricks receiving the brunt of the impact. The building braced itself, preparing to accept the weight of the bag, as Clem swung it toward the wall and thunked it down onto the shelf.
After a moment of paralyzed apprehension, the wall oozed out a sigh of relief. The duffel, the bricks now realized, was more bulk than weight. How silly of them to have worried, they chuckled. This building had stood for a hundred and fifty years. There was nothing in this bag the wall couldn’t handle.
Clem let out a slight groan as he paused to massage his right shoulder where the strap had rubbed against his skin.
Come now, huffed the bricks. That wasn’t so heavy really. Try holding up a building. Awash in self-confidence, the bricks continued their silent watch.
Clem turned back to the dressing table and sat down on a short stool in front of the mirror. The mouse tilted its head to watch as Clem fixed his gaze on his reflection, licked his upper lip, and reached up to his left eyebrow. His stubby fingers wrapped around one end of the brow and, with a slight ripping sound, quickly peeled it off.
The bricks hummed inquisitively. What do we have here?
Clem tucked the first eyebrow into the makeup kit and began working to remove the second. A moment later, the mustache followed the eyebrows’ rapid departure from his face.
The bricks watched uneasily, crowding against one another as they tried to size up Clem’s changed appearance. Costuming was, after all, a routine practice among actors, the bricks tried to reassure themselves. This wasn’t such an unusual scene.
Clem scrunched his face and wiggled the tip of his nose. Cupping his right hand over the nostrils, he tugged on the base of the nose with his left. With a sucking pop, a large portion fell off into his hands.
The bricks strained to get a better look at the fake putty-nose that Clem placed on the dressing table. Clem glanced at the ceiling as the building let out another long, groaning creak.
Very convincing, the bricks agreed. They’d never seen an artificial nose convey such a convincingly lifelike transformation.
Mesmerized, the bricks ogled the strange man in the mirror, marveling at his altered image. His flat face lacked any unique characteristics, making it instantly forgettable. His eyebrows had been plucked so thin that the arches faded into the background of his pale wrinkled forehead. The permanent nose that had hidden beneath the monstrous putty creation was small and utterly unremarkable. If a random sampling of noses were rounded up from the street, the bricks would have had difficulty picking this one out of the lineup.
The bricks tittered back and forth, checking and rechecking the new reflection as they searched through their collective memories for a match to one of their previous visitors, for any inkling of recognition. But the featureless face was impossible to g
rasp hold of; it kept slipping through the cracks between them.
With a brisk slap of his cheeks, Clem spun around on the stool, suddenly facing the wall. The bricks retracted involuntarily as he stood up and walked toward them. Surely, he hadn’t detected their spying eyes, they tittered nervously. No human had ever suspected the wall’s secret surveillance.
Clem stopped at the shelf holding the duffel bag, and the bricks let out another gushing sigh of relief. They watched anxiously as he struggled to pry open the bag’s zipper. At long last, the teeth began to unhitch, and a gap formed across the duffel’s top side.
Despite their growing apprehension, the bricks contorted within the confines of their mortar, trying to inspect the bag’s contents. A perplexed silence swept over the wall as it examined the furry brown cloth that bulged out of the bag’s opening.
Slowly, Clem eased the layers of material from the mouth of the duffel, taking care to ensure the fabric didn’t catch on the zipper. Once he’d lifted the bundle free of the bag, he raised one edge of the cloth to his shoulders and let the rest unfold down to the floor.
Gripping the top hem of the fabric, Clem shook out the wrinkles of what appeared to be a furry suit. Then he turned the costume around to wiggle a long, thick tail attached to the opposite side.
The bricks shuddered with morbid fascination, trembling to imagine what might happen next, and yet utterly unable to look away. They had seen plenty of unusual human beings in their time: all manner of outlandish freaks, brazen scoundrels, and social deviants. But they had never witnessed an after-performance display quite like this. All this odd behavior was causing a fair amount of consternation among the bricks—and more than just a little bit of a dangerously individualized thinking within the wall.
Several of the bricks began to wring and knot in worry as Clem untied his lace-up boots and kicked them off his feet. Then, holding the furry cloth out in front of his body, he fed first one leg and then the other into the bottom half of the costume. After the loose-fitting fabric swallowed his shirt and pants, he pulled a long interior zipper all the way up to his neck.
Clem now turned to the shopping sack. The bricks watched as he reached inside it and retrieved a globeshaped headpiece. He swiveled his head back and forth, cracking an interior neck joint, before sliding the massive structure down over his face.
The wall wondered in fearful amazement at the furry figure that stood before it, trying to determine what kind of creature this costume was meant to emulate.
They searched fruitlessly through their memory banks, comparing the costume to pictures, emblems, and icons they had seen before. If pressed, the bricks concluded, they would have to place their bet on a bear. Bear symbols were common in these parts—but no bear image they’d ever come across had possessed such a tail.
Clem scooped up his makeup kit from the dressing table and dropped it into the duffel bag. He plucked his linen jacket from the coatrack and tucked it neatly on top of the kit. Bending over, he slipped his shoes back on his feet, where they were almost completely covered by the costume’s long legs. After a last check around the room for any forgotten items, he zipped the bag shut.
With a slight flourish, Clem leaned over the dressing table, and the tiny mouse scampered up his fur-covered arm until he found a pocket hidden in the front chest of the costume. Then, giving his tail one last wiggle, Clem slipped the strap of the duffel bag over his left shoulder and strode confidently out the door.
The bricks released an exhausted sigh. Well, that was something, they murmured to one another. Not your everyday dressing room scene, that was for sure.
But what, exactly, had they just witnessed? What was the story with that costume? And where was the man going in that getup? Many of the bricks were skeptical of the bear identification, but none of them wanted to break the unity of the initial classification.
“I know, I know,” a tiny squeaking voice broke through the silence.
The voice came from a small brick, turned sideways so that most of her surface area faced into the wall. She had been inserted the previous year as a replacement for an old beloved brick that had, unfortunately, fractured and split. There was still much mourning among the bricks for their lost friend, and they looked upon the replacement with mistrust and suspicion.
This was not the first time the newer brick had tried to speak her mind. Her ideas were odd and, many thought, ill-considered. She had a frightening tendency to break the rules that all the other bricks lived by, and she seemed oblivious to the danger of her un-vetted opinions. More than once, she had risked near annihilation of the entire structure with her peculiar off-stream commentary.
Such a minor player in the observations, particularly one with so little experience in the trade, was not expected to contribute to these discussions. A young, untested brick like herself should be focusing all of her attention on supporting the wall, not challenging the carefully structured, rigid uniformity that ensured the building’s preservation and integrity.
But the sideways brick was persistent and certain in her information. The whole wall cringed with dread as her squeaky voice piped out, “I know what the costume is supposed to be.”
The wall held its breath, waiting for the announcement that would surely bring about its immediate destruction.
She paused, hoping one of the other bricks would engage her in this discussion, but they remained stonily silent.
Finally, her voice peeping in excitement, she exclaimed loudly, “It’s a kangaroo!”
Chapter 24
DOWNGRADED
I WAITED IN the salon of the National Hotel while Monty continued his efforts to check in to the Mayor’s reserved suite of rooms. After a long discussion about his assistant life coach credentials, the hotel clerk finally reached beneath the counter and selected a room key. Reluctantly, she held it out to Monty.
“Take the hallway on your left to the courtyard. The Garden Room is on the far side next to the parking lot.”
Monty coughed loudly as his fingers clamped around the key. “Garden Room?” he asked plaintively. “Is that the, uh, Mayoral Suite?”
The woman stared at him as if she thought he’d lost his mind. Her lips pursed resolutely, and the lines of her face hardened into a take-it-or-leave-it expression. Her fingers still firmly gripped the key—she looked as if she were about to change her mind altogether.
“I’m sure this will work just fine,” Monty said meekly. With a tugging jerk he extracted the key from the woman’s clenched fingers.
Monty scampered nervously down the hallway as I followed, pushing the cats in the stroller. His pace increased when he reached the door to the courtyard. I reached the exit in time for the swinging door to slam shut against the stroller’s front bumper.
Isabella’s uninterpretable comments grumbled up from the carriage as I propped open the door and struggled to shove the stroller through it.
“This isn’t so bad,” Monty called out from the opposite side of the courtyard. He stood in front of what looked like a small brick shed. A sign above the door helpfully identified it as the Garden Room.
I watched dubiously as he fed the key into the lock. It seemed unlikely that a suite of rooms would be found inside.
Good thing I packed my sleeping bag, I thought ruefully.
With a loud creak, Monty pushed open the door and stepped into the room. I hung back in the courtyard, waiting for his report.
“Weeellll . . . ” He strung the word out for what felt like an eternity. From the strangled tone of his voice, I gathered this was a somewhat smaller accommodation than what he had been promised by the Mayor’s secretary. I prepared myself for the worst and followed him inside.
Arms crossed over my chest, I stood on the threshold surveying the room. It held a twin-sized bed and a dresser. There wasn’t room for anything else. A narrow aisle between the bed and the wall led to a tiny bathroom. Despite the lack of space, the room did feature an abundant covering of wallpaper.
&nb
sp; With a sigh, I returned to the stroller. I called back to Monty as I began rolling it toward the parking lot.
“We’ll be in the van.”
A MAN IN a green cotton vest and matching visor scurried beneath the stage of the Nevada Theatre. The black rubber soles of his sneakers squeaked against the concrete floor as Frank Napis hurriedly searched the basement area, peeking into every last dressing room and broom closet. His face grew more and more frustrated as it became clear that the person he sought had already left the building.
After a last agitated effort to hunt down the elusive Mark Twain impersonator, Napis stomped across the stage, snatched the green visor from his head, and slammed it into a trash can.
A few blocks from the Nevada Theatre, a figure in a furry kangaroo costume walked casually down one of Broad Street’s sidewalks and disappeared around a corner into a darkened alley.
Chapter 25
AN EXCELLENT DRIVER
THE MOON AWOKE from its daytime slumber, feeling lighter and decidedly more invigorated in its slightly slimmer figure. With a brief yawn and an arching stretch, it leapt up the banks of the bay and headed out across the delta. Acres of fruit orchards passed beneath its glow as it leapfrogged over row after row of perfectly groomed trees.
A short time later, the moon approached the sprawling metropolis of Sacramento. After a quick cleansing dip in the water beneath the burnished-gold frame of the Tower Bridge, it strolled into the capital city’s downtown area for a short waltz around the blooming grounds surrounding the statehouse.
Stretching out a slender luminous hand, the moon plucked a plump orange from a leafy tree and slurped up a mouthful of the fruit’s sticky sweetness. Still licking juice from its fingertips, it proceeded down Sacramento’s tree-lined sidewalks, past Sutter’s white-walled fort, until it picked up the icy cold trail of the American River.
A rising sea breeze at its back, the moon hiked into the Sierra foothills, looping to the east until it reached the ruins of an old abandoned sawmill. It surveyed the rickety structure with a proud sigh of reminiscence. This was the site of one of its most impressive instigations of mischief. Dipping a toe into the surface of a nearby stream, it sent out a twinkle of mystical moonlight that caught, for a brief instant, the reflection of the golden nuggets that once tumbled within.
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