Nine Lives Last Forever (18 page)

I realized what I should have known all along. The man in the chef’s coat wasn’t Oscar. My mind had been playing tricks on me.

My Uncle Oscar would never have been caught dead cooking up fried frog legs.

 

 

THE REST OF
the encounter faded into a greasy blur. Monty’s arm appeared as if from nowhere, wrapped around my shoulders, and deftly steered me out of the kitchen.

A diner’s comment floated up from a table as Monty pulled me through the dining room.

“Tastes just like chicken . . .”

MIRANDA RICHARDS HID
behind her menu as a tall, stringy man in a gray sweater led a dazed, bespectacled woman with long brown hair out of the kitchen and toward the front door of the trendy Mission restaurant. Neither of the pair appeared to recognize Miranda, who had just been seated in the crowded dining area.

Miranda’s plum-painted nails drummed against the rough wooden surface of the table as she pretended to study the contents of her menu. She had been surprised, to say the least, to see those two in this location. The nails on her right hand rose up to her chin and dragged along the underside of her jaw as she pondered the implications.

She took a long sip of iced tea, puckering her lips so that they left a purple smudge on the rim of the glass. She stuck a long-handled spoon into the drink and swirled the ice cubes, thinking as she watched the brown liquid circulate.

Miranda caught sight of a waiter anxiously eying her table and returned her attention to the writing on the menu. Given the restaurant’s limited offerings, she couldn’t imagine that it would be open for long. Food fads shifted quickly in this city. What was “in” one week would be “out” the next.

The waiter paused timidly at Miranda’s table. She dined out frequently and her temperament was well-known in San Francisco’s culinary circles. The mere sight of her name on a reservation list generated fear and trepidation amongst the city’s waitstaff. Even the tough-looking tattooed woman outside had paled when Miranda approached and asked for a table.

“Are you ready to order, ma’am?” the waiter asked cautiously.

Miranda waved him off. “I don’t think I’ll be staying for lunch after all,” she replied curtly. “Please, just bring the bill for the iced tea.”

The man sprinted away from her table, looking puzzled but relieved.

Miranda flipped open a slender cell phone and scrolled through the programmed numbers until she found the one she wanted. With the sharp curve of her fingernail, she pushed the call button.

Across town on Jackson Street, a phone began to ring in the loft apartment above a glass-fronted, seemingly abandoned antique store next door to the Green Vase.

Miranda waited as the line droned a flat, absent-sounding buzz, over and over again. She was about to hang up when a man answered the phone.

“Yes?” The voice was thin and feeble, matching the body of the speaker.

Miranda dispensed with the pleasantries used to begin most phone conversations and dove right to the point.

“Frank Napis was sighted in San Francisco today,” she said tensely. “Are you sure you’re safe in your current location?”

“I have a perfect view of the action from here.” Although weak, the voice sounded confident and unconcerned.

Miranda pursed her lips tensely. “You’re sure no one knows you’re there?”

“No one outside of the immediate circle.” There was a long pause. “You and, of course, your mother . . .”

Miranda slammed the glass of iced tea against the table. “Funny you should mention
my mother
.” Her words sharpened harshly. “Would you happen to know where she is?”

The voice paused, hesitating. Finally, the man sighed and checked his watch. “She should be arriving at the Ferry Building in about twenty minutes. If you leave right now, you might be able to catch her.”

 

 

DILLA’S GREEN GO-GO
boots chugged down Market Street, weaving through the crowds of pedestrians as she headed toward the bay front Embarcadero. Her purposeful, energetic pace was easy to pick out amidst the casual, easy stroll of the surrounding office workers who had just left their desks in the financial district and were heading home for the evening.

Straddling the juncture of Market and the Embarcadero, the Ferry Building marked the main transit point for water traffic from cities on the north and east sides of the bay. A wide array of vendors took advantage of this concentrated foot traffic. Parked beneath a showy planting of palm trees, a clutter of street cart vendors tried to draw Dilla’s interest to their kitschy offerings of homemade jewelry and cable car key chains, but she sped right past them without slowing.

A moment later, Dilla stepped out into a wide crosswalk, quickly traipsing to the front of a pack of commuters headed for the boats docked on the nearby pier.

It was a brisk but sunny afternoon, and Dilla was already breathing heavily through the confines of the thick mask, the sticky rubber sliding on her face as she perspired. Dilla tugged on her scarf, trying to correct the mask’s position as she scampered toward the gray stone archway of the Ferry Building’s south entrance.

Several food stalls were set up on the pavement leading into the Ferry Building, previewing the offerings for the coming weekend’s farmers’ market. A flurry of high heels and silk ties perused the array of organic, picture-perfect produce. Samples of Northern California’s finest gourmet meats, cheeses, and olive oil were on offer for tasting. The decadent leisure food displayed outside the Ferry Building was a far cry from the more functional fruits and vegetables sold in the market at the Civic Center.

Dilla kept her head tucked down into her scarf as she threaded her way through the kiosks, studiously avoiding eye contact with any passersby. She felt a rush of anxiety as she approached the designated location for her meeting. This, she felt, was the most precarious point of her day’s subterfuge—to be seen and not be seen, each by the right watchers. Not all of the members of her team, she suspected, were as diligent as they should be regarding the operation’s secrecy.

Dilla felt a tug on her sleeve. She froze, fearful that her carefully calculated strategy had been undermined. Slowly, she turned to see a concerned man holding out her handkerchief.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said politely, his face muddling in confusion as he looked into the disjointed eyes of Dilla’s mask.

“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely. She snatched the lost fabric from the man’s outstretched hand and turned away, fleeing inside the Ferry Building.

Adrenaline pumping through her elderly body, Dilla tried to proceed as nonchalantly as possible down the building’s long interior corridor, which was filled with an arcade of restaurants, gourmet eateries, and newspaper kiosks. A high-tented ceiling stretched above the length of the gallery, naturally lit by a center row of skylights.

Cautiously, Dilla approached the bustling storefront of an oyster bar, packed near capacity with the same well-heeled patrons from the farmers’ market stalls.

A stand had been set up just outside the designated seating area for those customers who didn’t have time to wait for a table. Fresh-shucked oysters waited on an ice-packed display to be dribbled with the purchaser’s preferred sauce and dropped into an easy to carry, funnel-shaped paper bowl. A young Asian woman with long, shiny black hair manned the busy counter.

Dilla shuffled through the oyster line, keeping her scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. She drew a few questioning stares but kept her head down, waiting for her turn at the counter.

Lily Wang showed no outward sign of recognition when Dilla proffered the payment. As Lily dropped Dilla’s oyster into the paper bowl, her right hand slid almost imperceptibly into her pocket. Lily tucked a slender metal key into the palm of her right hand and reached for Dilla’s dollar. In the quickest flash, the key passed into Dilla’s possession, the discreet action lost amongst the crowded din of the surroundings.

Lily looked up at Dilla as she handed over the oyster, her eyes smiling even though her face remained placid. Beneath the mask, Dilla returned the look before turning away and disappearing from the oyster stand.

As soon as Lily secured Dilla’s cash inside of the register, she turned and walked out of the oyster bar, nodding briskly to the maitre d’. She was replaced almost immediately by the regular server.

 

 

DILLA SLURPED DOWN
the slippery treat as she fled the Ferry Building, savoring the salty tang of the oyster. She tilted her head back, letting the stiff fingers of the afternoon breeze pry their way into the stifling holes of her mask, coating her lungs with its lifting spirit. She was on the last leg of her journey. Soon, all of the unpleasantness of the previous weeks would be behind her.

Dilla reversed her tracks back over the Embarcadero’s crosswalk, the rubber soles of her shoes springing against the asphalt when she reached the other side. She pushed her way past the palm tree throng of street vendors, her pace quickening as the length of Market Street spread out in front of her.

The towering markers of the financial district sidled up against the sides of the thoroughfare as Dilla skipped, faster and faster, toward her destination. A traffic light threw up a temporary barrier, and a giddy impulse she couldn’t dampen grabbed her feet and spun them in a dancing circle.

Midturn, her stomach dropped.

Dilla wrapped her arms instinctively around her middle, squeezing it as if she might disappear into the bracing wind. Marching straight toward her, two hundred yards and a traffic light behind, Dilla had spied the face of disaster.

Dilla pulled down hard on her scarf and reset her green boots back onto their path. An electronic traffic sign flashed a walking stick figure, and she strode forward. The brick corner of the Palace Hotel rose up on the left-hand side of the next block. If Dilla was going to change course, she would have to move quickly. She didn’t have much time to decide.

A MUNI bus pulled up for a stop, releasing a stream of passengers out onto Market at New Montgomery. Dilla took advantage of the cross traffic. She slipped into the spillage of the bus’s passengers, filtering in and out of the flow, working her way behind a blocking wall of square metal newspaper dispensers.

The bus pulled away from the curb, its engine burping on a guzzle of low emission fuel. The bus’s departure released a pent-up burst of cabs that flooded the right-hand turn lane. Dilla sprinted the fifteen feet from the newspaper canisters to the corner of the Palace Hotel. She hugged the side of the building as she sped along New Montgomery. Her feet didn’t stop pumping until she reached the cabstand in front of the hotel’s entrance where a line of five un-passengered cars waited for a fare.

The bellman was easily identified in his long coat and tails. Dilla huffed heavily as she staggered up to him, holding a bill between her fingers. The man’s perplexed look did not inspire confidence, but Dilla nevertheless delivered her breathless instructions with the bill.

A couple of minutes later, from a booth in the bar across the street, Dilla watched as Miranda Richards strode fiercely up to the bellman, her heavily made-up face clearly transmitting frustration.

The dark plum paint on Miranda’s elongated fingernails flailed in front of the bellman’s chest as she used her hands to illustrate her demands. He looked briefly amused before straightening his expression into one of informative credibility. The bellman swept his arms along the length of the cab line and then pointed down New Montgomery’s one-way street.

Miranda twisted her lips into a sour plum-painted spout. The charcoal outlines of her eyes scanned furiously up and down the sidewalk in front of the Palace Hotel, but Dilla knew her daughter well. Miranda had conceded defeat—for the moment.

Dilla sank down against the wooden back of the booth, her body relaxing in relief. She would have to wait before proceeding further. There was too great a risk she might be caught out on the street right now.

She pulled the bottom lip of the rubber mask up and over her head, dropping it onto the seat beside her. No one raised an eyebrow at the action. There were only a few people in the bar, and they had observed far stranger characters on the streets of San Francisco.

Dilla ordered a cup of hot tea and lemon from the unquestioning waitress who attended her table. As the warm liquid pleasantly seared down her throat, she focused her eyes on a plaque on the wall near her booth, boasting of the bar’s historical significance—as a frequent watering hole of Mark Twain.

EARLY THE NEXT
morning, a disgruntled Rupert stalked grumpily into the Green Vase showroom. He stomped over to the cashier counter and glowered up at the woman sitting on the stool behind it. His whiskers twitched with irritation as he angrily
thunked
his tail against the floorboards.

What kind of a person returns to the house smelling like fried chicken and doesn’t bring any back for Rupert? It made no sense to him. He was deeply affronted.

He’d been up half of the night, making his concerns known to the woman sleeping in his bed. He’d bounced up and down on the blankets, swished his tail in her face, and pounced at every movement she made beneath the covers. He’d experimented with various howling sounds aimed at communicating his displeasure. But none of these efforts had produced the desired result. No fried chicken had appeared in his dinner bowl.

After all of these exertions, Rupert had finally fallen asleep, his head dug into his person’s chicken-smelling hair. The scent had surrounded him, permeating his dreams— dreams that were filled with bowls and bowls full of scrumptious fried chicken. He’d made loud smacking noises with his mouth as he slept; he could almost taste the crisp, greasy texture.