Nine Lives Last Forever (6 page)

I climbed up the front steps of City Hall, fending off the amorous advances of a last few pigeons. At the top of the stairs, menacing stone faces scowled down at me from the keystone of three arched entrances. I chose the ghoul on the far left and pulled open its thick glass door.

A serpentine of modern security equipment greeted me inside. The assembly of square metal boxes, scanners, and bulky computers looked decidedly out of place in the lobby’s polished marble surroundings.

I surrendered my shoulder bag to a pair of security guards who absentmindedly poked inside it before waving me into the open doorframe of a walk-through scanner. As I retrieved my bag on the opposite side, I tried to catch the attention of the nearest guard, who seemed far more interested in the sandwich he had just picked up from behind the scanner’s counter. Floppy blond hair dusted down over his eyes as he stretched his mouth around a large corner of the bread and chomped down on it.

“I’m looking for Montgomery Carmichael,” I said hopefully. “Can you point me toward his office?”

The guard squinted a left eye at the ceiling and pumped his jaw up and down as he chewed on the massive hunk of sandwich.

“Don’t think I’ve heard of that one before,” he replied after a long moment of masticular consideration.

The guard looked as if he might still be considering my request, but I decided not to wait through the duration of his next bite. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find him,” I replied and proceeded through the lobby to the rotunda.

I’d driven past City Hall’s mammoth block-long building several times, but this was my first actual experience inside. I’d heard people gush about the famous structure, but I was unprepared for its breathtaking panorama. Despite all of its gleaming gold grandeur, the outer shell of the building couldn’t match the magnificent beauty of the cathedral-like interior.

My height seemed to shrink as I stood beneath the soaring dome. Enormous arches ringed the rotunda’s upper walls, letting in such a flood of light that it was as if a part of the sky had been captured within. At its apex, the crown of the dome glowed a bubbling shade of pink, hovering over the rotunda like the underside of a gigantic jellyfish.

I tilted my neck upward, marveling at the myriad of carvings worked into every inch of ceramic, stone, and plaster. The skyward slant, however, quickly diminished my balance, and I almost lost my footing on the slick pink marble that decorated the floor directly beneath the dome.

As I was struggling to regain my balance, a pair of dark-suited men brushed past me. They crossed the floor of the rotunda with their heads bent close together in conversation; then they began to climb a sweeping marble staircase on the opposite side.

One of the men looked vaguely familiar to me. He had a smooth, fleshy, childlike face that was framed by limp mousy brown hair. A member of the city’s Board of Supervisors, I thought as I squinted at his profile.

I followed the two men up the stairs, my own ascension much slower. I had to stop every couple of steps to let my eyes swallow another gulp of the elaborately decorated rotunda. Each step in elevation revealed more details of the figures carved into the surrounding walls.

A countless number of mythic deities howled into the chamber with spouting, circular-shaped mouths. Creamy stone lions with flowing manes and sharp, narrow eyes keenly assessed each passerby. Thick, curling ribbons of plaster fringed richly festooned frescoes mounted onto seemingly every surface.

Above it all, a flood of light flowed in through the stained glass windows that framed the arches of the rotunda’s upper walls. Each wall of windows depicted the outlines of a ship, its sails rippling in the wind as it headed through the mouth of the Golden Gate and into San Francisco’s treacherous bay.

Ten minutes later, I finally made it to the top of the stairs. I began wandering down the second floor hallway, which carved a circular path around the periphery of the rotunda. The search for Monty’s office, I decided, could wait until I’d done a little sightseeing.

 

 

DILLA’S NEON GREEN
go-go boots crept across the granite on the darkened corners on the main level of the rotunda. She stood next to a gilded lamppost, closely watching as a brown-haired woman in glasses climbed the central staircase and turned down the second floor hallway.

Once Dilla had ensured that the coast was clear, she scurried down a foyered hallway near the backside of the staircase and slid into a long coat closet that had been modified to accommodate several public telephones.

Dilla waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light in the windowless room; then she picked up the nearest receiver and began to dial.

The line on the other end rang only twice before a voice answered.

“She’s here,” Dilla whispered breathlessly through the thick lips of the mask.

I STROLLED THE
length of the second floor hallway, following its route around the circumference of the rotunda. As I neared the central marble staircase, I paused for one more look up at the ceiling before I began my reluctant hunt for Monty’s office.

“Wonder what the view is like up there,” I murmured to myself as I leaned over a gilded iron railing and gazed toward the top echelons of the rotunda. A dazzling display of light flitted across the delicate crinkles and curls of the masonry, just beneath the opulent crest of the dome. My eyes scanned the highest tiered balcony several hundred feet above, checking for signs of tourists, but public access to that level appeared to be closed.

It was as I stood there, craning up at the dome with my back to the hallway, that I suddenly became aware of a presence moving in behind me—a putrid, smelly one that reeked of decaying fish and rotting garbage.

I spun around to ward off the source of the intruding odor and found myself face-to-grimy-smiling-face with a jumpsuit-clad man wielding a mop. A janitor, I presumed.

A wild mane of frizzy red hair covered the man’s head like an overgrown weed. The same seed had sprouted thickly from his eyebrows and spread across the lower half of his face. It had been at least a week since his last shave, and, I suspected, shower. The stench was overwhelming—he was standing
way
too close to me.

“Can I help you, Miss?” the janitor asked genially, his stubbled chin inches from my nose.

He reached behind his back and pulled a beaten-up cart stuffed full of refuse into the space beside us. “Are you looking for something?”

I felt my toes curl inward as the edge of my spine pressed up against the iron frame of the balcony’s railing. The persistent tickle of a sneeze began its curling ascent through my nasal passages.

“I-I was just looking around,” I stuttered, pointing limply out at the rotunda.

“Ah, you’re a visitor then?” He leaned back and looked me up and down. “A local though, I think. Not a tourist.”

The janitor winked a rusty red eyebrow at me as I confirmed his assumption with a nod. A dingy layer of grit and grime covered the man’s body, settling into every crack, crevice, and wrinkle.

“We try to take good care of our guests here at City Hall,” he said pleasantly. He swung the business end of his mop through the air like a javelin and angled it into the cart. Then, he shoved his grungy hand toward me, offering it for a shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sam.”

I shook his hand as gingerly as possible. My eyes scanned the faded nametag sewn onto the right chest pocket of the janitor’s rumpled gray jumpsuit, confirming his identification.

“Nice to meet you, too . . . uh, Sam,” I replied as his hand crunched down on mine, firmly stamping it with his soiled imprint.

Sam flipped a lever on his cart to brake its wheels. An air freshener cut in the circular outline of a piece of orange fruit swung, ineffectively, from the handle of the cart.

“Nice view, isn’t it?” he asked, shaking his head in admiration as he leaned over the railing next to me. “I never get tired of looking at it.”

The smell swilling in the air around him was almost unbearable. I managed a weak grimace in response as he continued.

“I’ve been here almost fifteen years now—took the spot over from my dad. He was in the job well over thirty years. He worked for
a lot
of Mayors, my dad did.”

“Mmm,” I hummed in response, anxiously becoming aware that I was pinned between Sam’s smelly cart, the balcony, and the curving bulge of the nearest wall.

“I only go back two Mayors,” Sam announced enthusiastically. He chuckled and bent his head toward me. “I’ve got to tell you, I liked the first one better.” He grinned wryly at me, as if we were sharing a private joke. “I call him the First Mayor—on account of he was
my
first Mayor.”

The corners of my mouth tightened with apprehension. I had the disturbing impression that Sam was settling in for a long chat.

“The First Mayor, he knew the name of everyone who worked here.” Sam nodded his head up and down and pointed at his chest. “Even me. He always made a point to stop and talk with me. You know, it doesn’t take much effort to make a person feel acknowledged. A little appreciation goes a long way.”

Sam shifted his stance to gain a more comfortable and, I feared, permanent position against the railing.

“The First Mayor, when he’d see you coming, he’d touch the brim of his hat and tip it in your direction. Just like this.”

Sam’s right hand swung up to his own dingy, frayed cap and tapped the rim of its bill.

“Of course, he always wore a fancy hat, that First Mayor. Bowlers mostly. They gave him a dapper, smart look—not that he needed any help with that. That man was
born
with the smarts.”

Sam returned his hand to the balcony, sliding it ever closer to the small of my back. “The First Mayor, he knew all about the janitorial business. That’s how he started off when he came to San Francisco as a teenager. He got a part-time job cleaning the pews at one of the local churches. That was all the foothold he needed—he worked his way up from there. He went to law school; then he got himself into politics. He was the Speaker of the State Legislature before he became Mayor.”

The combined rank odor of Sam and his cart had completely surrounded me. My eyes began to water as the sneeze forced its way closer to the surface.

“ ‘Hey there, Sam. What’s the news?’ That’s how the First Mayor would greet me. I made sure I always had a little tidbit of gossip for him.” Sam’s chest puffed out with pride. “I keep a close eye on everything that goes on here. Same as my father did. That’s one of the things he taught me, before he passed the job on.”

I stood there, crammed up against the balcony, struggling to remember what I had done to set loose this deluge of information. Sam continued on with the conversation as if we were both actively participating. He bobbed his head up and down, reinforcing his assertion.

“That’s right. Everything that goes on here. Who’s scheming with whom, which ones are in a tiff, and which ones are conspira-tating together. The First Mayor, he was
always
interested in that sort of thing. And not only about the Supervisors, but their staff, too.”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest as he reflected.

“That’s why the First Mayor was so good at his job. We’d have our little talk—you know, all secret-like—then, he’d pat me on the back and tell me how much he appreciated my assistance, my loyalty. Yes ma’am, he was a fine Mayor. He sure was.”

“Aaah-chooo!” My nose made a valiant effort to expel the rancidly offensive odor tormenting it. The high-pitched sneeze echoed in the stone-walled chamber. Tourists on the far side of the rotunda looked up, startled.

“Bless you,” Sam said reflexively, barely pausing his dialogue. “You know, the First Mayor would have been reelected, over and over again, no doubt about it, if it weren’t for those term limits. He served out his eight years and couldn’t run again. He’s still around though. Still has his finger in the pie, so to speak. He knows everything that goes on in this city,
and
in City Hall, that’s for sure.”

Sam paused and stuck his thumbs through a pair of straps sewn onto the waist of his jumpsuit. “Now, the Current Mayor, I can’t say much about him.”

Thank goodness, I thought, momentarily relieved. Sam unhitched one of his thumbs and reached out for the handle of his cart. For a brief moment, I actually believed that he was preparing to depart.

I was sorely mistaken. Sam had been untruthful. He had plenty to say about the Current Mayor.

“Now, the Current Mayor, he keeps to himself—always walks through here with his head down, all closed off.” Sam mimed an exaggerated head tuck. “He rushes right past people, as if he’s afraid to talk to them. If you ask me, that’s why he’s had so much trouble with the Supervisors.”

Sam pumped his eyebrows, as if daring me to challenge this proposition, but my face was blank. My feet were growing numb from standing so long without movement, and my nose was starting to pulse with the threat of another sneeze.

“You might think, well, the Mayor—he’s the king of the city. Right? He doesn’t have to worry about a bunch of silly Supervisors.”

Sam tilted his head to emphasize his point. “But then you’d be wrong. You see, we’ve got a convoluted form of government here in San Francisco. Different parts have different powers; some of them overlap. It’s all muddled together. Very complicated.”

Sam shook his hands in the air, wiggling his grimy fingers at me.

“The Mayor has to work
with
the Board of Supervisors. He needs them to approve his budget and to enact legislation to support his programs and policies. They can be a right thorn in his side if they’ve got a mind to be.”

“Ah-choo! Ah-choo! Ah-choo!” The sneezes were coming fast and furious now, each one in a high-pitched staccato. On the floor of the rotunda, another pair of tourists put their hands over their ears as they looked nervously up at the ceiling.