Authors: Jessica Speart
I instantly recognized the monarch, a butterfly as regal as its name, with brownish orange wings outlined in black. Another one had silver patches on the underside, making me wonder if it might not be a threatened San Francisco silverspot. But the butterfly I remained most enamored of was the dainty blue and lavender specimen. Aikens had as much as admitted by his silence that this was the endangered Mission blue butterfly. How strange to be in the presence of one of the last of its kind, and know that it might soon vanish.
I gathered all the envelopes and trudged back once more to the meadow, this time carrying a treasure trove of living riches with me. The other difference was that the grassland was now golden, reflecting the glow of the gilded sun.
I sat down in the grass and spread out the envelopes before me. Then I carefully ripped them open, one by one. The butterflies slowly awoke from their deep slumber, as if magically revived by the warmth of the sun. Each fluttered its wings and took off to resume the life of which it had nearly
been robbed. Only the Mission blue lagged behind to momentarily light on my arm.
I held my breath and didn’t move, hoping to freeze time. Funny the games we play. I tried to make a deal with God, asking that for every moment my winged friend stayed like this the impending doom of a mammal, a bird, or a butterfly be reversed. But the Mission blue chose not to linger.
It was then I remembered a tale I’d once heard. Whisper a wish to a butterfly and it will journey to heaven, where your request will be granted. I softly murmured my heart’s desire: that all those creatures I loved so much be saved. Then I took a deep breath and quickly exhaled, hoping to help the Mission blue on its way. My plan must have worked, for within the blink of an eye, the beating speck of blue vanished into the deep azure sky.
I dialed the car phone and checked my voice mail while heading home. The sole message was from my boss. He always liked to hear that the weekends were quiet. I returned his call, having decided to keep the information I’d learned to myself for now. The reason was simple. I was hoping to protect my ass.
“All clear on the western front?” Agent Brad Thomas asked, after we’d said our hellos.
“More or less,” I responded. “There was just one phone call. A tip about a guy netting butterflies on San Bruno Mountain.”
“Did you follow it up?”
There it was: I could already hear the tension building in his voice. Thomas had made it perfectly clear there was to be no more trouble while I remained on his watch. I’d become known as a liability within the Service that no resident agent in charge wanted to touch. Thomas was simply the latest in a long line of managers on whom I’d been dumped.
The timing for him couldn’t have been worse. He’d hoped to lay low for the next twelve months until his retirement.
“The guy claimed to be innocent, so I just gave him a warning,” I fudged, choosing not to mention what had really taken place. Thomas would doubtless put the kibosh on my work with Aikens should he get wind of it.
Any leeway I’d once had went up in flames along with the disastrous results of my controlled delivery. Ever since then I’d received strict orders to do nothing but write up tickets on simple violations. That being the case, I figured why give Thomas any unnecessary agita?
“Good,” Thomas replied, with an audible sigh of relief. “That’s what I like to hear. Things will be fine as long as you keep your nose clean.”
I chafed at the words, but kept my mouth shut. It was clear I’d become Fish and Wildlife’s number-one scapegoat. I could live with that. But what stuck in my craw were my boss’s recent words of warning.
“There are more important things than making cases.”
Not to my mind, there weren’t. It made me brazen enough to stick a toe into the murky waters of “things that I might be allowed to do” and see how far I could push it.
“By the way, the man that called with the tip was Dr. Mark Davis from Stanford University’s Center for Conservation Biology.
“Uh-huh,” Thomas indifferently responded.
So far, so good. Even better, I could hear a ball game playing on his TV in the background. Maybe he’d be distracted enough to agree to let me do some work.
“Davis mentioned that one of his colleagues, Dr. John Harmon, was hired as a consultant by Fish and Wildlife. Harmon went up to Mendocino two weeks ago to search for the Lotis blue butterfly. The problem is, nobody’s heard from him since.”
Apparently, Thomas wasn’t as distracted as I had hoped.
“Yeah, I’d been told there was going to be a final look-see for that thing. But I’m sure if something were wrong the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Department would already be looking into it. Besides, our division didn’t hire him. Most likely, it was the Endangered Species Office. Let them deal with whatever’s going on. He’s not our responsibility.”
“Well, seeing as how I’ve never been to Mendocino, and tomorrow’s my day off, I thought I might take a run up there,” I casually suggested.
“Go! Go! Go! That ball is out of here!” Thomas erupted, at the sound of a bat solidly smacking against a ball. “Yeah, fine. Play tourist all you want. Just make sure you do it on your own time.”
“Out of curiosity, do you happen to know the area where Harmon was conducting his search?” I gingerly questioned, as the crowd on TV broke into a roar.
“Huh? Oh, I heard there were a few spots that were going to be checked. The person who probably knows the Lotis blue best is an entomologist up in that area by the name of Bill Trepler. The problem is, he’s impossible to deal with. The old bastard despises Fish and Wildlife nearly as much as he hates endangered species.”
“Oh yeah? Why is that?”
“Let’s just say he’s a biologist who’s gone over to the dark side.”
I immediately got an image of Darth Vader carrying a butterfly net.
“You want to translate that for me?”
“For chrissakes, Porter. He hires himself out as a consultant to private developers. They pay him to make sure that neither Fish and Wildlife nor endangered species bring a halt to any construction projects on their land.”
“And Trepler can guarantee that?”
“So far he’s batting a thousand,” Thomas confirmed. “We can’t get on private land without proof that an endangered species is there. Trepler’s a conservation biologist with the credentials and chops to give developers a clean bill of health. I hear the guy earns around four thousand dollars a day testifying before planning commissions, in court, and making sure that environmental impact reports go their way. He’s the man these guys call upon whenever they’re in pitched battles over land use.”
“It all sounds rather sordid to me.”
“Maybe so. But then again, it’s not your problem. Take my advice, Porter. You want to go up to Mendocino? Fine. Walk around town, buy a souvenir, have a nice meal. Just stay the hell out of trouble.”
I didn’t respond, and a moment of awkward silence grew between us.
“Sorry, Porter. I’m just blowing off steam. I’m a little anxious these days, is all. So, you caught a guy collecting a few butterflies. No biggie, right?”
“No biggie,” I agreed.
My spirits sank, knowing that Thomas was probably correct. Who was I kidding, other than myself? I’d gone from high-flying cases to chasing down a guy with a net and cooler. There could no longer be any doubt that my career was going nowhere. It had been put on ice, as surely as those butterflies I’d just released.
S
an Francisco is a city built upon forty-two hills; a sculpture of vertiginous landscape. It has eight miles of steep inclines that plummet into wide valleys, linked by roughly three hundred and fifty stairways. This whimsical package drops off at the edge of the continent and into the arms of a beautiful bay.
San Francisco is also cold in the summer and warm in winter. Perhaps that’s partly why Kipling called it a mad city inhabited by perfectly insane people. From what I could tell, he wasn’t far off the mark. After all, what other town could lay claim to having spawned Jim Jones and his People’s Temple, along with the Manson family—in addition to being the land of Rice-A-Roni and cable cars?
Not only is San Francisco where topless dancing began, but it’s also the birthplace of the Symbionese Liberation Army, the Sierra Club, martinis and Irish coffee. The city is a stronghold of tolerance, eccentricity, and individualism—which is probably why so many people liken it to those twin Biblical hotspots, Sodom and Gomorrah. Even Sara Jane Moore chose to make her assassination attempt on President Ford here on its streets. It’s true. There’s no other place quite like San Francisco in the world.
I’d heard it said that God had deliberately tilted the continent so that all the wackos would end up in this place.
Maybe so. San Francisco is a haven for aging hippies, beatniks, and drag queens. Then again, I’d lived in Miami, New York, and New Orleans and had loved each of them for those very same qualities. I felt best in a city that let its residents breathe free. Besides, if it was good enough for Robin Williams and Sharon Stone, then San Francisco was probably good enough for me.
I zipped through the southern end of the city and headed for the ornate dragon-crested gateway marking the entrance into Chinatown. Once there, I drove under the touristy archway that could have been filched from a bad movie set. The next instant, I was transported into a different world—one filled with exotic sights, scents, and sounds.
Thirty thousand residents crowd Chinatown’s twenty-four blocks each day, shopping for things such as herbal teas, live birds, and fermented duck eggs. My tires rolled over scads of red paper strewn in the streets. It was firecracker debris from the last Chinese New Year celebration, held over three months ago. As of yet, no one had bothered to clean it up, believing the litter to be a harbinger of good fortune. Sweeping the rubbish would only have brought bad luck. Instead, storekeepers waited for the wind to blow the mess away.
Clotheslines filled with fresh laundry hung tautly strung across ornate iron balconies. Below them, restaurants tempted me with their sweet fragrance of Peking duck. More densely populated than any other neighborhood, this is home to the largest Asian population in the West. But it’s only one fragment in San Francisco’s seductive mosaic.
I sped up Grant and crossed Broadway to enter the old community of North Beach. A former haven for writers and artists, its population was once eighty percent Italian. However, those days are long gone. Now its tiny streets are filled with an influx of Asians. No matter. Espresso machines still perk and hiss, their vapors blending with the aroma of fresh-
baked sourdough bread, prosciutto and home-made spaghetti sauce—an intoxicating mixture that rushed straight to my head.
I passed signs placed by staunch locals adamant that Columbus Avenue be called Corso Cristofo Columbus. But the attempt to mark their territory didn’t stop there. Utility poles were bedecked with red, white, and green stripes in honor of the Italian flag. Alas, it was all to no avail. North Beach was already well on its way to becoming a satellite bedroom community of Chinatown. As if that weren’t enough, there was even a female Jewish wildlife agent living in their midst these days.
I turned right onto Union Street and drove up toward Telegraph Hill. Coit Tower loomed ahead. San Francisco’s more straightlaced residents claimed the monument had been designed to resemble a firehose nozzle. But those in the know revealed it was really modeled after a prominent part of the male anatomy. What’s more, the money for its construction had been donated by a notorious female cross-dresser.
I swung into the driveway of a three-story white stucco house that clung to the hill like one in a row of gumdrops. Kicking open the vehicle door, I rolled out, having already adjusted to spending half of my life on a slant.
This was where I now lived—though you’d never have guessed it by the reception. My landlady’s white dog lay in its usual spot near the front door, lounging in a sheepskin-lined wicker basket. The pooch’s attitude was that of a pissed-off old man jealously guarding his territory.
The only way to tell the mutt from the rug was when he snarled, revealing a set of misshapen yellow teeth. The runt was a nasty bundle of terror with rheumy eyes, thinning fur, and breath like rotten meat.
I never had to ask if he wanted a piece of me. The game was always the same. The wizened maniac waited until the
very last second, and then made a lunge for my leg. Evidently that supplied him with a large-enough dose of testosterone to keep his little heart going pitter-patter.
The mutt’s behavior reminded me of an old Italian godfather. The pooch shrewdly maintained his status by acting as if he were a vicious rottweiler. It was for that reason I found the dog’s name—Tony Baloney—to be both clever and fitting.
I scooted around the pooch and let myself in the front door. Then I squeezed past the five-foot potted palm that stood in the middle of the floor. The hall led directly to the rear of the house, causing my Chinese landlady to fear all the good
chi
inside would escape out the back door. The palm was her own homemade version of a
chi
barrier in what amounted to an obstacle course.
I hit the staircase and began my ascent up to the second floor.
“You get a reward when you reach the top.”
Terri Tune, my longtime best friend and former landlord, leaned over the balustrade looking as fetching as ever. His blond wig hadn’t aged one bit. Neither had his figure, which was still lean and fit. He wore a red kimono, ostrich feather mules, and lured me on with a piña colada topped with a colorful paper parasol.
“Here you go, sweetie. You deserve this after having worked on Saturday. Besides, I heard you took quite a beating in class this morning.”
“True. But I gave it back twice as good.” I grinned, and reached for the glass.
“That’s my girl. Why bother to work out unless you can get to kick a little ass every now and then? Anyway, the exercise is obviously paying off. You look terrific,” Terri praised like a mother hen. “Now hurry inside. Jake’s already polished off his first piña colada and is beginning to scarf down all the hors d’oeuvres.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “I thought we’d discussed this, Terri. You know that I don’t want Jake to drink while he’s taking so many painkillers.”
Terri shook his curls and clucked his tongue. “If you want to go in there and lay down the law, be my guest. But you’ve got to remember that he’s a big boy, Rach. Maybe you should give him some leeway, what with everything he’s been through. After all, it’s not as though he has a death wish. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we haven’t had to rush to the hospital yet and get his stomach pumped. So why don’t you try loosening up a bit?”
That was easier said than done. Still, I’d met with enough resistance on Santou’s part to know that I was in for an uphill battle.
“Just try to keep an eye on him, all right? Believe me, Jake’s not as happy-go-lucky as he pretends to be.”
I hated playing the role of enforcer after Terri had flown all the way from Memphis to help me. Santou’s recuperation had been slow so far, and he still wasn’t out of the woods. Not when he kept popping Vicodan and Percoset as though they were Flintstones Vitamins.
The only thing making me feel less guilty was that Terri had claimed to need a change of pace. Vincent, his significant other, was crazy busy after opening a branch of his wrestling school in Miami. But the real kicker was that Terri’s own business, Yarmulke Schlemmer, was in deep trouble. The company had been hit with a lawsuit, accused of stealing designs for their doggy yarmulkes.
Terri had a network of friends in San Francisco. However, he’d chosen to pay a weekly rate for the apartment directly above mine. It was dirt cheap in a city of exorbitant rents. There was a good reason for it. The place had no kitchen. As a result, Terri spent the majority of his time downstairs. It worked out well for the both of us. Not only did he help me
with Santou, but my space was cleaner than it would have been otherwise. He also made sure there was always plenty of food in the fridge.
“Hey, chère. How’d it go today?” Santou asked, flashing a carefree smile as I walked into the room.
His vials of Vicodan and Percoset sat on the TV stand beside an empty glass. No wonder he was so relaxed. Jake caught the direction of my stare and scowled, letting me know how he felt about my reaction.
Santou had taken refuge in prescription drugs ever since the accident. At first it had been for physical pain. Now it was a crutch for emotional trauma.
Jake had insisted on getting back to work as soon as possible, anxious to feel normal again. What he hadn’t counted on was being stuck behind a desk doing paperwork. I could always tell when his patience had reached its breaking point; he’d consume more pills and booze than usual. That’s when he’d remind me of Tony Baloney. Santou would bark in frustration and Terri and I would jump, trying to find a way to help. Sympathetic as we were, his problems needed to be dealt with professionally. Though I’d broached the subject, Santou had so far stubbornly resisted.
“It was your average day. I caught some guy poaching butterflies on San Bruno Mountain and decided to flip him into an informant. I figure it’ll prove more worthwhile than writing him up on a violation that will probably get thrown out of court.”
I began to walk past Santou when he grabbed hold of my hand.
“You do know the upside to all this is, don’t you? At least I got transferred to San Francisco so that we can be together.”
There it was—the reason why I loved the man so much.
Jake turned my hand over and pressed his lips to my palm, sending a wave of heat rushing through me. Unbelievable.
The man could still make my legs go weak at any given moment. Santou knew it as well and flashed a lascivious smile, basking in his effect on me.
“Dinner is served, children. Come and get it,” Terri called out, breaking the spell.
Terri’s version of cooking was a lot like mine. Tonight we had chicken scallopine takeout.
“Seriously, chère. I want to hear more about what happened this afternoon,” Jake said, as we sat down and began to eat.
The chicken was terrific. Boy, was Santou in for a rude awakening the day that I finally started cooking for him.
“The call that came in this morning? It was from a Stanford University professor. He not only tipped me off about a butterfly poacher, but also mentioned that one of his colleagues is missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?” Santou asked, his curiosity piqued.
“Some guy by the name of Dr. John Harmon went up to Mendocino about two weeks ago on assignment for Fish and Wildlife. He’d been hired to search for an endangered butterfly. That’s the last anyone has heard from him.”
“There could be any number of reasons for that. Maybe he has money problems and decided to lay low for a while,” Jake speculated. “Does he happen to be married?”
I nodded, remembering the information I’d been given.
“Possibly he’s spending time with another woman and doesn’t want his wife to know.”
“Or it could be another man,” Terri interjected.
“If something were wrong, I’m sure the county sheriff would know about it,” Jake added.
“Great. Now you sound just like my boss.”
“Heaven forbid. We wouldn’t want that, what with the way you feel about him,” Santou said with a laugh. “Tell you
what. I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know if any information comes through the office.”
“Fair enough. In the meantime, I thought I’d take a ride up to Mendocino tomorrow. Anyone interested in coming along?”
“Hell, that’s a three-hour drive each way, chère. You know my back will never make it.”
I was tempted to snipe that if he went to a physical therapist and cut out the pills and booze, it would help speed up his recovery. However, I kept my mouth shut, having been through that argument only last night.
“I’ll go with you, Rach,” Terri offered. “I might as well see what the northern coastline looks like.”
“Terrific,” I said.
That would give me quality time with Terri, while Jake found out how much fun it was to spend an entire day alone. It might prove to be the wake-up call that he needed. Only when he dropped the I-can-tackle-this-problem-on-my-own attitude, and got some serious help, would his condition ever improve.
Just the possibility made me feel good enough to eagerly jump up and begin my usual slap-dash job of washing dishes. I figured why slave over such things? They were only going to get dirty again, anyway.
Terri picked up one of the plates I’d just washed and gave it the once-over.
“Sparkling clean as usual,” he wryly noted, and began to scrub it himself. “Remind me to buy my own set of silverware and dishes so that at least one of us doesn’t come down with a mysterious ailment that’s traced back to eating off dirty dinnerware.”
I remembered Ma Aikens’s kitchen and had to agree that Terri probably had a point.
“Now I’m going upstairs to make myself absolutely gorgeous.”
Terri already looked good enough to make me feel like who-dragged-that-inside roadkill.
“Why? Are you going out with friends tonight?” I asked, feeling slightly envious.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve decided to get a part-time job at one of the trendy transvestite clubs downtown. I can use a little extra spending money, what with that damn lawsuit pending. Besides, getting out will help spruce up my social life.”
That was enough to set off a series of alarm bells in my head. I hadn’t realized Terri planned on staying in San Francisco for quite so long. Not only that, but he already had a circle of friends in the area. Unless there was something going on with Vincent that he hadn’t told me about.