As I stared at Monty’s collection, trying to imagine what might be wrapped up inside, I realized that the prospect of Sutro’s lost fortune would have been far more in line with my Uncle Oscar’s interests than a tribute to the man’s populism. Now more than ever, I was certain that there was more to the Vigilance Committee story than I’d been told.
Monty continued to sweep the pool, presumably searching for more packages. I waited for a safe moment while he was swimming in the opposite direction; then I sprinted out from my hiding place and snatched one of them up.
After racing back behind the concrete pile, I slowly unwrapped the soggy gray rag. I stared in awe at the item I’d uncovered.
Sitting in my palm, shining in the full light of the morning’s sun, sat a green-tinged, bronze-colored frog.
Chapter 27
THE CLIFF HOUSE
I HELD THE
bronze frog in my hand, studying it closely. The creature was seated with its head poked forward in a curious fashion. There was the slight edge of a smile on its wide, lipless mouth.
The frog seemed heavy for its size, as if its bronze metal had been mixed with a denser material to weigh it down. Or, I thought as I searched for a way to open it, maybe something was hidden inside. Perhaps the frog was designed like a piggy bank and hid a secret compartment somewhere within its rounded middle.
But despite a close inspection, I couldn’t find any obvious seams or cracks in the molding. There were no unusual fissures or depressions in the metal. It was, inexplicably, simply a bronze statue of a frog. What about this item made it worth hiding in the bottom of the pool in the Sutro Baths ruins? Even more importantly, what made it worth retrieving from that cold, dank water?
I peeked back over the concrete barrier to the pond. Several disgruntled ducks had formed an armada and were swimming along after Monty’s snorkel tube, no doubt plotting their revenge.
From Monty’s position in the water, I estimated that he had nearly canvassed the entire span of the pool. He must be freezing by now and would surely be finishing up soon. It was time for me to make my exit.
I tucked the bronze frog into my coat pocket and carefully retraced my steps across the top of the crumbling seawall, leaving Monty to complete the last laps of the pond unobserved. I had no desire to see him in those tight-fitting swim trunks ever again.
I scampered back up the path circling the ruins, breathing a sigh of relief when I reached the higher ground above the wave warning signs. At the bottom of the terraced steps, I turned to look back down at the pool. I couldn’t see Monty in the portion of the water that was visible from my location, but, I noticed with relief, he wasn’t yet following me up the trail from below.
I began hiking up the steps, proceeding at a much slower pace due to the steepness of the climb. My leg muscles were burning from exertion by the time I finally topped the summit at the trailhead and exited into the parking lot.
I paced back and forth across the lot, considering my options for getting a ride back to Jackson Square. The rear door of Monty’s van was unlocked, but it seemed unlikely that I would make it through a second cargo ride undiscovered. I still wasn’t entirely sure that Monty hadn’t seen me down in the ruins by the pool.
I fished around in my shoulder bag to check for my wallet. It was a splurge that I really couldn’t afford, but I decided to treat myself to breakfast at the Cliff House and, I thought ruefully as I calculated the fare in my head, an expensive cab ride back to the Green Vase.
Glancing every so often down the hill at the ruins, I headed off on the sidewalk that skirted the highway from the parking lot to the bunkerlike structure of the Cliff House. Only the edge of the roof could be seen from this upper angle; the rest of the building was stacked up against the cliffs below the highway.
I reached into my pocket and clutched the little bronze frog in my fingers, wondering again what had driven Monty to search that cold, nasty water for it—and how soon he would realize that one of his treasures was missing.
At the entrance to the Cliff House, I paused on the steps to look up at its white concrete edifice.
The contemporary design featured sharp, dramatic angles, framed by the exposed structural elements of shiny steel and aluminum. An overabundance of stone and cement cinched the building into the scraggly outcropping of the cliff, giving the impression of a solid, immovable block, invincible to the crashing waves below.
After strolling along a concrete landing that flanked the outside of the building, I arrived at a triangle-shaped observatory overlooking the ruins. From this position, I had a clear view of the pool where Monty had been swimming. Green and brown patches of algae masked the concrete bottom beneath the water. I was amazed that Monty had been able to see anything in that muck.
The family of ducks had adopted a more relaxed posture, and the pile of rag-wrapped bronze frogs was gone from the edge of the pool. Monty, I concluded, must have departed.
I left the observatory and backtracked along the landing to the building’s entrance. Just inside the foyer, I was greeted by a picture of Sutro’s dramatic eight-story rendition of the Cliff House. The differences between it and the current structure were striking.
Sutro’s palacelike Cliff House had hung precariously off the edge of the cliff, its wide base held in place, it seemed, by no more than a wish and a whim. The edge of the enormous foundation extended out far beyond the support of the rocky cliffs. Wooden struts stretched back toward the rocks from underneath the building, straining to hold on to the earth like the exposed roots of a tree fighting erosion.
I continued further inside, walking along the main interior corridor. The entire width of the building’s ocean-facing wall was made up of nothing but windows. Looking out, I felt as if I were on a boat, floating on top of the water, not anchored to the cliffs beside it.
From this interior perspective, the boxy bunker formation of the Cliff House’s exterior was almost imperceptible. The precarious notion of the spot combined with the outcropping of the location to defy all architectural attempts to box it in. No matter the changes to the outer shell over the years, I suspected that the Cliff House view, and the phenomenal sense of exposure to the ocean and the air above it, remained substantially the same.
I left the expansive corridor, entered the restaurant, and asked for a table. A mosaic of cream and tan one-inch tiles spread across the floor, complementing a dining room full of wicker-backed furniture. The wall of windows continued into the restaurant, dwarfing a massive mahogany bar that lined the cliff side of the building.
A waitress led me to a table overlooking the beach on the opposite side of the building from the Sutro Baths ruins. I turned my seat to face the water, still infatuated by the stunning view.
The restaurant was filled with tourists, obvious in their bright-colored sweatshirts and constant comments about the weather. I tuned them out as I pulled the bronze frog from my pocket, wiped it off with a napkin, and set it on the corner of my table. The frog turned out to be the perfect Cliff House dining companion, quietly appreciating the scenery without offering any unnecessarily verbose commentary.
After placing an order of eggs, I flipped the menu over to read the historical information printed on its back. A short essay described the rise and fall of the Sutro Baths along with an amusement complex that had occupied the now empty beach my south-facing table overlooked. Playland-at-the-Beach had boasted carnival rides, arcades of shooting games, and a fanciful, ornately decorated merry-go-round.
Like the rest of the bygone structures that had once populated Lands End, the amusement park was long gone, but some of its rides had been preserved and were on display at various locations throughout the city. The merry-go-round, my menu noted, was now in use at the Moscone Convention Center complex downtown.
A steaming plate of food arrived, and I dug in, hungry after the morning’s stress of spying. A seagull soared by my table outside the window, eying my plate of fruit and scrambled eggs, but I ignored him. Everything looked delicious, and I had no plans to share.
I was midway through the breakfast, my stomach beginning to fill, when a disturbance at the front of the restaurant caused me to turn around in my chair.
A tall, skinny man in tight blue swim trunks marched through the dining room toward my table, dripping an algae-tinted trail of water on the tiles beneath his feet. His curly brown hair was wet and slightly slimy. He held a snorkel in one hand and a net bag filled with bronze-colored frogs in the other.
Oblivious to the startled stares of the brunching tourists and the efforts of the waitstaff to detain him, Monty proceeded straight to the edge of my table.
“Aha!” he cried loudly, pointing at my frog. “I knew I was missing one!”
Chapter 28
THE FRENCH RESTAURANT
HAROLD WOMBLER GIMPED
up Bush Street in downtown San Francisco, making his way toward the red and yellow storefront of a restaurant. A sign above a circular red awning flashed the name of the establishment, but the curvy script of the neon piping was difficult to read without a night’s black canvas. Harold’s watery, bloodshot eyes slid over the vertical red lettering painted onto a yellow wall that split the two sides of the entrance, confirming that he’d reached the designated meeting place.
Harold scrunched his lips together as if he were about to swallow something bitter. The lunch hour was approaching, and his stomach was beginning to rumble, but this was not one of his usual eating stops. He scanned the menu posted in the nearby window.
Just as he had suspected.
French
.
With a disgusted grunt, Harold slumped through one of the building’s curtained glass doors and entered the restaurant.
The interior was ambiently lit, too dark for Harold’s aged eyes. He liked to be able to see what he was eating, especially if it were some fancy foreign food. Plus, you never knew what kind of weird item the chefs in this town might try to slip onto your plate.
Harold peered around the entrance as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dimmer light.
Red brick walls filled with artsy framed posters flanked the length of the dining area. Harold sidled up to the nearest poster and tilted his head to look at the mounting behind it. The picture was hung on a hook that had been drilled into the brick wall.
Harold scowled disapprovingly. It was a shame to see masonry abused in such a fashion. It was early on in his lunch, but Harold was determined to dislike everything about this meal.
The restaurant was already cramped with suited businessmen and women who were preparing to enjoy a long Friday lunch in celebration of the end of another work-week. Several bottles of wine had been opened on the long wooden bar where a busy barkeeper polished a rack of long-stemmed wineglasses as he stood ready to pour.
A man wearing dark slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a black squarely positioned bowtie rushed up to the entrance, eyeing Harold warily and with haughty contempt.
After nearly two weeks of repeated wear, Harold’s overalls were now suitably stained with the backsplash from several construction projects. Various spots and smears of drywall, glue, building putty, and paint covered the cloth. Rips and tears had begun to stretch out along the fabric covering his knobby knees, and he’d worked up a rank, pungent body odor.
“No,” the waiter pulsed out through tightly pursed lips, his voice heavily accented. “No, no, no . . .”
Harold gave the waiter a grim look and stepped aside. He wasn’t concerned. Harold didn’t have a reservation; he had better. He was expected by one of the restaurant’s most famous patrons.
The waiter glared at Harold, his stern expression clearly transmitting an unwelcome message.
Seconds later, an elderly man dressed in a tailored dove gray suit walked up behind the waiter and calmly put his arm around his shoulders. The gold glint of an expensive watch flashed on the man’s wrist. The brown skin on his hand was silky smooth, the nail on each finger manicured to a round, even curve.
“It’s all right, Francois,” the man said genially. “He’s with me.”
The waiter issued a startled pleading look, but the Previous Mayor simply smiled patiently in return. The waiter’s mouth opened and closed, wordlessly guppying his displeasure, but he eventually yanked out a menu and motioned Harold forward.
“Can I take your . . . er . . . hat?” the waiter asked, his eyes surveying Harold’s dingy baseball cap with morbid apprehension.
Harold reached up and scratched his scalp; then he lifted his cap from his thinning head of greasy black hair. Silently, he handed it over. The waiter took the cap gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.
“Right this way, sir,” the waiter said stiffly.
Harold hobbled through the indicated path, brushing up against the well-heeled patrons sitting at the bar. Stares and whispers followed in his wake as he made his way to the honorary window table the Previous Mayor occupied every Friday for lunch.
BACK IN THE
kitchen of the French restaurant, a deliveryman pushed a dolly filled with fresh produce through the service entrance. A sous-chef smocked in a white apron pointed to an open spot on a nearby table.
“Right over there, please.”
The deliveryman nodded and wheeled the dolly over to the indicated location where he began lifting up the crates and stacking them on the table. Midway through unloading the dolly, he paused to wipe his brow.
“Oh, and I’ve got one more container for you,” the deliveryman said casually. “It’s still in the truck. A special delivery.”
The head chef heard his comment and rushed over. “
Ah bon! S’il vous plait
, er-um, please, bring them in right away.”