\nThe girl walked into my office. Yeah, I know that\u2019s a boring first line. I\u2019m supposed to wax poetic about her calves or whatever, but that just wouldn\u2019t be true, even though I sometimes swing that way. This girl all but stomped into my office with her angry face and her frumpy clothes.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cMr. Sidney Bergamot?\u201d she asked.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nI\u2019d called her up through the building\u2019s intercom. From that brief conversation, I knew her name was Greta Wong and that she was a referral from her friend Mary Lee. Mary Lee was the daughter of a higher-up in the Eighth Street Tong, and as such, had paid me good money to help her out a while back. This girl, however, in her faded plaid dress and scuffed-up shoes, was clearly no tong princess, and I immediately wondered how she was going to pay. Not that I should be too snooty\u2014Oakland\u2019s now chock-full of sleek new tiled skyscrapers accented with sunbursts and zig-zags and God knows what else, but I\u2019m stuck in this draft-plagued dust factory.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cMiss Wong, please take a seat.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nShe flopped into the chair in front of my desk, then reached into a battered knapsack and pulled something out. She placed this object on my desk: tortoiseshell glasses that had seen better days\u2014a man\u2019s glasses, by the look of them.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cAs I said downstairs, I have an urgent request,\u201d she said. \u201cA missing person\u2019s case.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nI sighed internally. A man who\u2019d run out on his lady friend: just the case every detective wants. Unless she was pregnant, there was nothing to tell her but to let him go.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cWho\u2019s missing?\u201d I asked gamely.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cCiaran McKay. He goes by Kay.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cAn Irish boy. Why not? It\u2019s the 20th Century.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n
\n
\n
\nShe didn\u2019t laugh.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cAge?\u201d I asked.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cNineteen, same as me.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cWhat are the circumstances of his disappearance?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cHe was ambushed on Piedmont Avenue two days ago, out by the cemetery. A man tackled him, knocking off his glasses, then pulled him into a green car.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nOk, maybe this was more than a boyfriend who had skedaddled.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cWhat was he doing out by the cemetery?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cHe was hired to sing at a funeral.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cHe\u2019s a singer?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cYes, a bass-baritone. He\u2019s exceptional. I\u2019m a composer.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cI see. And you were with him?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cNo, I was at my job. I work the box office at the Grand Lake Theatre, and sometimes play the Wurlitzer.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cWho saw him get taken in the car then?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nIf it was a friend of his, we were right back at skedaddled. Instead, the girl gestured to the tortoiseshell glasses.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cWhen he didn\u2019t come home, I took the street car out there and found these. They\u2019re haunted by the sea turtle whose shell was used to make them. She told me.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nUnconventional, but I\u2019d seen stranger things. Still, I\u2019m not a sucker.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cIs this turtle ghost willing to be interviewed?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cShe only talks to me and Kay.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nOf course.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cOkay, so you go out to Mountain View Cemetery and find his glasses. Did you talk to anyone else out there? Anyone at the chapel?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cYesterday I canvassed that neighborhood for hours. Everyone brushed me off except a groundskeeper at the cemetery. He told me there hadn\u2019t been a funeral that evening.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cWho hired him for the job?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cA woman. She came into the grocery where he works.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cYou know her name? Or what she looked like?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cKay said her name was Mrs. Jones, but I\u2019d guess that\u2019s an alias.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cGood guess. What about enemies? Either of you got any enemies?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nShe shook her head.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cIs there someone you owe money?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nShe shook her head again.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cDoes the kid have rich parents who don\u2019t want him with a Chinese girl? Or do yours not want a white boy around their daughter?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nAnother shake of the head. \u201cHe\u2019s an orphan. We both are. Neither of us have anything.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019re not\u2026in the family way, are you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nGreta\u2019s face reddened. \u201cThe cops asked the same thing before they laughed me off. No. And we haven\u2019t had any arguments, either.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nI held back a sigh. \u201cLook, you\u2019re not giving me a lot to go on here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cYou found Hana Yamamoto.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nHana Yamamoto was the girlfriend of Mary Lee, the Eighth Street Tong daughter who\u2019d referred Greta. When Hana went missing, Mary had reached out to me instead of using the tong\u2019s vast resources because the relationship was, of course, a secret. The daughter of one of Chinatown\u2019s most prominent families romancing a lady, and a Japanese one at that? She would have been disowned.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nHana\u2019s folks weren\u2019t any more understanding, and when they figured out what their daughter was up to, they had her smuggled out of Oakland in the dead of night. I found her in the Central Valley, got her to San Jose, and helped the star-crossed lovers set up a secret correspondence. They planned to run to Paris in a year or so.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cI did find Hana Yamamoto, but I had a bit more to go on there. Girl in a relationship her family would disapprove of disappears? Of course it was her family. And what do you know, she ends up at her uncle\u2019s farm in Fresno. So far you\u2019ve given me a green car and no witnesses besides a ghost turtle.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nSome potential clients would have started the waterworks, but Greta just stared me down.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019re the detective. Finding the clues is supposed to be your job.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cSure, but it will take some work, and you\u2019re clearly no daughter of a wealthy tong family.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nHer attention faltered and I realized she was looking past me. \u201cYou have a cat?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nI sighed. I didn\u2019t need to look to know what I\u2019d find behind me, but I swiveled my chair anyway. There on the windowsill, smirking at me, was a black and white cat with striking blue eyes. The bastard had snuck in.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cI don\u2019t,\u201d I said, turning back to Greta. \u201cHe just shows up sometimes. Let\u2019s not get distracted. How are you paying for this?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cI don\u2019t have much, but please\u2014\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cCan\u2019t Mary Lee give you some money?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cShe gave me two dollars.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cTwo dollars?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cShe sends almost all her allowance to her girlfriend now. You have to find Kay. You\u2019d be doing the world a favor. His voice\u2026there\u2019s nothing like it. He\u2019s going to be an opera star someday. In my operas. And he\u2019s the kindest\u2014\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nJudging by her startled reaction, the cat chose that moment to jump off the windowsill and turn into a slim, dapperly dressed young man with slicked back black hair and sinister-yet-breathtaking blue eyes. This was Alexander Cobalt, villain-for-hire of the San Francisco Bay.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nI had met Alexander \u201cCoby\u201d Cobalt when he showed up in my apartment two years earlier to threaten me. He\u2019d been hired by a wealthy industrialist whose wife had hired me to get evidence of his affairs. I\u2019ll be honest: he got the drop on me, being able to silently sneak in through a barely cracked open window as a cat. But when he lunged at me in human form, the true distraction was that this criminal Adonis was throwing himself at me, albeit with decidedly unromantic intent.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cLook, kid,\u201d I said once he had me pinned to the floor with a knife to my throat, \u201cif you\u2019re going to kill me, let\u2019s at least have some fun first. I might even teach you some things. You\u2019ll know I don\u2019t have a weapon on me, \u2018cause I\u2019ll be naked.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nThose deep blue eyes expressed no disgust at the suggestion, but rather alarm that I had him figured out, so I continued.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cCome on, when are you going to get another opportunity like this?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nNow, I\u2019m about twenty years older than Coby, and closer to fifty than forty, but I\u2019m not awful to look at, I\u2019m a pretty smooth talker, and I won\u2019t be shy in saying I have the skills to back my talk up. To conclude: the wealthy industrialist\u2019s wife ended up with the fortune, and Coby started stopping by whenever he felt like it, sneaking in as a cat.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nIn human form, Coby leaned against my desk like he owned it. \u201cKeep the two bucks,\u201d he told Greta Wong, who had recovered from her momentary shock\u2014after all, changelings were rare, but hardly unknown. \u201cI\u2019ll cover the cost.\u201d Then he turned toward me. \u201cTake the case. I\u2019ve heard this girl play the Wurlitzer at the Grand Lake; she\u2019s a real pro. And I\u2019ve heard the Irish kid sing arias all over Oakland. This girl\u2019s usually going around with a hat, getting pennies from the crowd, but he should be at La Scala.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cThank you, sir,\u201d said Greta.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nCoby stuck out his hand. \u201cAlexander Cobalt, patron of the arts.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cGreta Wong, composer and Ciaran McKay\u2019s manager.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cNow, look, I haven\u2019t agreed to take the case yet,\u201d I interjected.\n<\/p>\n
\nCoby smiled at me in that smug, suggestive way that drives me crazy. \u201cI\u2019ll make it up to you later.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nGreta put two and two together and looked me in the eye. \u201cAfter all, it is the 20th Century.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\nThat was how the three of us ended up taking a street car to Piedmont Avenue and searching the area. What do you know? People were more forthcoming with two white men than a Chinese girl, and we soon had a confirmation of the car from a teenager working at Fenton\u2019s Creamery.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt was definitely a Bugatti,\u201d he said. \u201cI was walking home from work and saw it speeding down Piedmont. Never thought I\u2019d see a car like that outside of a magazine.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSee anyone inside it?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJust the driver, but I couldn\u2019t make him out. What I wouldn\u2019t give for a car like that. It can probably cross the bridge faster than the Key train.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI gave him a tip and we left the ice cream parlor.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI told you,\u201d said Greta.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYeah, yeah,\u201d I replied, \u201cbut apparently your turtle ghost doesn\u2019t know a Bugatti from a Ford.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNow we know what to look for,\u201d she continued. \u201cA green Bugatti.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAnd you know who might know about that?\u201d said Coby. \u201cJerez.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMy stomach tightened. I do my best to stay out of San Francisco, but it\u2019s unavoidable sometimes, especially in my business. Intrigue rarely stays on one side of the bay.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWho\u2019s Jerez?\u201d asked Greta.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cA guy in San Francisco who knows his cars,\u201d said Coby, simplifying significantly.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nCoby called from a telephone booth. When he stepped back out, Greta immediately asked, \u201cWell?\u201d before he could start talking.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJerez says he might know the car. He\u2019ll pick us up at the Transbay station in the city.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDoes he think Kay\u2019s in San Francisco? Are we going to go get him?\u201d asked Greta.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHe\u2019ll tell us more when we get there.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nDespite the fact that I hate going into San Francisco, I was prepared to step up and buy the train tickets for myself, my client, and my sometimes-gunsel. However, when we got to the nearby Key System station, Coby stepped in front of me at the window and asked for three first-class transbay tickets.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cFor Christsakes, Coby, we\u2019re just going across the bridge,\u201d I said.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhy not travel in style?\u201d Coby replied.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe could be ridiculous like that. For example, several times he had suggested we go to San Francisco just to spend the night at the Palace Hotel. \u201cYou could smuggle me inside in a suitcase,\u201d he argued. \u201cNo one would know.\u201d I always declined. Why would we do that, when I had an apartment we could use that I was already paying rent on? First-class tickets were another useless extravagance.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAre you going to cross Lake Merritt in an airship next? Just get a third-class ticket for me. I don\u2019t need a fancy seat for a train ride just because it\u2019s over a puddle.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nCoby ignored me and purchased the tickets.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe latest Key System electric trains had been unveiled about six years earlier in 1930, when Timothy\u2019s Pflueger\u2019s bridge across the bay opened. They were weird, rounded things, not what you think of when you think \u201ctrain\u201d at all. Each train was coated in black enamel, with three lines of aluminum ribbing running horizontally across their sides, I guess to make them look like they were going even faster than they already were. The train that pulled up for us was a little dingy. For the first year or so those things were scrubbed of any trace of dust constantly, shining like a millionaire\u2019s shoe. By the mid-Thirties? Not so much.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe Thirties had taken their toll on the interior of the first-class car too, but I still had to grudgingly admit it was impressive. Although worn, the burgundy velvet banquettes were clean. The wallpaper, which was black with a pattern of gold lightning bolts, had nothing more than an occasional scuff mark. Between each set of banquettes was a rosewood table, and each table had an attached frosted glass vase etched with a leaping gazelle. In better days, each of those vases would have held a single rose, but apparently that was where further cutbacks had been. Even without flowers, the setup was pretty ridiculous.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAll this for a trip across the bay?\u201d Greta asked, echoing my thoughts and drawing glances from the few other passengers. Her eyes were wide, though. She\u2019d probably never seen anything like a train\u2019s first-class car in her life. \u201cI wish Kay could see this.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI saw her eyes mist for a moment, the first hint of weakness she had shown.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHe can see it on the ride back,\u201d I said quickly. \u201cMy treat.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWe settled in our banquette, and I purposely chose to sit facing the rear of the train, away from San Francisco. Coby sat across from me and let Greta have the window seat. As we zipped through Oakland, and Coby and Greta fell into conversation about music and how great a singer this guy Kay was.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m composing an opera for him,\u201d Greta said. \u201cIt\u2019s one act, two performers. We need to find a contralto for him to sing with.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d I asked.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cA woman with a deep voice,\u201d said Coby.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes. It\u2019s about two giants who are husband and wife.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nGod knows what they call art today.\n<\/p>\n
\nI tuned out for a bit, but then a phrase uttered by Coby snapped me back to attention: \u201cI was on Clyde Haversham\u2019s airship recently, and he had a private Stravinsky concert onboard.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI didn\u2019t know much about Stravinsky, but I did know about Clyde Haversham. The Havershams were industrialists who had made their fortune first in soap, and then in aluminum. They were one of the area\u2019s most illustrious families. In Piedmont they had a mansion built by Julia Morgan. In Mountain View Cemetery they had a crypt the size of a cottage, topped with a stone angel holding up a bar of soap. The current generation had two sons: the eldest was the business-minded scion, and Clyde was the devil-may-care spare. If you were in the know, you knew that Clyde was quite the playboy, and it wasn\u2019t ladies he was playing with.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhen did you ride on Clyde Haversham\u2019s airship?\u201d I demanded.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe quickest look of panic crossed Coby\u2019s face, or at least I imagined it did.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOh, a few months ago,\u201d he said with a shrug. \u201cIt\u2019s as gaudy as you\u2019d imagine. You can\u2019t decorate with marble in an airship, because it\u2019s too heavy, so instead\u2026\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe then rambled on about Clyde Haversham\u2019s airship to Greta while my mind reeled. A few months ago? Had it been when Coby told me he was going to Los Angeles for a \u201cjob\u201d? True, Coby and I weren\u2019t exactly\u2026well, anything. He showed up occasionally at my office or apartment, we had sex, and that was it. But Clyde Haversham! Clyde Haversham was younger than I was, and he could set Coby up like a prince in a penthouse somewhere if he wanted.\n<\/p>\n
\nSoon we were racing high over the water, and I tried to distract myself both from imagining Coby with Clyde Haversham and from the growing dread as we neared San Francisco. From up there, the bay looked endless as it stretched to the south. And while a lot of the Bay Area looked grimier than it had in the Twenties, the bridge they didn\u2019t skimp on. Pflueger\u2019s bronze-plated splendor gleamed almost as brightly as it had the day it opened. As much as I hated the man\u2019s countless skyscrapers, I had to admit he\u2019d done a fine job with the Bay Bridge\u2014got it open ahead of schedule, too.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut even the natural and manmade beauty combined couldn\u2019t stop my thoughts from dwelling on how Coby knew Clyde Haversham. Just how well did he know him? Had he done an illicit job or two for the rich kid, or was their relationship something more intimate?\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHere\u2019s Yerba Buena Island,\u201d said Coby as we approached the small island the train would tunnel through.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cGoat Island,\u201d I corrected.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019s called Yerba Buena again,\u201d said Coby. \u201cThat was its original name. Well, its original name by colonists.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSays who? I was born in the city, and it\u2019s always been Goat Island.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThings change, old man.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOld man\u201d wouldn\u2019t have annoyed me too much usually, but usually I wasn\u2019t comparing myself to Clyde Haversham while being told I had the name of one of my birth city\u2019s landmarks wrong. I gave Coby my best steely glare. We went through the dim tunnel, and then when we emerged, Greta\u2019s eyes lit up.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019ve never seen it this close before,\u201d she said.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019ve never been to San Francisco?\u201d asked Coby. \u201cNot even by ferry? Not that you would want to get in a boat recently, with all the shipwrecks we\u2019ve had.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat\u2019s not San Francisco,\u201d I said, still peeved. I focused on Goat Island\u2019s rugged shore as we sped away from it. \u201cThat\u2019s just a city built where San Francisco used to be.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou mean after the earthquake?\u201d asked Greta.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThe earthquake and the fires,\u201d I said.\n<\/p>\n
\nI could still remember that 1906 morning: the shaking, the sound, the panic. The utter unreality of seeing buildings you walked by the day before crumbled into piles of rubble. And then\u2014just when my ma and I were able to regroup and feel relief that at least our apartment building was standing\u2014the fires came.\n<\/p>\n
\nThat was why I had no desire to turn and look at the \u201cnew\u201d San Francisco: a skyline of imposing skyscrapers, their glossy terracotta or stainless-steel surfaces reflecting the light. It looked nothing like San Francisco. The only reason you would know which city you were looking at was the thick bank of fog obscuring the western half, the fog that had caused so many shipwrecks of late.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOh, come on, Sid,\u201d said Coby. \u201cWhat was there before? A bunch of wood huts?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou watch your mouth, kid,\u201d I snapped, thinking of the cramped apartment I\u2019d grown up in.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOr you\u2019ll what?\u201d he asked with a smirk.\n<\/p>\n
\nHad there not been a lady present, I might have threatened to throw him over my knee. Instead I said nothing, and just glared at him harder, thinking that fine, thirty-something Clyde Haversham could have the brat if he wanted him. Coby rolled his eyes.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe,\u201d he said, nodding his head toward Greta, \u201cweren\u2019t born yet, but I\u2019m sure it was great. For its time.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThey probably would have torn it down anyway,\u201d said Greta, \u201cto build all these skyscrapers.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nOnce we reached the Transbay Terminal, we headed out to the curb to meet Jerez, but first we spotted another new and flashy invention.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIs that an automacarriage? I\u2019ve never seen one,\u201d gasped Greta.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe automacarriage looked like one of the horse-pulled hansom cabs of old, but pulling it were a quartet of four bronze gazelles\u2014diesel-powered automatons. They were highly stylized, all long lines and dramatic curves. From their head sprouted long, arching antlers.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThey look nice,\u201d said Coby, \u201cbut they\u2019re terrible at going up the city\u2019s hills.\u201d How did he know that? Did Clyde Haversham have one? He probably did. \u201cLook, there\u2019s Jerez.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nJerez\u2019s vehicle was no less impressive, although more conventional. It was a gleaming, diesel-guzzling, black behemoth of a car with blindingly clean white-walled tires and a frosted glass hood ornament of a dancer lunging forward, her hair blowing back in the wind.\n<\/p>\n
\nJerez, a powerfully built, intimidating man, got out of the car and graciously opened the front passenger door for Greta, but she paused before getting in.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou know who the green Bugatti belongs to?\u201d she asked.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI might.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAre you taking us straight there?\u201d she pressed.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNo, like I told Coby here on the phone, we\u2019re gonna talk to Iris Aubergine first.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWho?\u201d Greta asked.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cShe\u2019s a very connected woman here in San Francisco,\u201d I answered. \u201cA power broker, you might call her.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBut why? We\u2019re wasting time. Kay has been with those people since the day before yesterday.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIf this is what Miss Aubergine thinks it is,\u201d said Jerez, \u201cit\u2019s not the kind of situation you can just run into without a plan.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat does she think it is?\u201d Greta asked.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cLet\u2019s talk about that at the house,\u201d Jerez said.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBut do you think he\u2019s alive?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe do.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nGreta gave him a hard look, then acquiesced and got into the car while I climbed into the backseat with Coby.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDon\u2019t worry, Miss Wong,\u201d said Coby once all the car doors were closed. \u201cIris Aubergine is a smart lady. She knows everything that goes on in this city. She\u2019s made it her business to know. If she says we should talk to her first, we should talk to her first. If she says your boy is alive, he\u2019s alive. Besides, she likes musicians. She was a ballet dancer.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWe took off, and I groaned as Telegraph Hill came into sight. The hill of my childhood\u2014rugged, packed with humble wooden houses\u2014was now practically a carnival, with a prominent concrete tower at its top and electric gondolas running from its crown to Filbert Street.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCome on, Sid, Coit Tower and the Telegraph Hill Gondolas are not that bad,\u201d said Coby.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThey\u2019re unnecessary,\u201d I replied, still annoyed with him.\n<\/p>\n
\nWe started winding up Telegraph Hill itself. The car strained so much I was worried we would start rolling backwards, but we safely reached our destination near the end of Montgomery Street. Unlike Coby, I\u2019d never been to Iris\u2019s house before. It was big, white stucco affair with lots of curves, glass bricks, and portal windows.\n<\/p>\n
\nJerez hopped out to open the garage door, and soon we were going down a ramp so steep, I had to brace my feet to stay upright.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThis goes down the hillside?\u201d I asked.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes. It\u2019s the only way to fit all these,\u201d said Jerez as the floor leveled out.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe car\u2019s headlights reflected off of what might have been a collection of giant junebug carapaces. There were half a dozen cars in the garage\u2014all streamlined and gleaming with chrome grilles and swooping fenders.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHow many people live here?\u201d gasped Greta as she climbed out of the car, not waiting for Jerez to open her door.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJust me, Iris, and the housekeeper, but these are all my babies,\u201d said Jerez.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou see why this was the man to call about a car,\u201d said Coby.\n<\/p>\n
\nWe rode up an elevator that wouldn\u2019t have been out of place at the Fairmont. When the doors slid open, we stepped into a foyer with a black and white checkerboard floor, a crystal chandelier, and dainty Iris Aubergine\u2014purple dress, dark hair in a bob\u2014standing patiently.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAlexander,\u201d she said to Coby, holding out her hands. They quickly kissed cheeks, and she addressed the rest of us. \u201cMr. Bergamot. How nice to see you again. And you must be Miss Wong.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou know where Kay is?\u201d asked Greta.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou get right to the point,\u201d said Iris. \u201cI like that. My dear, I think I do. Come along, and I\u2019ll tell you what I know and what I suspect.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWith that, she led us into an adjoining room. This one was no less fancy, with leather furniture and a black marble fireplace guarded by an iron screen depicting a tiger in a jungle. With his black suit and elegant profile, Coby fit right in. I briefly wondered what the interior of Clyde Haversham\u2019s house looked like before remembering that I had already mentally ceded Coby to him anyway.\n<\/p>\n
\nWe all sat except for Jerez, who stood imposingly behind Iris\u2019s chair. He was her lieutenant, her partner, her muscle. Was he her lover, too? I sure as hell didn\u2019t know. I\u2019d only met Iris a few times, but got the sense she had little interest in romance with anyone.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMiss Wong, Mr. Cobalt told us on the phone that your missing boy is an opera singer. Is that right?\u201d asked Iris.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Greta confidently. \u201cHe\u2019s a bass-baritone. One of the best.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nIris thought this over a few moments. \u201cWe know a green Bugatti. It belongs to a woman in Sea Cliff.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSea Cliff?\u201d asked Greta.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019s a rich neighborhood, out in the city\u2019s northwest,\u201d said Coby. \u201cThink Piedmont, but twenty degrees colder and covered in fog.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSo he\u2019s there,\u201d Greta said, rising.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSit,\u201d Iris said firmly. \u201cYou\u2019ve heard about the rash of shipwrecks we\u2019ve had recently?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYeah,\u201d I piped in, \u201ccargo ships coming through the Golden Gate. Exactly what all the trouble building Mile Rocks Lighthouse was supposed to prevent.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThe woman who owns the green Bugatti is Maria Lauren,\u201d said Iris, \u201cand she also owns a cargo airship company. The ships coming in by water are her competition. She has something to gain by shipwrecks.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI mulled that over and shook my head. \u201cYou think she caused the shipwrecks to cut down on the competition?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI think it\u2019s possible.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHow would that work?\u201d I demanded. \u201cPaying off the captains to aim straight for those rocks? Because they\u2019ve all gone down with their ships.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cLet the lady speak,\u201d said Coby.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou let the lady speak,\u201d I snapped, making Coby roll his eyes. Not my finest moment or comeback, I admit, but I was not in the mood to be scolded by Mr. The-1906-Earthquake-Was-Before-I-Was-Born-And-Also-I-Rode-In-Clyde-Haversham\u2019s-Airship.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDo you want me to explain, or do you want to keep bickering?\u201d Iris asked coolly. We were silent. \u201cGood. The shipwrecks have been blamed on the dense fog and the captains\u2019 inattentiveness. But since everyone on those boats died, we have no witnesses other than the lighthouse keepers, who themselves couldn\u2019t see anything through the fog.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJerez and I were at a party out in Sea Cliff a few weeks ago, and Maria Lauren\u2019s name came up. She moved to the neighborhood about six months ago, and paid quite a bit to get the old owners out of that house. She\u2019s been seen in the Bugatti, either driving or with a chauffeur, but keeps to herself. A neighbor mentioned he saw her out on her private dock one day. He said she was staring out at the fog rolling in, and he called to her, but she didn\u2019t respond. And then he told us, \u2018That was the day of the first shipwreck. Maybe she had a sense of foreboding.\u2019\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOf course, then the conversation turned to the most recent shipwreck. The hosts had run down to China Beach where local fishermen attempted a rescue. One sailor had been brought ashore still alive, but badly wounded. The wife said his final words were, \u2018the singing.\u2019\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSinging?\u201d asked Greta, rapt.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThe husband insisted the dying man said, \u2018the sinking,\u2019 but the wife was quite certain about what she had heard. Then when Alexander here called today about your missing singer, I remembered that Rita Green, the mezzo-soprano who used to perform at Brown\u2019s Opera House before it turned to movies, was found dead last week, washed up near Fort Point.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nGreta jumped out of her seat again. \u201cKay is in danger; we must go now!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIris,\u201d said Coby, \u201cWhat exactly are you implying?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d she admitted. \u201cBut there sure seem to be a hell of a lot of coincidences surrounding Maria Lauren.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt looks like we\u2019d better make a trip to Sea Cliff,\u201d I said.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nI thought the ladies should stay at Iris\u2019s, but neither of them was having that, so we all piled into one of Jerez\u2019s sleek, dark giants and drove across the city. In my rare trips to San Francisco on business, I seldom had to go farther west than Van Ness. As we drove along California Street and into the Avenues, I was amazed at how the city had spread out. I supposed it made sense. Some survivors of the 1906 earthquake, like me and my late mother, had moved east across the Bay, and others had simply moved west, into what had been sand dunes.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe fog grew thicker the farther we drove, and it was particularly dense when we reached the exclusive mansions of Sea Cliff (\u201cOh,\u201d said Greta. \u201cIt is just like Piedmont.\u201d). The Lauren residence was on El Camino Del Mar, the last house before the road went uphill to Lands End. Anyone inside would have a perfect view of ships entering the bay. We parked half a block away, across the street. You couldn\u2019t see much of the house itself from the sidewalk. It was set far back from the road, protected by a tall wrought iron fence and blocked by thick hedges.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019ll go in and poke around first,\u201d said Coby. \u201cIn cat form, of course. Don\u2019t worry,\u201d he added to Iris and Jerez. \u201cThe girl already knows.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHis plan made sense, but I did feel a stab of fear at him going in alone. Hopefully the occupants wouldn\u2019t be too suspicious of a cat wandering the grounds, but you never knew.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCoby,\u201d I said, then paused. I wasn\u2019t sure what to say. I\u2019d been short with him ever since he mentioned Clyde Haversham, and we were in a car with three other people. \u201cYou be careful.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nCoby smiled and reached across Greta to squeeze my knee. \u201cI\u2019ll be fine.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThen he opened the door and a black cat darted across the street and shimmied under the fence.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe wait was interminable. The cold, damp grayness of the fog crept into the car, and the foghorn provided a plaintive soundtrack. Greta and I kept our eyes on the house, both of us hoping that any moment our boys would appear. Jerez kept alert, subtly checking the car mirrors he had paid extra for. Iris elegantly smoked a cigarette, blowing the smoke out the window. If anyone walked by, they might think we were just waiting for her to finish before going inside one of the mansions, but no one appeared. Besides the foghorn, the neighborhood was utterly silent.\n<\/p>\n
\nFinally, Coby came loping back. Greta opened the door for him, and he leapt inside, transforming in that same instant.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cTwo men just came back from the dock,\u201d he said. \u201cThey told a third that they put the Irish kid out on a rock. There\u2019s a side door, and a staircase down to the boat. Hurry!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWe all got out of the car and rushed to the side of the house. Coby did a few transformations to get under the fence again and open the gate from the inside. The gate led to a garden\u2014no doubt beautiful on sunny days.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHey!\u201d a voice yelled. A burly man in a gray suit hustled out of the front door, flanked by two associates who had guns drawn. \u201cWhat do you think you\u2019re doing here?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nFor a moment I was distracted, because as I turned towards the house, I saw her: Maria Lauren. She was framed perfectly in an upper window. Her hair was fashionably short, but still glittered in soft waves of gold. Her pale eyes were quietly, distantly judging. Her bright red lips were scornful. Something about her was so searing that for several seconds I couldn\u2019t take my eyes off her.\n<\/p>\n
\nThen I came to my senses. Jerez and Coby had already pulled their guns, and I followed, the three of us stepping forward in front of the ladies.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cLook, buddy,\u201d said Jerez. \u201cWe know you\u2019ve got a friend of ours here. Hand him over, and there won\u2019t be any trouble.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYeah, right,\u201d replied Gray Suit Guy. \u201cYou think you can just break in and then make demands? You know whose house this is?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe know exactly whose house it is,\u201d said Iris.\n<\/p>\n
\nCoby turned his head slightly towards me. \u201cTake Greta down to the boat.\u201d he whispered. Then he turned back to the goons. \u201cLet\u2019s calm down, everyone. No need for this to go south. Look. I\u2019m putting my gun down.\u201d He slowly, carefully set his gun on the grass, then held up his hands. He stepped away from our group, walking towards the front of the house. \u201cI can see the lady in charge up there,\u201d he said, nodding towards the window where the icy, all-seeing Miss Lauren stood, \u201cwhy don\u2019t you have her come down and we can talk this out?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDon\u2019t get any closer, pretty boy,\u201d growled Gray Suit Guy.\n<\/p>\n
\nCoby smiled. \u201cYou think I\u2019m pretty?\u201d Then he lunged forward.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy heart was in my throat, but I still managed to shout his name at the same moment the guns went off, their bullets flying straight over the place where Coby had been.\n<\/p>\n
\nWith that lightning-fast, glancing power that only cats can manage, Coby-the-feline leapt from the grass to Gray Suit Guy\u2019s face. While the other two goons looked on in shock as their flailing boss\u2019s face was savaged, Jerez shot the gun right out of one\u2019s hand. The other took aim at Jerez, but then a tiger pounced, grabbing his arm in its jaws.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy mind reeled. I turned toward the women, but only Greta was there. I looked back at the scene: a vision of rage in orange and black had one of the goons pinned to the ground while the other ran for the door. Jerez noticed my shock.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe\u2019ve got it under control. Go!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nGreta grabbed my hand and started pulling me towards the path. Okay, so Iris was a tiger changeling. We still had a job to do.\n<\/p>\n
\nAt the edge of the cliff it was clear how massive the house was. It cascaded down the slope, five levels in all. Floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows looked out at what would occasionally be a stunning, up close, unobstructed view of the mouth of the bay and the Marin Headlands, but was currently a sheet of white due to the dense fog. No doubt it was breathtaking when the weather was right, but a house like that in earthquake country? If another quake like \u201906 hit, the whole place would end up in the water.\n<\/p>\n
\nAlso built down the cliff was a flight of wooden stairs with frequent switchbacks. The fog was so thick that the supposed dock and boat\u2014and even the ocean itself\u2014were unseen. The staircase might as well have been endless.\n<\/p>\n
\nMore shots rang out, and I paused, tempted to run back to Coby.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCome on, Mr. Bergamot!\u201d yelled Greta.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe darted down those stairs like they were nothing. Coby is counting on you to get Greta to the boat, I reminded myself, and followed. Soon I was sweating under my jacket, but I wasn\u2019t confident I could take it off without either slowing my pace or losing my balance, so I pressed on.\n<\/p>\n
\nGreta reached the dock before I did and jumped in the waiting rowboat. I plodded behind her, gasping while my thighs burned. As if this day hadn\u2019t had me feeling all of my years enough already.\n<\/p>\n
\nI gamely took up the oars while she undid the rope, but immediately recognized a problem. \u201cGreta, there\u2019s no visibility. How are we supposed to find him in this?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJust make a guess!\u201d she yelled, as undone as I had seen her. \u201cGo towards the foghorn. That should get us in the general direction, right?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nSuddenly, a soft green light rose from her knapsack, bright against the gray fog. The soft green light was in the shape of a turtle.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI told you!\u201d Greta cried. \u201cShe\u2019ll lead us to Kay.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe turtle ghost floated to the front of the boat, and I hurriedly began to row.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBy the way,\u201d I shouted at the apparition that was once a sea turtle before being made into a frame for glasses, \u201cit was a Bugatti! You could have saved us some time there.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nMy legs got a rest while my arms took over. I told myself that Coby really owed me for this one, that he would be okay, that we would get the hell out of San Francisco, and then I would sleep for three days, and then he\u2019d explain to me what exactly the nature of his acquaintance with Clyde Haversham was, and then we\u2019d have a spectacular time making up. But even while thinking that, I knew I wouldn\u2019t really care a bit about Clyde Haversham as long as Coby was all right. God, when had I become so sentimental?\n<\/p>\n
\nMeanwhile, Greta stayed perched at the bow like a figurehead, leaning forward into the fog, ignoring the rough, freezing surf that soaked her plaid dress.\n<\/p>\n
\nDespite my efforts, my rowing started to slow. My arms were on fire, but the fog had chilled the rest of me. The adrenaline had worn off. But just when I was about to suggest that Greta take over for a bit, I heard the sound.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt was a voice: deep, searching, escalating in intensity. I felt like it was causing the very fog droplets to vibrate. The waves themselves seemed to complement it. Even without making out all of the lyrics, I absorbed that the song was about the very cold that enveloped us, about suffering, about longing for rest. I\u2019m not a cultured, artistic man, but this music\u2014nothing had ever moved me like that before.\n<\/p>\n
\nI hardly seemed to be in control of my body anymore. I was still exhausted, I was still cold and wet, and the water was still rough, but suddenly it didn\u2019t matter. All that mattered was that I reach the source of that voice. The dead turtle was hardly needed to guide me to it. I felt like I was trudging through a snowy field, but steadily, relentlessly.\n<\/p>\n
\nA black rock came into view through the gray, with a soft bluish light hovering above it. As we got closer, I could make out a wiry figure with red hair perched on top of the rock. The blue light radiated from the interior of a large conch shell that hung around the figure\u2019s neck on a chain of seaweed. I knew the redhead was Kay, and that we were supposed to be rescuing him, but only his voice seemed significant at the moment.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cKay!\u201d called Greta. \u201cKay!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHis singing didn\u2019t stop, and for that I was grateful. His face was impassive as he sang, his eyes alight with a glow that mirrored the conch\u2019s. We finally got so close that our bow bumped against the rock Kay was perched on, yet he still didn\u2019t react. I could have sat there listening in that boat forever, but Greta leapt up onto the rock and tore the conch from his neck, throwing it into the sea.\n<\/p>\n
\nIn an instant I came to my senses, freed from the music. The blue light left Kay\u2019s eyes, and he slumped forward in relief.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cGreta!\u201d he cried, reaching out. \u201cGreta, is that you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOf course it\u2019s me. Here,\u201d she said, taking his hand.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe threw his arms around her.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cGreta, you found me! I knew you would. A witch took me, a witch who can control the fog. She turned me into a siren, to have me sing sailors to their doom!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019re safe now,\u201d said Greta, \u201cbut we have to get back. The others are fighting her men.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOthers? Who? And how did you get here?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nGreta pulled out the tortoiseshell glasses, and the glowing turtle shape disappeared into them as she placed them on Kay\u2019s face. Kay blinked a few times, looking around, then startled when he noticed me in the boat.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOh! Hello, mister.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThis is Sid Bergamot; he\u2019s a detective,\u201d Greta said, helping Kay onto the boat.\n<\/p>\n
\nI held out my hand. \u201cI don\u2019t usually like opera, but that was quite a concert you put on.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt wasn\u2019t my idea,\u201d the singer said.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI know, but I hear you\u2019re pretty good at singing even when not enchanted. However, what I really want to know now is how good are you at rowing.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019ll give it a shot,\u201d he said, taking my spot.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe fog was still thick, but he gamely rowed back in the general direction of Sea Cliff while Greta explained how we had found him.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThe others are still at the house? With her?\u201d he asked, clearly concerned.\n<\/p>\n
\nI was worried myself, even more so since we knew Maria Lauren was not only an industrialist, but a witch. Regardless, I tried to look confident. \u201cCoby, Jerez, and Iris had it under control. Especially Iris.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThat the petite former ballerina and current power broker could turn into tiger was a shock to me. She certainly kept that aspect of herself private. Back before movies took over entertainment, there used to be a few changelings on the vaudeville circuit. I guess Iris hadn\u2019t wanted to go that route.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThe fog\u2019s lifting,\u201d said Greta. Then a look of horror crossed her face. \u201cLook!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nKay and I turned back to the open ocean.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe precarious lighthouse was now visible, and past that, just outside the Golden Gate, was a massive silhouette in the remaining fog. A cargo ship had been minutes away from being lured by Kay and dashed on the rocks.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nThe fog continued to lift as we neared Sea Cliff, and by the time we reached the dock, I could see Coby waving from the top of the stairs. I like to keep a poker face, but I might have smiled a bit to see him alive and unharmed. He turned into his cat form and bounded down the stairs to meet us.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe had mostly good news to report: all of Maria Lauren\u2019s goons had been subdued, and a police chief Iris knew personally was on the scene doing cleanup. Mysteriously, Maria Lauren herself was nowhere to be found. It seemed unlikely, though, that she would return to San Francisco.\n<\/p>\n
\nCoby brushed off Kay\u2019s effusive thanks. \u201cYou\u2019ll meet Miss Aubergine in a moment. She wants to arrange a private concert with you singing Miss Wong\u2019s music. Listening to that will be all the thanks we need.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nKay and Greta said their thanks again and scurried up the stairs, which I was not looking forward to scaling. The gondolas that looked so tacky on Telegraph Hill, I thought, would be just fine here.\n<\/p>\n
\nCoby and I lingered on the dock for a moment, and since no one was around, snuck an embrace.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019re all right?\u201d I murmured in his ear.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m fine. You?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWell, I\u2019m wet, cold, and ready to sleep for about\u2026forever.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cForever? How am I supposed to repay you then?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou do owe me,\u201d I said, allowing my hands to travel down his slim waist, \u201cbut you\u2019re sure you won\u2019t be busy flying around in Clyde Haversham\u2019s airship?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nCoby laughed. \u201cAre you jealous?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI mean, I know we\u2019re not\u2026you know\u2026but he is younger than me. And a hell of lot richer. And he dresses better.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAnd he\u2019s a total bore,\u201d said Coby. \u201cCome on, Sid. You just helped rescue an opera singer who was turned into a siren by a witch. How can Clyde Haversham compete with that?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nYouth and wealth still seemed like the major ways in which Clyde Haversham could compete, but I was happy to leave it there and signaled my pleasure by kissing Coby\u2019s perfect mouth. Maybe I wasn\u2019t so tired, after all. And maybe the new San Francisco wasn\u2019t so objectionable that I wouldn\u2019t agree to spend the night at, say, the Palace Hotel rather than immediately start the journey back to Oakland.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCome on, you two,\u201d called Iris from the top of the cliff. \u201cLet\u2019s get cleaned up and then I\u2019m taking everyone out to dinner. My treat.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe Palace Hotel would have to wait. Coby and I began the climb up the stairs to join the others in the suddenly clear early evening.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The girl walked into my office. Yeah, I know that\u2019s a boring first line. I\u2019m supposed to wax poetic about her calves or whatever, but that just wouldn\u2019t be true, even though I sometimes swing that way. This girl all but stomped into my office with her angry face and her frumpy clothes. \u201cMr. Sidney …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":105705,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,19981],"tags":[19982],"class_list":["post-137660","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-34-winter-2020","tag-the-colored-lens-34-winter-2020","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137660","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/105705"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=137660"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137660\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":137661,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137660\/revisions\/137661"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=137660"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=137660"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=137660"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}