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there was anyone who could arrange an audience with the fried-chicken connoisseur—previously the enigmatic shopkeeper of the Green Vase and, even farther back, the most fascinating janitor the PM had ever met—it was the Montgomery Street flower-stall owner, Mr. Wang.
    Sure enough, a few days after seeking Wang’s intervention, the PM had been granted the invitation for today’s meeting.
    • • •
    THE PREVIOUS MAYOR stroked his gray-flecked, neatly trimmed mustache as he stared up the darkened stairwell toward the second-floor living quarters above the fried-chicken restaurant.
    He hoped his perseverance had been worth it.
    Gripping the railing, he smiled with confidence.
    It had to be Oscar, he concluded wryly.
    No one else could have convinced Harold Wombler to don a chef’s apron.
    • • •
    A MOMENT LATER, the Previous Mayor reached the summit of the stairs, clapped his hands together triumphantly, and stepped into a large, open room.
    Light streamed through a pair of bulging bay windows that looked down on Columbus Avenue. To the left, the outskirts of Chinatown crept up against the spiked tower of the Transamerica Pyramid; North Beach’s cluster of Italian restaurants filled in the view to the right.
    Behind the restaurant and around the corner, the PM added in a mental aside, Jackson Square and the Green Vase antiques shop resided in secluded obscurity.
    Against the far wall, a tiny hairless mouse played happily in a wire cage filled with a maze of plastic tunnels and several wire-rimmed exercise wheels. In a corner of the cage, a doll-sized wardrobe held a colorful collection of mouse-sized jackets, each one neatly wrapped around a miniature clothes hanger.
    In the next slot over, a low table held a glass terrarium filled with mounds of natural greenery. Inside, two frogs lounged beside a small pool equipped with a tiny pump to circulate its water.
    The amphibian pair looked up as the PM crossed the threshold. Both blinked a demure welcome; then their froggy gazes shifted toward a spot in the middle of the room.
    The PM turned toward the dusty piles of papers, deteriorating cardboard boxes, and roughly hewn crates that took up much of the center floor space. Crouched over one particularly disorganized-looking heap was an elderly man with thinning white hair, short rounded shoulders, and a middling paunch.
    The old man stood with a stiff, painful movement and gripped the small of his back as the PM strode forward, offering his hand enthusiastically.
    “James Lick, I presume,” the PM said with a grin. “I have to say, you look a lot like a man I used to know . . . a fellow who ran an antiques shop around the corner from here . . . a place called the Green Vase. I hear his niece is running it now.”
    The man dusted his palms on the front of his navy blue collared shirt. After a slight hesitation, his rough, calloused hand met the PM’s firm grip.
    “Good to see you, Mayor,” Lick said as they completed the shake. He tilted his head conspiratorially. “You came in through the back?”
    Nodding, the PM glanced at the tottering pile at their feet. “No offense, but I’m not sure my reputation could survive me being seen in this joint.”
    Lick threw up his arms in mock affront. “It was our reputation I was worried about.”
    Chuckling, the PM strolled over to the nearest window and looked out onto the busy street.
    “It’s a nice setup you’ve got here,” he said casually. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks and leaned back on his heels. “Right in the middle of things, and yet—neatly tucked away.”
    The PM cleared his throat anxiously. Lick’s reemergence on the San Francisco scene could mean only one thing.
    “I assume you’re following the situation at City Hall? The Mayor will be shipping out for Sacramento any day now.”
    He paused as Lick joined him at the window. Then he added tentatively, “The board’s holding a special session on Thursday to