Read Online How To Tail a Cat by Rebecca M. Hale - Free Book Online
Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
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with the Green party, James Hernandez—Jim to his numerous friends—had served as the president of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors for the last seven years.
An attorney by trade, Jim had a closet full of expensive suits, silk neckties, and fancy footwear—an extravagance expended for naught. Despite the diligent efforts of his tailor and the constant niggling adjustments of his wife, he routinely gave the impression of being wrinkled. His poor posture and lumpy physique negated all attempts to professionalize his rumpled appearance. The matter wasn’t helped by the floppy hair that he wore just long enough to cover what he self-consciously perceived to be elephant-sized ears.
Jim shrugged this off with a good-natured grin. He was a perpetually happy man, and a smile was never far from his lips.
All of these features combined with his soft baby face to complete a roguish image, one that allowed him to charm the toughest of opponents—save the Current Mayor, with whom he’d been feuding for the better part of the last decade.
• • •
PRIOR TO HIS last two terms as supervisor, Jim Hernandez had dallied in national politics, serving as the running mate for a fringe presidential candidate. There had never been any question of the pair winning the election, but the stint had served to elevate his profile in local San Francisco politics.
It was no secret around City Hall that the board president desperately wanted to be awarded the pending mayoral appointment. Few odds makers, however, put any stock in that happening.
As a likely front-runner in the mayoral election next fall, Hernandez was unlikely to garner enough support from his fellow board members to obtain the caretaker slot. Although a majority of the supervisors had voted to make him the board president, those allegiances only went so far. Substantively, the mayor of San Francisco was a less powerful position than that of the president of the board of supervisors, but the former was a much more glamorous title than the latter.
The interim-mayor appointment would require a great deal more clout than Hernandez could possibly muster, leaving a chaos of would-be contenders seeking to fill the void.
Regardless, Hox still viewed the supervisor as a valid source for predicting what the board might decide at their upcoming meeting. Hernandez knew his fellow supervisors better than anyone else. Moreover, as board president, he controlled the gavel and, with it, the agenda. Given the unique circumstances of the vote, Hernandez could still influence the voting process, if not the eventual outcome.
This was the only reason Hox had suffered through the supervisor’s twenty-minute monologue on his new haircut, but he was fast running out of patience.
• • •
HOX GROANED AS he deflected yet another hair comment. He glanced around the room, searching for anything that might facilitate a change of subject. Jim Hernandez could keep this up for hours.
The reporter’s eyes latched onto a black plastic picture frame resting on a bookcase behind the supervisor’s desk.
“Still driving that shoe box, I see,” Hox said sourly, pointing to the vehicle captured in the picture.
Jim turned in his chair to beam proudly at the photo.
The supervisor was religiously devoted to public transportation and rode one of the city’s Muni trains to work each day. When necessity forced him off the public grid, he got around in a neon green hybrid-electric compact car.
Hox had once tried to squeeze his burly frame into the vehicle’s front passenger seat—he had been complaining about the cramped experience ever since.
“Hamster-mobile,” Hox grumbled as Jim spun back around.
Before the supervisor could get off his next retort, Hox leaned forward and, with a grunt, rested an elbow on his right knee. Bending toward the desk, he carefully opened his reporter’s notebook and pulled a pencil from its spiral.
“Can we talk about something other than my
An attorney by trade, Jim had a closet full of expensive suits, silk neckties, and fancy footwear—an extravagance expended for naught. Despite the diligent efforts of his tailor and the constant niggling adjustments of his wife, he routinely gave the impression of being wrinkled. His poor posture and lumpy physique negated all attempts to professionalize his rumpled appearance. The matter wasn’t helped by the floppy hair that he wore just long enough to cover what he self-consciously perceived to be elephant-sized ears.
Jim shrugged this off with a good-natured grin. He was a perpetually happy man, and a smile was never far from his lips.
All of these features combined with his soft baby face to complete a roguish image, one that allowed him to charm the toughest of opponents—save the Current Mayor, with whom he’d been feuding for the better part of the last decade.
• • •
PRIOR TO HIS last two terms as supervisor, Jim Hernandez had dallied in national politics, serving as the running mate for a fringe presidential candidate. There had never been any question of the pair winning the election, but the stint had served to elevate his profile in local San Francisco politics.
It was no secret around City Hall that the board president desperately wanted to be awarded the pending mayoral appointment. Few odds makers, however, put any stock in that happening.
As a likely front-runner in the mayoral election next fall, Hernandez was unlikely to garner enough support from his fellow board members to obtain the caretaker slot. Although a majority of the supervisors had voted to make him the board president, those allegiances only went so far. Substantively, the mayor of San Francisco was a less powerful position than that of the president of the board of supervisors, but the former was a much more glamorous title than the latter.
The interim-mayor appointment would require a great deal more clout than Hernandez could possibly muster, leaving a chaos of would-be contenders seeking to fill the void.
Regardless, Hox still viewed the supervisor as a valid source for predicting what the board might decide at their upcoming meeting. Hernandez knew his fellow supervisors better than anyone else. Moreover, as board president, he controlled the gavel and, with it, the agenda. Given the unique circumstances of the vote, Hernandez could still influence the voting process, if not the eventual outcome.
This was the only reason Hox had suffered through the supervisor’s twenty-minute monologue on his new haircut, but he was fast running out of patience.
• • •
HOX GROANED AS he deflected yet another hair comment. He glanced around the room, searching for anything that might facilitate a change of subject. Jim Hernandez could keep this up for hours.
The reporter’s eyes latched onto a black plastic picture frame resting on a bookcase behind the supervisor’s desk.
“Still driving that shoe box, I see,” Hox said sourly, pointing to the vehicle captured in the picture.
Jim turned in his chair to beam proudly at the photo.
The supervisor was religiously devoted to public transportation and rode one of the city’s Muni trains to work each day. When necessity forced him off the public grid, he got around in a neon green hybrid-electric compact car.
Hox had once tried to squeeze his burly frame into the vehicle’s front passenger seat—he had been complaining about the cramped experience ever since.
“Hamster-mobile,” Hox grumbled as Jim spun back around.
Before the supervisor could get off his next retort, Hox leaned forward and, with a grunt, rested an elbow on his right knee. Bending toward the desk, he carefully opened his reporter’s notebook and pulled a pencil from its spiral.
“Can we talk about something other than my
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