Bill Pronzini - Hellbox

We parked in a public lot behind the museum and went in for a look around. It wasn’t much-standard Gold Country items like mining equipment, faded photographs and daguerreotypes, a Wells Fargo safe, and a collection of dusty old bottles. Then we walked down along that side of the four-block main drag, looking at storefronts and examining the preserved buildings up close. Part of getting a better feel for the town and the valley. We’d done a little of that the day before, prior to the visit to Budlong Realty, but you need time and participation to get to know a place.

There was an antique shop Kerry wanted to look into. While she did that, I went back to a sporting goods store we’d passed and asked the guy behind the counter about trout fishing in the area. He sold me a map and pointed out a couple of locations he said were prime, which I figured meant tourist prime and should probably be avoided. The locals would keep the best spots to themselves and trial and error was the only way outsiders like me were likely to find them. He also sold me a fishing license, and tried to sell me “the best trout rod on the market,” but I already owned a better fly rod made thirty years earlier. It was in the trunk of the car along with my Daiwa reel and box of hand-tied trout flies.

Kerry was waiting when I came out. “Fine antiques” was a misnomer, she said; “useless junk” was much more appropriate. We went on down to the end of the business district, crossed over and wandered up the other side. In the middle of the third block was a three-story structure with a sign on the front that read: T HE M INERS H OTEL- F OUNDED 1882. Next to the front entrance, another sign advertised lunch, dinner, and an all-you-can-eat Sunday brunch in the Miners Hotel Restaurant.

Kerry said, “I’m starving. Let’s try it,” and we went in. But we didn’t get to try the Sunday brunch. The restaurant off the lobby was small and jam-packed, with a half-hour waiting list. Normally, Kerry’s patience level is several points above mine, but she didn’t feel like hanging around any more than I did; all we’d had besides the morning coffee was a glass of orange juice each. We could sample the hotel fare another day.

Next block up was another eatery, the Green Valley Cafe. Crowded, too, but a couple of customers were just leaving and we managed to snag the booth they’d vacated. The place’s air-conditioning was cranked up higher than the hotel’s, a welcome relief: the temperature outside was already in the high eighties. Judging from the look and dress of the patrons in the other booths and lined together at a long counter, the cafe was a favorite with the locals. Which usually meant the food was both very good and inexpensive, and that was the case here.

We were in the middle of mushroom omelettes with fruit-I wanted home-fried potatoes with mine, but Kerry was always after me to limit my starch and carb intake-when the heavyset guy came in. I noticed him because I was facing toward the entrance and he made some noise shutting the door behind him. He was in his forties, homely to the point of ugliness, wearing old clothes and a scowl on a mouth the size of a small trough. He stood for a few seconds scanning the room, spotted an empty stool at the near end of the counter, and made for it in hard, almost aggressive strides. Man not having a good day, I thought. Or a good life, for that matter.

As soon as he climbed onto the stool, one of a group of three men in the booth behind him and next to ours said in a carrying voice, “Well, look who just came in. The mayor himself.”

The heavyset guy stiffened, turned his head slightly to mutter something, then turned it back as one of the waitresses, a plump blonde, approached him.

“Haven’t seen much of you lately, Your Honor,” the same man in the booth said to his back. “You been away on official business?”

“Coffee,” Heavyset growled at the waitress.

“Anything to eat?”

“Chocolate donut, if you got any left.”

“We don’t. Sorry.”

“Just as well,” the talkative one said. “Chocolate donuts’re bad for your waistline, Mr. Mayor. What’ll your constituents think?”

Heavyset spun on his stool, high color blotching his cheeks, and half shouted, “Knock that mayor shit off, goddamn it!”

The noise level in there went down quick. One of the women customers made an offended noise; a father sitting with his wife and two small daughters called out an angry “Hey!” The redhaired waitress said sharply, “You watch your language in here, Pete. This is a family restaurant.”

“Tell that to Verriker and his buddies there.”

“Lighten up, why don’t you?” another of the men said.

“I’ll lighten up when you all leave me the hell alone. All of you. All of you.”

“Hey, take it easy-”

Heavyset said, “I ain’t taking crap from nobody anymore,” and jerked off his stool, glared at the three men, threw a couple of random glares around the room, and stalked out.

As soon as he was gone, the atmosphere in there climbed back up to normal. The man named Verriker said, “Balfour gets weirder and weirder all the time.”

“Well, you keep yanking his chain, Ned,” one of his friends said.

“Hell, it’s just a joke. He used to be able to take being kidded.”

“Not anymore. He always was a hothead, but now it’s like he thinks everybody’s out to get him.”

“Brought it on himself, didn’t he? The way he does business, treats people?”

The other friend said, “Never know what a guy like that’s liable to do. I say it’d be smart to cut him some slack.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

Conversation among the three lagged after that. A couple of minutes later, they paid their bill and went out in a bunch.

Kerry said, “Now what do you suppose that was all about?”

“No idea.”

“People here don’t seem to like their mayor very much.”

“If he is the mayor. Didn’t look like a politician to me.”

He wasn’t one. When the waitress came over with our check, Kerry, who is neither shy nor retiring, asked her if Pete Balfour was the mayor of Six Pines. The question brought a wry and somewhat sour chuckle.

“Not hardly. That man couldn’t get elected dogcatcher if we needed one.”

“He’s not running for mayor, then?”

“Not of Six Pines,” the waitress said. “He wouldn’t get fifty votes.”

So we still didn’t know what it was all about. Not that it mattered or was worth pursuing. Local business and none of ours.

After lunch, Kerry and I drove down to the south end of town. Just before you got to the Six Pines Fairgrounds, there were a couple of stands selling fireworks. Both had prominently displayed signs written in large letters: WARNING! FOR USE IN DESIGNATED AREAS ONLY! HEAVY FINES FOR UNAUTHORIZED USE!

Kerry said, “The fire danger must be high this time of year.”

“Probably is, as hot and dry as it is.”

“I wonder why they allow fireworks at all.”

“If they weren’t allowed, people would just go buy them somewhere else and bring them in. This way, the authorities can exercise some control.”

“We’re not going to let that effect our decision to buy here, are we? The fire danger, I mean.”

“I don’t see why we should,” I said. “The earthquake threat doesn’t keep us from living in San Francisco.”

The fairgrounds were built on several acres of flatland just before the county road began its climb up out of the valley. What we could see from the road was a single set of pale green bleachers alongside an oval track and field, a handful of low shedlike buildings and animal pens, part of an open grassy area ringed by picnic tables where a flea market was going on, and a wide hardpan parking area. A marquee sign on a couple of tall poles announced the Fourth of July festivities, and advertised stock car racing the last Saturday of every month through September and a flea market every Sunday.