Hellbox (Nameless Detective) (3 page)

She hadn’t asked for my advice, though, and I hadn’t volunteered it. Nor would I. We had a kind of de facto father-daughter relationship, in addition to our professional bond, but I had to be careful not to come on too strong with her. Her relationship with her own father was prickly, and now and then she carried it over to me. Best for both of us if I kept my mouth shut, let her work out her personal problems on her own.

Fortunately, she changed the subject by asking, “So how’s your weekend been?”

“Good. Very good. Looks like we’ve found our second home.”

“All right! Where?”

I gave her the relevant details. “We’re staying a few more days to make sure. Nothing urgent to drag me back sooner, I take it?”

“Nope. Everything under control.”

“What’s the problem with the insurance case?”

It had to do with a foul-up on the expense account charges—my fault. When we got it straightened out, I asked, “Any new clients?” because I hadn’t spoken to her since Thursday.

“Couple,” she said. “One routine; Alex is handling it. The other … well, Jake’s plate’s pretty full, and the new client’s black. So I rang up Deron Stewart and gave it to him.”

“I thought you didn’t like Stewart.”

“Don’t much, but he did a good professional job on that Delman mess, and he didn’t try to hit on me. So I figured I’d throw him another bone.”

Stewart was a qualified operative, an ex-cop who’d worked eight years for the San Francisco office of a large national agency. Tamara and I had come close to hiring him over Jake Runyon when we expanded operations a few years ago. She was the one who’d vetoed him; too slick, too much ego, too much a womanizer for her liking. Stewart hadn’t had any luck finding a permanent spot with another agency in the interim, owing to the lousy economy and with some outfits, maybe, a veiled racial bias. He freelanced now, much as Alex Chavez had before we’d put him on full time a couple of months ago.

“What kind of case?” I asked.

“Nasty one. Excelsior woman being stalked by an ex-husband.”

“Pro bono?”

“Not quite. Reduced fee. She’s got a good job, but she’s also a single mom—two kids. Her ex is one of those early-release, violent crimes’ offenders the goddamn state keeps turning loose. ‘No menace to public safety,’ my ass. Police haven’t been much help because the guy hasn’t done anything yet, except hang around and make veiled threats. Woman swears it’s only a matter of time. She’s scared half out of her head.”

“You think Stewart can handle the situation without escalating it?”

“Says he can. He’d better, if he wants any more bones tossed his way. Not a lot of freelance detective work out there these days.”

“That’s for sure.”

We talked a little more, then let each other get on with our respective Sundays. I put the phone back into my jacket pocket, went out and leaned on the porch railing and thought about the cases Runyon and Chavez, and now Deron Stewart, were dealing with. As much as I liked this property, as much as I was glad to be away from the city and the daily grind, I still had a left-out, pastured feeling now and then. Officially semi-retired now, with a maximum two days a week at the office and mostly routine stuff when I was there. Okay, good. It was what I wanted, what Kerry and Emily wanted; I’d made my decision and I didn’t regret it. But when you’ve been in the same business for two-thirds of your life, and found it rewarding and satisfying, despite a number of unpleasant situations and brushes with violence, it’s hard to let go.

Maybe I wouldn’t feel that tug, that vague sense of past-my-prime-and-no-longer-needed in six months, a year, two years. I hoped so. But if it lingered, I was not going to backslide again. There’s nothing more pathetic than an old plowhorse hobbling around trying to function at the same level of competence as he had in his younger days, and accomplishing little except getting in everybody’s way.

2

Six Pines was at the south end of the valley, a high school flanked by a baseball diamond and football field at the upper edge, the business district flanking the main road farther along, homes and cottages built up along one hillside, a church and what looked like a community center on the more gradual rising slope opposite. The population was 2,200 year-round residents, but it was evident that second-homers, tourists, and sportsmen swelled that number considerably during trout fishing season and in the peak summer months. A banner strung across the middle of Main Street advertised the annual Independence Day celebration Budlong had told us about—parade, carnival, picnic barbeque. Most of the business establishments looked open today, and there were a lot of people out and about when we rolled in a little past noon.

The town had a pleasant, century-past look and feel. This was old mining country and vestiges of the Gold Country heritage had been carefully preserved here—false-fronted and native stone buildings, a local museum that had once been a blacksmith’s shop, galleried boardwalks instead of paved sidewalks on Main Street and a couple of the side streets. The more modern structures sprinkled among the venerable ones seemed out of place, anachronistic. They did to me, anyway. But then, I prefer the old to the new in most things. Kerry says I’m hopelessly old-fashioned, a wallower in nostalgia—compliments, as far as I’m concerned.

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 Café. 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 café 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: W
ARNING!
F
OR
U
SE IN
D
ESIGNATED
A
REAS
O
NLY!
H
EAVY
F
INES FOR
U
NAUTHORIZED
U
SE!

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.

There were quite a few people wandering among the vendor tables in the flea market. Kerry suggested we go in and see what they had for sale.

“More useless junk, probably,” I said.

“They might have some local produce. Flea markets usually do.”

I turned into the lot and we wandered around among the two dozen or so vendors sweltering under awnings and umbrellas and not doing much business. A lot of junk, all right, but Kerry was right about local produce; she bought a carton of ripe strawberries and some vegetables. I didn’t expect to buy anything … until I spotted an old guy who had a bunch of old paperback books spread out on a table and in boxes underneath. I hadn’t brought along anything to read, figuring on just an overnight stay, but now that we were going to be here for a few days, I would need some escapist entertainment. Most of the paperbacks were westerns in ratty condition, but I rummaged up a couple of mysteries by Fredric Brown and Day Keene, pulp writers I’d read and admired.