“He didn’t say what he wanted on Firth Road?”
“No. He didn’t say anything else.”
“What sort of street is it? A side road, a main thoroughfare, what?”
“It’s only a couple of blocks long,” she said. “A dead-end street.”
“What’s on it? Houses, businesses?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Hey, Bernie, what’s on Firth Road?”
Bernie turned on his stool again. He still seemed a little hurt that I hadn’t properly appreciated his jokes. “Not much on it,” he said in a grudging way. “PG and E substation, couple of business places, and the railroad museum.”
“Railroad museum?” I asked.
“Yeah. Guy named Dallmeyer runs it. It’s a freaking tourist trap.”
“How long has it been there?”
“Who knows? Ten years, maybe.”
“What’re the business places?”
“Electrical outfit-Jorgensen’s,” he said. “And a fruit packing plant.”
“That’s all?”
“Ain’t that enough?”
“How long have those two been operating?”
“How should I know? Do I look like I work for the goddamn Chamber of Commerce?”
The waitress giggled again. Even when he wasn’t telling dumb jokes, Bernie was so funny.
I said, “How do I get to Firth Road?”
“It’s a couple of miles north of here,” the blonde said, “out toward the dam. It branches off the main drag.”
“Oro Dam Boulevard, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I drank some of my coffee; it wasn’t very good, but at least it was hot. I fished two quarters out of my pocket, set them on the counter, drank a little more coffee, and got up from my stool.
“Hey, Lynn,” Bernie said abruptly. “I got another one for you.”
The waitress said, “Oh God,” and winked at me, and went down to where he was. “Well?”
“So Smokey the Bear gets married,” he said, “but he and his wife never have any sex. You know why?” But he was looking at me as he spoke, not her, and there was a determined expression on his face, as if his reputation as a comedian was on the line and he had to tell one that would make me laugh or lose points.
“No,” the blonde said, “why do Smokey the Bear and his wife never have any sex?”
“Because every time she gets hot, he throws dirt on her and beats her with a shovel.”
That was a one-hooter for the blonde. She said, “Nobody better try’n throw dirt on me when I get hot,” and broke up again.
I just looked at Bernie. Then I turned and started for the door.
“You know how many Polacks it takes to pull off a kidnapping?” he said, a little desperately.
“No,” the waitress said, “how many?”
“Six. One to grab the victim and five to write the ransom note.”
She hooted-and I walked out into the good, clean air and shut the door quietly behind me.
Chapter 10
The two-block length of Firth Road was flanked by shade trees and looked as deserted as most of the rest of Oroville. The electrical outfit, Jorgensen Electric, and the Orchard-Sweet fruit packing plant were situated across from each other in the first block; the strong, pungent smell of cooked apples and plums came out of the big warehouse there. On the second block the Pacific Gas amp; Electric substation and the railroad museum were also set opposite each other, with the museum on the north side. Beyond the dead-end of the street, and some dense shrubbery and scrub pine, I could see the raised right-of-way of a main line of rail tracks.
I decided to start with the substation. But if there was anyone on duty inside, I couldn’t raise him. I gave it up after a time and crossed to the museum.
It was a good-sized complex set behind a wire-mesh fence: a big, high-domed roundhouse, a smaller outbuilding that looked to be some kind of storage shed, two old passenger coaches and a caboose arranged in front of and alongside the roundhouse for touring purposes, and the remains of a spur track at the rear that had probably once connected with the rail lines beyond. A sign on the front gate said the same thing as one I’d passed out on Oro Dam Boulevard: ROUNDHOUSE RAILROAD MUSEUM. Another sign below it read: RELICS OF THE FABULOUS AGE OF STEAM RAILROADING. ADMISSION $1.00. But the gate was closed and locked, and so was the ticket booth just inside, and there was a third sign on the booth that said: CLOSED.
On the east side of the complex, outside the fence and shaded by live oaks, was a small cottage that probably belonged to the man who ran the museum-Dallmeyer, Bernie the comic said his name was. Parked near it on a diagonal was a van with the museum’s name painted on the side. I started back there, following a rutted gravel drive that skirted the edge of the fence. As I did I noticed that there were puffs of white vapor coming up from behind the roundhouse. At first I thought it was smoke; then I saw how quickly it evaporated and realized it was steam.
When I got to within thirty yards of the cottage I could see that the rear engine doors of the roundhouse were open; the steam was billowing out from inside. Ahead, a side gate appeared in the fence. I stopped when I got to it, because its fork latch was in place but its padlock was hooked open through the wire to one side. I hesitated, glancing at the cottage. Nobody came out of it. After ten seconds or so I shrugged, lifted the fork latch, and went through the gate and across toward the open engine doors.
As I neared them I could hear the sharp hiss of escaping steam and other sounds that meant a steam locomotive’s boiler had been fired: the stuttering clamor of valves, the staccato beat of the exhaust. The locomotive, I saw a moment later, was an old Baldwin that had to have been built during the twenties; it was sitting on a turntable a dozen yards inside the roundhouse. Overhead lights blazed, giving me a clear look at the rest of the cavernous interior: whitewashed walls, swept floors, trusses, gleaming engine pits; and along the walls, tool bins and racks and workbenches, plus a number of glass-fronted cases containing historical photographs, small equipment such as reflector lanterns and switch keys, and posters, timetables, uniform caps and badges, and other memorabilia.
Through the locomotive’s narrow, oblong, front glass panel, I could see a man working inside the cab. He didn’t seem to see me, though; he was intent on what he was doing. I waited another ten seconds, then walked over to where I could look up through the gangway to the deck inside.
The guy up there was stoking the firebox-using a fireman’s shovel to scoop coal out of the tender, then pivoting and driving one foot against a floor pedal to open the butterfly doors and feed the coal to the blaze within. He was fiftyish, thick through the shoulders and hips, with a mop of gray-flecked hair, shaggy brows, and a full beard; the rest of his face was heat-reddened and sweaty. He wore a long leather fireman’s apron to protect his clothing from coal dust and cinders.
“Hello!” I called to him. “Hello in the cab!”
He heard me above the thrumming of the boiler and the throb of the valves, and whirled toward the gangway with the shovel cocked in front of his body. He stared at me for a couple of seconds. Then his surprise gave way to anger and he said, “Christ! You scared hell out of me. How did you get in here?”
“Through the side gate. It was unlocked. I’m sorry if I-”
“You’re trespassing, you know that?”
“Yes, and I apologize. Are you Mr. Dallmeyer?”
“That’s right. What do you want?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’m trying to find a man named Bradford, Charles Bradford. A hobo who dropped off a freight in the WP yards two days ago.”
He gawped at me again out of bright gray eyes. “Why’re you looking for a hobo? You a policeman?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. A couple of San Francisco reporters were up here doing a feature story on modern hoboes. Bradford got his picture taken, and his daughter saw it when it appeared in the paper. I’m trying to locate him for her.”