“What was the wrangle about?”
“That mayor name. Little guy seemed offended by it, made some noise and stomped out.”
“Why was he offended?”
“No idea. Some sort of local joke.”
“Anybody say his name?”
“Yeah. Balmer, Baldor, something like that… I just can’t remember for sure. First name Pete.”
“You think he noticed you and Kerry?”
“Can’t say. He looked around, but the place was crowded.”
“Talk to him or see him since?”
“No. But the connection to Verriker… worth checking him out.”
“I’ll try to find him,” Runyon said. “Don’t know when I’ll be back. Might be quite a while.”
“Call me if you get even a whisper.”
“You know I will. Try to get some rest.”
“Yeah.”
“Something to eat, too. Food in the house?”
“Enough. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”
Runyon left him, drove down to the valley road and back into Six Pines. Four of the seven remaining tourist possibles were in their rooms; three had nothing to tell him, the fourth wouldn’t even talk to him through the door. Three to go. Chances now one point above zero.
Next option: a round of the watering holes, the ones that catered to the locals. Even though the people didn’t know you, you could pick up information if you asked the right questions the right way. Runyon had developed a knack for that kind of thing. Or maybe it just came naturally. In Seattle, before his life got turned upside down, he’d been one of the regular guys-good listener, easy rapport with strangers.
Barely possible somebody’d be drinking in one of taverns that they’d missed talking to, somebody who had seen something or had some idea of who might’ve been parked on that logging road Monday afternoon. There was still the Verriker angle, too. Broxmeyer’s judgment that Ned Verriker and his wife had no enemies, were well liked by everyone, wasn’t necessarily true; what Bill had told him about Sunday’s incident in the Green Valley Cafe indicated that. If nothing else, making the rounds should net the full identity of the Pete Something who didn’t like being called mayor.
The first place he went to was the Bank Shot, a block off the south end of Main Street. No different than every other small-town bar he’d been in, except that there was a pool tournament going on in the back room and the place was jammed to capacity. The noise level was such that you couldn’t hold a normal conversation. He wasn’t going to find out anything here, at least not until the tournament ended and the crowd thinned out.
His next stop, a couple of blocks away, was a place called the Miners Club. Pretty much a carbon copy of the Bank Shot, but without the pool tournament, the heavy crowd, and the ear-slamming noise. He found a place at the bar, ordered a light beer, and helped himself to a handful of pretzels to appease the mutterings in his belly. The bartender was too busy at the moment for conversation, and the couple on Runyon’s left were busy discussing the screwed-up love life of the woman’s sister. He made an effort with the middle-aged man on his right, but it didn’t buy him anything except a half glare and a couple of grunts.
He picked up his glass, moved to the other end of the bar where a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt sat alone shaking dice. Liar’s dice, from the number of die and the way each turnover was scrutinized. Runyon slid onto the stool next to him, watched him shake out another hand, then asked conversationally if he were practicing his game. The fat man glanced at him, grinned faintly, shrugged, and said he needed all the practice he could get because every two out of three times he shook Mel the bartender for a beer, he lost. There was a state law against shaking dice for drinks in taverns, but if you didn’t pay any attention to it, it made you one of the guys. Runyon asked the fat man if he wanted to shake for a new round, got an affirmative nod, made sure he lost the match, and thereby established a casual bar bond.
The fat man’s name was Harve and he was talkative enough. Runyon told him he was a salesman from Modesto, that he and the wife had come into town on Tuesday and were staying through the weekend. Then he said, “I hear you had some excitement here Monday night. Somebody’s house blew up and a woman was killed?”
“That’s right,” Harve said. “One of them freak accidents. Bad enough, but it could’ve been worse.”
“You mean the woman’s husband might’ve been home, too.”
“That’s one thing. Ned Verriker was real lucky. Explosion almost caused a forest fire, that’s another. VFD just got it contained in time.”
“Must’ve been some blaze. You in the neighborhood when it happened?”
“Not me,” Harve said. He sounded disappointed. “Working on a road crew the other end of the valley.”
“The man… what’s his name, Verriker?… must be taking it pretty hard.”
“Wouldn’t you if it was your house, your wife?”
“Hell, yes. Never be the same again.”
“Ned probably won’t, neither.”
Runyon took a sip of his beer before he said, “Pretty well liked in the community, Verriker and his wife, weren’t they?”
“Guess you could say that.”
“Not friends of yours?”
“No. Never met her, but I know him a little from where he works. He don’t come in here much. The Buckhorn’s his hangout. Keeps everybody in stitches over there, they tell me.”
“Is that right?”
“One of them guys with a wicked sense of humor. Well, the poor bastard’s not laughing now, that’s for sure.”
“Wicked?”
“Always making jokes about other people. You know, if they don’t hurt, they ain’t funny.”
The bartender, Mel, had come down to this end and was standing within earshot. He said a little sourly, “Like that mayor business.”
“Yeah, like that.”
“Pete sure didn’t think it was funny, and I don’t blame him.”
“Guess I don’t, either. But you got to admit, Verriker nailed him pretty good.”
“Better not tell Pete that.”
“Not me. He throws a fit every time anybody even looks at him cross-eyed these days.”
Runyon said, “Mayor business? What’s that about?”
“The Mayor of Asshole Valley,” Harve said. “Guy hung that name on me, I’d be pissed, too.”
“How’d it come about?”
“Him and Pete never got along, that’s how. Almost come to blows a couple of times, didn’t they, Mel?”
“So I heard,” the bartender said.
“How long ago’d it happen, the name-calling?”
Harve said, “Few weeks. At the Buckhorn one night.”
“Wouldn’t’ve happened in here,” Mel said, “not on my shift.”
“Dunno how it got started, different versions floating around. Something about too many assholes in the world these days. Verriker said what they ought to do was round ’em all up and put ’em in a valley somewhere, armed guards all around to keep ’em there. Pete didn’t like that and said so, and Verriker said that was because he was the biggest asshole in this valley, and if he was put in with the rest, they’d probably elect him mayor. The Mayor of Asshole Valley.”
“And the name stuck?”
“Oh, it stuck all right. Or at least Pete thinks so.”
Runyon asked, “Who is Pete anyway?”
“Good customer,” the bartender said. “You wouldn’t know him.”
“Curious, that’s all. He’s not here tonight, I take it?”
“He was, we wouldn’t be talking about him like this. Talked about him enough as it is.” He glanced meaningfully at the fat man before he moved away.
“Yeah, Mel’s right,” Harve said. “Oughtn’t to be spreading local stuff around to out-of-towners.” He picked up the dice box, rattled it a couple of times. “Shake for another beer?”
Runyon declined; said his wife was a fit-thrower, too, and if he didn’t get back to her, she was liable to throw one tonight. He’d gotten all he was going to get out of Harve and the bartender. Time to move on.
The Buckhorn Tavern was on a side street at the north end of town. From the name, you expected walls decorated with deer antlers, animal heads, hunting paraphernalia, and that was what you got. Macho place. The two dozen or so patrons were mostly male and from the look of them, regulars. Every eye fixed on Runyon when he walked in, watched him ease onto a bar stool and spend four dollars on another light beer.