Boonville Read Online Free

thirty miles back toward San Francisco. Unfortunately, the hostess of the Boonville Hotel informed him that it wasn’t a working hotel anymore, “just a restaurant and bar.” John didn’t press for details. He’d settle for a drink. But apparently the bartender had taken it upon himself to fill him in on the history.
    â€œThe owners of this place were a couple from Frisk,” he toldJohn. “They were the ones responsible for the sign and puttin’ art on the walls, fancy wine, espresso, ten bucks a salad: piece of lettuce, rabbit’s shit worth of goat cheese. California Nouvelle Cuisine. Told the food critics they grew everything in the garden, organic. Yuppies and hippies love their organics. They came out of the woodwork to eat at the New Boonville Hotel. Then all hell broke loose.”
    People didn’t often share information with John, who had overheard his friends describe him as “fiercely loyal” and “the last to know,” the latter attribute lending itself to the first. He had the instincts of a mutt: feed me, pet me, fetch. What facts he had discovered, he had sought out to routine disappointment. The truth hurt. Still, he didn’t want to be left out. He waited for the bartender’s bone toss, feigning the composure of someone who could keep a secret. The bartender leaned in further, obviously having taken the job for the social aspects, not the paycheck.
    He told John the former owners were bad businesspeople, running up debts and burning bridges. The wait-staff began demanding payment for their shifts in advance. A cook once quit three times in the same week, walking out during the dinner rush. They had to bribe him back with a case of wine. One night, tired of the battle, the couple “Z’ed” the register and skipped town without paying anyone. Two weeks later, they hired someone to rob the restaurant, then claimed theft and collected insurance money from a post office box in Mendocino.
    â€œBig goddamned stink,” the bartender said. “Locals started lootin’ the place. See, your average logger or Mexican couldn’t afford to eat here, still can’t. They wouldn’t let ’em hang out in the bar either. Yuppies in six-hundred-dollar suits don’t want to look at rednecks in twenty-dollar jeans. Most folks just took what they thought was owed. I sent my grandkid into the wine cellar, but the half-wit came back with six bottles of grenadine. Been drinkin’ Shirley Temples to make my toes curl. But now that couple runs a restaurant up in Seattle or Paris or somewhere. Rich people can get away with murder.”
    â€œDidn’t the local authorities do anything?” John said, rinsing his throat with the rest of his beer.
    â€œLocal authorities?” the bartender laughed. “All we got is Cal, the resident deputy. Other than him, there’s no law. He’s got better things to do than guard this place. There’s a fight pretty near everyweek at the Lodge, folks drivin’ around higher ’n a billy, four-wheelin’, shootin’ guns. Besides, his response time ain’t what I call inspirin’. By the time he gets his slow butt out of bed, crime’s been done. Hold up a minute.”
    The bartender tramped three paces to take a couple’s order, waiting patiently while a bald man in a sports jacket asked about the “nose” and “acidity” of various wines on the wine list. After a litany of questions concerning “harvests,” “fermentation,” and “barrel selection,” he inquired about the house red, asking if it was “full-bodied.” The bartender answered, “Like Liz Taylor on a chocolate binge.” Uncorking a bottle labeled Edmeades, he poured two glasses with the nonchalance of someone who had spent more than their share of time behind a slab of mahogany. The bald man shoved his face into the glass, held it up to the