Shots Force Mayor to Call It Quits : Government: Tony Silva decided, after six rounds were fired into his pickup truck, that running the small Fresno County city of Huron for $100 a month wasn’t worth it.

Tony Silva withstood four election campaigns, weathered four recall drives, and endured all the charges, rumors and allegations that have gone along with being mayor of this small farm town for most of the past 14 years.

But last month, Silva believes, someone took the political debate far beyond normal bounds. Live ammunition took the place of verbal potshots when half a dozen rounds were fired into his pickup truck as he drove home.

Deciding the $100-a-month job was not worth his blood, Silva, with two years left in his term, has decided to step down, effective at tonight’s City Council meeting.

“It’s sad, from my perspective, that I leave in this manner. I’m being forced out,” says the soft-spoken Silva, 37. “But my wife tells me, ‘You’ve given it your all.’ She would rather have me alive than stay and fight to the bitter end.”

Silva was driving home on the evening of Feb. 10 when a red pickup truck pulled alongside him. Three men in masks opened fire, six times hitting the pickup Silva was driving. Silva was driving his mother’s truck because his car was in a shop for repairs after vandals spray-painted it fluorescent orange, yellow and green and slashed all four tires.

Police have no witnesses to the shooting and no suspects. Sgt. Margaret Mims, a spokeswoman for the Fresno County Sheriff’s Department, says the motive is unknown but that the shooting could stem from past threats against Silva.

“He’s got a lot of enemies,” says Chris Ibarra, owner of a local meat market, a restaurant and the Rio Grande, a bar that had been a dance hall until the City Council revoked its dance permit.

Ibarra has his share of grievances, a major one being a recent crackdown by Huron police, who are stopping bar patrons to make sure they are driving with their licenses.

It’s “bad for business,” he said, and ultimately hurts the city by reducing sales tax revenue.

Still, the shooting was a bit much, Ibarra says. “I don’t wish that on anybody.”

Whether it was a random shooting or an assassination attempt, the attack has not only stymied police but frightened Huron officials. City councils in Huron and other San Joaquin Valley towns are posting rewards for information.

Huron Councilwoman Olivia Cano understands how Silva feels and doesn’t blame him for quitting. A few years ago, someone doused her home with acid. And last year, Cano, a counselor at Huron’s elementary school, received threatening phone calls telling her to get out of town.

“That’s enough for me,” she says, adding that she doesn’t plan to run for reelection when her term expires in 1994.

In the best of times, Huron would be a tough place to govern. This no-stop-light town in a tiny corner of western Fresno County remains a little untamed. A city of fewer than 5,000 people, it has 10 bars and 18 markets that sell liquor, according to the Police Department.

Hot and dusty in the summer and muddy after a winter rain, Huron is surrounded by fields of tomatoes, melons, cotton and lettuce. It is among California’s poorest cities. Farmers here face the prospect of another year of reduced state and federal water deliveries, worsening the always-high unemployment.

Silva, a father of three young boys and administrator of the local medical clinic, insists that Huron is “not as wild as it seems.” He joined the City Council at age 23 while he was a student at Fresno State University. He filled the seat of an older brother, Guadalupe, who died of a heart attack.

“He wanted to help people, and I’ve always been a big believer in that too,” Silva said. “You don’t do it for the money, because there’s no money in it.”

At first, Silva was seen as a bright and dedicated man who had energy and ideas. But attitudes soured over the years when some packinghouses closed, the city failed to attract new industry and an attempt to build low-cost housing became mired in construction delays and scandal. As mayor, he says, he was the “focal point” of all the anger and frustration.

Recall drives have been part of the Huron political landscape since 1986, when locals first tried to remove Silva, contending that he actually lives in Kerman, 45 miles away. Silva says he spends many nights in a trailer parked behind his mother’s home in Huron, although he also has a home in Kerman. He was driving to Kerman when the shooting occurred.

The latest recall campaign came last fall after business owners rose in protest when the City Council imposed a 5% utility tax.

None of the recall efforts drew enough valid signatures to qualify for the ballot. Ray Hernandez, who is Silva’s half-brother and was among the leaders of the recall, is still angry that election officials rejected the latest petition.

“It’s time for a change,” he said at the market he owns with his wife, Frances. He points to poorly maintained city landscaping and complains about $170-a-month garbage collection fees. “As far as I’m concerned, he has done nothing.”

Nonetheless, he can’t imagine that anyone would shoot at Silva for political reasons. To emphasize that he harbors no hard personal feelings, Hernandez was planning to attend a farewell dinner honoring Silva.

The beleaguered mayor seems weary of the public debate--whether it’s over his domicile or whether police should cite people who drive without licenses. Perhaps he’ll run for some other office. But for now, he says, he’s just happy to be alive--and his decision to quit is final.

“My family,” he said, “has to come first.”