Chase The Rabbit: Gretch Bayonne Action Adventure Series Book #1 (22 page)

              But in all of this craziness, I hadn’t forgotten about Patricia or the mission I’d been sent on. I’d had hundreds of copies of the missing husband’s photo made, and they were being passed around on every movie set in Hollywood.  Sure, it was costing me a lot more than the two hundred dollars she’d given me. I knew the dame was loaded but I never asked her for another nickel. I had made $850 for
White Zombie
, and it appeared I would be making more in the coming months. Besides, I told myself, I can’t possibly cover all of this ground alone.

              I was farming it out.  Letting other people do the job for me.  For once in my life, I was enjoying myself way too much to stop and chase the rabbit.

Chapter Nineteen

“B
ay, what the hell is going on?” Hobbs asked. My old friend had somehow tracked down Bela’s telephone number.             

              “I am sorry I didn’t call you,” I said, “but things have been pretty hectic.”

              “I don’t doubt that,” Hobbs replied. “But Bay, I have dozens of messages for you from magazines wanting articles about the Graf from you!” 

              “No one knows I was on the Graf,” I said. “I wasn’t on the list, officially. I wasn’t mentioned in the reports, as far as I know.”

              “Bastard Stan knows,” Hobbs said. “And all the rest of them. They all know you were there. Bay, you have to write about this. You could make a lot of money.”

              “No,” I replied. “I don’t want to write about it. In fact, I am not so sure I want to write anything anymore.”

              “Are you crazy?” he asked. “Bay, you are a writer! It is what you do! And you happened to be onboard the Graf.  This is the biggest news story EVER, and you were there!    How can you NOT write about it?”

              “It is bigger than you can imagine, Hobbs,” I answered. “But I can’t write about it.”

              “What the hell am I supposed to tell all these people then?” he asked. 

              “Tell them I was not on the Graf,” I said. “That it is just a rumor.”

“Okay,” Hobbs sighed. “But Bay, we have been best friends since we were kids. What the hell happened? Why do you not want to write about this?”

              “Because they may blame it on me,” I answered.

              “Blame what on you?” he asked.

              “I can’t tell you anything else,” I said. “Just say I am retired from writing. I am not taking assignments at this time. You don’t need to offer any more than that.”

              Hobbs seemed a bit agitated and confused, but we ended our conversation on a good note, recounting a few memories of our childhood.

              “I wonder what Joe Bob is doing these days,” Hobbs pondered.

              “He is probably working for Al Capone,” I laughed. 

              “Smashing metal lunch trays in guys faces,” Hobbs chuckled.

              “Do you remember what I said after I did that?” I asked.

              “Of course,” he answered. “I’ll never forget it. You said, ‘But the juice is mine!’’”

              “Right,” I answered, laughing. “Well, Hobbs, this whole not writing about the Graf thing. It’s kind of like that.”

              “How so?” he asked.

              “Not writing about it will get me the juice,” I answered. “And if I do write about it, I could get a metal lunch tray upside the face.”

                                                                      ***

              Word travels fast in Hollywood. My name was being thrown around in magazines like
Hollywood Stars
and
Movie Weekly
as an up and coming actor. Jean Harlow, Clark Gable, and several others spoke highly of me in interviews.
White Zombie
had not been released yet, but I was already known as an actor to look for. I wasn’t going to write about the Graf. No one could prove I was actually on the ship.

              Then reality hit me in the face like a metal lunch plate.

I had escorted Jean Harlow off the Graf. Thousands of photographs were taken. Film was shot. There I was, arm in arm with one of the most beloved stars of the day. Only a few people, like Bastard Stan, actually would recognize that it was me. I should have known he would catch up to me. And the others weren’t far behind.

                                                                      ***

              I got a message after shooting a scene with Jean Harlow on the set of
Red Dust
about two days into making the movie. It was from one of the private detectives I’d hired to find Mark. They worked on commission, so I had several working for me.

              “I think I have him,” the message read. “Followed him to an apartment. Call me. Elizabeth.”

              I dashed to a phone and rang Elizabeth’s number.

              “Are you sure it was him?” I asked her.

              “I am pretty sure,” she said.

              “What is the address?” I asked.

              “3753 Wildwood Ave,” she replied. 

              “Thank you, Elizabeth!” I shouted. “If this works out, if it is him, you will get that bonus!”

              I told the closest set assistant I could find that there had been an emergency and I had to leave.

              “But, Bay,” she said. “They are going to need you here real soon I think!”

              I looked the girl in the eye and replied, “Tell them I am sorry, but I have to go now. There are some things more important than movies. And this is one of them.”

              I took a cab to 3753 Wildwood and told the driver to park across the street from the building. Handing the cabbie a photo of Mark, I said, “We are looking for this man to come out of that building. Keep the meter running.”

              “I know him,” the cabbie replied. “Why don’t you just go up and knock? Is he in some kind of trouble or something?”

              “You know him?” I asked in amazement. 

              “Yes,” the cabbie answered. “That is Mark Davies. He works as an extra in movies, and also down at the dry cleaners I use.”

              “Mark Davies?” I asked. “Are you sure this is the same man?”

              “Yes, of course,” he replied. “What’s this all about then? And why were we being followed?” 

              “He is not in trouble,” I said. “I just have a very important message for him, but I don’t want to scare him off. What do you mean being followed?”

              “There are two Lincolns parked down the street behind us,” he said. “I think they followed us here.”

              “No one else has any interest in this,” I replied. “I am sure it is just a coincidence.”

              “This seems mighty fishy to me, sir,” the cabbie said. “I am not so sure I want to get involved in this.”

              “I understand,” I said. “It is a very unusual circumstance, mister…I am sorry, what is your name?”

              “I’m George,” the cabbie answered.

              “You see, George,” I replied, “this man, Mark used to live in New York City. Then he just disappeared. His wife has sent me here to look for him. He is not in trouble. They have a daughter. Her name is Rose. She is twelve years old.  The wife apparently has a bit of money, and asked me to find him. She just wants him back.”

              “That is definitely the sort of thing I don’t want to get involved in,” George said. “I just drive a cab.”

              “The name of the dry cleaners?” I asked. 

              “Jefferson’s,” he replied. “Off Fifth and Vine.”

              “Thanks, I said. “And I am going to take your advice and go knock on the door. Please wait here for me.”

              “If those boys in the Lincolns get out of their cars,” he replied, “you are on your own.”

              I stepped out of the cab and crossed the street. It seemed like an out of body experience. My heart was racing, and I could barely feel my own legs. The cabbie was right. There were two big white Lincolns parked just down the street with two men in each car. 

              I made my way up the stairs, feeling like I was on the set of a movie. It just didn’t seem real. As I knocked on the door, the thought occurred to me that I didn’t know what I was going to say if Mark opened it. Then it happened.

              “Yes?” Mark asked. “What can I do for you?”

              It was him, all right. The mysterious missing husband.  The part-time movie extra. The husband of the woman I’d fallen madly in love with, who had sent me on this crazy journey. I was eyeball-to-eyeball with the biggest rabbit I’d ever chased. 

Chapter Twenty

“M
y name is Gretch Bayonne,” I said. “But everyone calls me Bay.”

              Mark grimaced like a wild animal about to be slaughtered. I could hear the pounding of many feet running up the stairs behind me. Men dressed in black suits were suddenly dragging Mark and me down the stairs. They shoved us into separate cars as Mark screamed, “No! No!”

              “What the hell is going on?” I yelled, as they forced me into the Lincoln.

              “Everything is going to be alright,” one of them said.  I was pinned in the backseat between two men. They definitely were Mafia. 

              “I need to talk to that man!” I screamed. “Who are you people?”

              “Everything is going to be alright,” the man repeated. “Just stay calm.”

              We sped off, out of Hollywood and onto the freeway, and suddenly it occurred to me that I was going to be killed. I hadn’t been that frightened since I fell off of the Graf. But at least that came and went quickly. 

              I was sandwiched between two of the biggest thugs I’d ever seen, in the backseat of the biggest car I’d ever been in. After five minutes, I finally got up the nerve to ask them where they were taking me.

“We are drivers,” one of them said. “You know, like that cabbie, George. We are just driving you somewhere.  And when you get there, our job is finished.”

              “How did you know his name was George?” I asked.

              “The driver’s name is on the front of the cab’s windshield,” he replied. “Relax.”

              We drove for what seemed like an eternity. It had to have been at least two hours. And we were headed into the desert.

             
That’s it,
I thought.
They are taking me to the desert to kill and bury me. 

              There was absolutely nothing around for miles and miles. Then suddenly, there was something on the flat horizon that looked like a small airplane. We pulled up right next to it.

              “This is where you get off,” one of the thugs said. 

              I climbed out of the Lincoln into the hot sun, relieved that I was not going to be killed after all. I didn’t know what the airplane was all about, but was damned happy to get out of that car. The car sped off, kicking up dust and blinding me. I could see a man getting off of the small plane, with goggles and pilot headgear on. He was walking towards me. By the time the dust settled, the mysterious man was right in front of me. He lifted his goggles. It was Howard Hughes.