Aloha, Lugosi! The Gretch Bayonne Action Adventure Series Book #4

by Steven M. Thomas

  Aloha, Lugosi!

  Copyright© 2016 by Steven M. Thomas

  Published by

  Drummer Dancer Publications

  All rights reserved

  Proofreader: Diane Svoboda

  Cover design: Haans Peterson

  Cover painting: Tracy Ostmann Haschke

  Logo: Steve Shelburg

  Illustrations by Steve Shelburg

  Foreword: Robert Thomas

  Other books in this series: Chase The Rabbit, Rabbits Never Die, The Hollywood Murders, Goodbye Harlow Nights

  To receive the author’s acclaimed autobiography, I Was A Drummer She Was A Dancer at no charge, send a request to gretchbayonne@yahoo.com

  This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission of the publisher, expect where permitted by law.

  Drummer Dancer Publications

  Foreword

  Ode of Gretch … they call me Bay

  ‘The moon drifted across sullen seas as we plunged ourselves head-first into a world we knew little or nothing about. Island after island passed before us and we were still no closer to our goal than the day we left port aboard the Lucifer.’

  Steven M. Thomas, soul of a rock star, has taken his multitude of talents and delivered an ode to a time long lost, long forgotten by most, a time that gave rise to those known as ‘The Greatest Generation’.

  The world was a tumultuous place. It was mired in a world-wide depression and facing political instability that would hurl it into a time unseen in the annals of history. But Mr. Thomas doesn’t ignore the times. Instead, he uses all that as background fodder for an adventure series seen through the eyes of a hard-driving author who has friends in powerful places. One does not drop the name of William Randolph Hearst and simply walk away.

  Mr. Thomas takes you back to a time when movie stars were truly larger than life. It was hope; it was a lift out of the struggles of the times. Walk back with me now and live the adventure.

  My name is Gretch Bayonne, but they call me Bay. I’m looking for a friend of mine. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Bella, Bella Lugosi …

  Author Robert Thomas

  Chapter One

  Sometimes you have no choice. In this case, I had to go looking for Lugosi.

  My friend Bela and his new bride were still missing. It had been six weeks. They were last seen 90 miles off the California coast in a boat, The Lucifer, which he had rented for their honeymoon. No one had a clue what happened to them. With nothing else to go on, I did the only thing I could think of doing. I called the psychic, Vieta Jo.

  She arrived at my house eager to tell me about her visions concerning Lugosi. Unfortunately, my agent, Lisa Mattingly showed up at the same time. “How much are you charging for this information?” Lisa asked Vieta Jo.

  “Nothing,” she replied. “I am doing this to help find Bela Lugosi. Actually, I do a lot of work for free.”

  “What have you got?” I asked.

  “Bela and Lillian are on a small island,” Vieta Jo began. “They are alive and well, but there is some conflict going on.”

  “An island?” I asked. “Where, exactly?”

  “Somewhere in Hawaii,” she replied.

  “There are something like six islands in Hawaii,” Lisa said. “Maybe more!”

  “It’s not one of those,” Vieta Jo said, closing her eyes. “It is one of the smaller ones.”

  “I didn’t know there were smaller ones,” I said. “Can you see anything else that might help me?”

  “There are giant white elephants,” the psychic answered. “Bela is making a movie and I see a bracelet made of shark’s teeth.”

  Lisa looked at me and shook her head. Maybe Vieta Jo was crazy after all.

  “Giant white elephants?” I asked. “And they are with Bela on a small Hawaiian island?”

  “Yes,” she replied as she opened her eyes. “I think so.”

  “Elephants aren’t in Hawaii,” Lisa blurted out. “They aren’t from that region of the globe.”

  “Unless someone brought them there,” I said.

  “This is ridiculous,” Lisa said, standing up. “White elephants and sharks teeth!”

  “I know it sounds strange,” Vieta Jo replied. “I can’t explain it, but it is what I see.”

  “Bay,” Lisa said. “I will come back tomorrow to talk to you about your next movie assignment. In the meantime, I have other clients to see.”

  “I’m sorry if I upset her,” Vieta Jo said as Lisa slammed the front door behind her.

  “Don’t worry about her,” I replied. “Is there anything else you see? You said something about a conflict.”

  “I feel conflict,” she replied. “I don’t know who it is between. Maybe the natives and the American man.”

  “Who is the American man?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “There are natives and one man from America.”

  “You mean Bela?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “Of course not! Bela is not from America. He is Hungarian! Everyone knows that.”

  “Then what about this man?” I asked. “Is he bad? Is he the villain?”

  “I don’t know!” she said, raising her voice. “I have told you all I have.”

  “But I need more!” I replied.

  “I have to go now,” she said calmly. “Like the agent lady, I too have more clients to visit.”

  I sat alone in my new big Hollywood house surrounded by reminders of my lost friend Bela. Our homes were laid out exactly the same. It was impossible to live there without thinking of Lugosi.

  The woman I’d fallen in love with was being tried in the Hollywood Murders case and would likely be convicted. All I could think of, all I cared to think of, was finding my friend. Hell, I didn’t even want to answer the telephone, let alone make a movie.

  All I had to go on was a psychic’s vision of where she thought Bela might be. It sounded crazy, but it was good enough for me. I decided right then and there what I had to do. And this time, I wouldn’t be asking for help from anyone. William Randolph Hearst, Colonel Kots, Detective Bannon, and even Wolf would be left out of this one. It was back to chasing the rabbit solo for me. So I packed a small bag, as I had for the Graf trip and jotted a note to leave on my desk.

  “Gone fishing. Be back soon-Bay”

  Chapter Two

  I took a taxi to my bank to take two-thousand dollars out of my account and told the driver to keep the car running.

  “Why?” he asked. “Are you robbing the bank?”

  “You could say that,” I replied.

  I handed the teller the withdrawal slip as he smiled and nodded at me. Then he saw the amount.

  “Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. Bayonne?” the teller asked me. “That’s a lot of cash to be carrying around.”

  “What is the balance on my account?” I asked him.

  “Let’s see,” he replied, flipping through pages in a little book. “If you take two-thousand out, that would leave your balance at forty-one thousand.”

  “In that case,” I said, “make it three grand out now.”

  “I will have to get the manager to approve that transaction,” the teller said.

  “Why?” I asked. �
�It’s not his money.”

  “Any withdrawals in excess of five hundred dollars require management approval,” the man said. “That’s bank policy.”

  “Do what you have to do,” I replied. “But make it snappy. I have a boat to catch.”

  I was used to carrying around a little bag full of nickels. Three grand in twenties takes up a lot more space. My pockets were bulging with them. And they didn’t jingle when I walked. But I had no clue how long I would be on this journey and cash always comes in handy.

  There was a line of passengers a mile long waiting to board one of the great white Matson ships in San Francisco Bay. It was the only sure fire way I knew of to get to Hawaii. But I didn’t have a ticket.

  As I stepped onto the ship, a pretty young lady extended her hand. “Ticket, please,” she said.

  “I need to buy one,” I reported. “But I have cash.”

  “This cruise is sold out,” she said. “People buy tickets months in advance for these trips. I am sorry.”

  “But I have to get to Hawaii right away!” I exclaimed.

  “You can’t board without a ticket, sir,” she answered.

  “Damnit!” I yelled. “I’ll pay double of whatever the ticket cost! I need to get on this ship!”

  A man in a white security uniform walked towards me smiling. I was certain he’d overheard my conversation with Miss Ticket Girl and was about to bounce me off of the boat.

  “You’re Gretch Bayonne,” he said. It wasn’t framed as a question, but as a statement of fact. This guy knew who I was.

  “That’s right,” I said. “But my friends…”

  “But your friends call you Bay,” he said, interrupting me. “Would you be good enough to follow me, sir,” the security man said. “I think the Captain would like to meet you.”

  “Will it get me passage on the ship?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Just come with me.”

  We wound through hundreds of tourists down the corridor and up three flights to the pilot room. There must have been a dozen men in the giant control room, all dressed in amazing white uniforms. I’d never been on a ship so large and so full of people. It took ten minutes for the security man to finally get the attention of the Captain.

  “Captain Long,” he said. “This is Bay and he needs to get to Hawaii, but he doesn’t have a ticket. I thought you would want to meet him.”

  The captain looked to be about sixty years old. He was a tall, stout man with a short white beard. When he looked at me his face lit up. He reminded me of Santa Claus, but without the red suit.

  “Well, bust my buttons!” the captain shouted. “To what do I owe the pleasure of having you here?”

  “I need to get to Hawaii right away,” I answered. “But I don’t have a ticket. It is an emergency. I am looking for my friend, Bela Lugosi.”

  “That is not a problem!” Captain Long said. “You can stay in one of the officer’s quarters! And you must dine at my table tonight!”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “But I will pay for my passage, of course. How much are tickets?”

  “Nonsense!” the captain said. “You will be my guest!”

  “I appreciate that very much,” I answered. “How long will it take to get there?”

  “It is an eight day cruise,” the captain said. “But I am sure you will enjoy every minute! This is a first class vessel with nothing but the best!”

  “Eight days?” I asked. “Really? It takes that long?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “After all, we are crossing the Pacific. Eight days will fly by in no time, though.”

  The other officers in the control room had been eaves dropping on our conversation, and one of them chimed in. “You said you are going to look for Lugosi?” an officer asked.

  “That’s right,” I said. “He has been missing for weeks and I have reason to believe he is somewhere in Hawaii.”

  “My name is Charles Hoffer,” the officer said, extending his hand. “My brother is a Navy pilot. They are getting ready to make an historic flight of six Consolidate P2Y-1 seaplanes to Pearl Harbor.”

  “What are you getting at, Hoffer,” I asked as we shook hands.

  “They expect to make the trip in 24 hours,” he replied. “I’m betting they would take you along.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked. “When are they leaving?”

  “Early tomorrow morning,” Hoffer said. “They are taking off from the Navy base right here in San Francisco. You could be on one of those planes.”

  Chapter Three

  The P2Y-1 seaplane leveled out over the Pacific. I would be in Hawaii in a day’s time. But it still wasn’t fast enough for me.

  “I heard all about Lugosi missing,” the pilot Hoffer said as he steered the great plane. “If he is in Hawaii, that’s an awfully long way to go in a little boat like he was in.”

  “How long do you think it would have taken him?” I asked.

  “It depends on what route he took,” Hoffer replied. “Even if he went in a straight line, which is highly unlikely, it could take a couple of weeks at least.”

  The pilot advised me that once we reached the naval base at Pearl Harbor, there would be a lot of newsmen there. They would be taking photographs of all the pilots who made this historic trip.

  “I’ll just duck out when we get there,” I said.

  “Oh no!” he said. “You made the trip! So you have to be in the photos! This is history, Mr. Bay!”

  “But I am not a pilot,” I replied. “No one needs to know about this.”

  “Come over here,” Hoffer said.

  “Over where?” I asked.

  “I am going to stand up,” he said. “And you are going to sit down here and just hold this steering wheel steady. Okay?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied.

  “There’s nothing to it!” Hoffer insisted. “The hard part is taking off and landing!”

  I sat in the pilot seat and gripped the wheel in front of me, staring out the windshield into nothing but blue all around us.

  “Just don’t push the wheel or turn it,” he instructed.

  Suddenly, I was flying the P2Y-1.

  “Now you’re officially a pilot,” Hoffer laughed.

  “Don’t you have to have a license or something to do this?” I asked.

  “You’re flying the plane, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “It appears so.”

  “Well, there you go,” he laughed.

  I traded off flying the plane with the other pilots for the entire trip. We took turns flying and sleeping. By my third time, it was old hat. Like I’d been doing it all my life. It was on this particular turn of mine that we caught sight of Hawaii. Within an hour, we were right on top of Pearl Harbor.

  “Okay, Bay,” Hoffer said. “Get up. I’ll take it from here.”

  “I want to land her,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” he replied. “I told you, that’s the tricky part.”

  “Everyone has to learn some time,” I said. “I may never get a chance like this again. Just help me. I can do this.”

  The other five seaplanes were directly in front of us. I figured I would just follow them down. How hard could it be?

  “You have flown the plane,” Hoffer said. “That makes you a pilot by definition. Now get up and let me take over from here.”

  I moved the wheel down and pushed in on it. The plane was slowing down and lowering, right behind the others.

  “Like this?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Hoffer said. “But you have to go slower.”

  The pilot knelt down next to me, trying to take control of the wheel. He was more than a bit nervous.

  “A little more this way,” he said, pointing down.

  I had a damned good idea from the planes just in front of us that I was on the right track. And I was hell bent on landing this bird come hell or high water.

  We skidded across the top of the water until the plane came to rest and turned i
nto a damned boat. I am pretty sure Hoffer was wetting his pants in those last few minutes. But I didn’t care. I landed the damned plane.

  Hoffer and the other guys on our seaplane seemed over-the-top with joy as we posed for photographs at Pearl Harbor. While the pilots of the other planes were smiling because they’d just made a historic flight, the boys aboard my plane were just happy to be alive. In the photographs that were taken that day, I was the third one from the right, bottom row. Not one person questioned who I was. They all thought I was a Navy pilot. And on that particular day, I damned well was.

  Chapter Four

  Everyone wants to go to Hawaii. Cup Cake Island has more tourists than you can shake a stick at. And I immediately wanted to poke the eyes out of most of them with a damned sharp one.

  All I could see was Fat Cats with daughters named Heather who somehow managed to avoid the Great Depression and were paying thousands of dollars to go on vacation while a quarter of the nation couldn’t even get jobs.

  Anyone can get passage on hundreds of boats going from one of the big islands to the next if they have enough money. But no one wanted to venture beyond that, out deep in the Pacific. I must have made one hundred inquires, and every last one of them turned me down flat. The little islands were off limits. Then I chanced upon Captain Jonas Crumby.

  “I am not here as a tourist,” I explained. “I am looking for a man and a women who are believed to be on one of the smaller islands.”

  Crumby was a tough cookie, an Australian sailor who made his way to Hawaii some fifteen years ago with his own big boat. Sure, he took in tourists for cruises to make money, but this man seemed to hate them even more than I did.

  “It sounds like trouble to me,” he said. “Why are you looking for these people?”

  “They are my friends,” I replied.

  “And what makes you think they are on one of the small islands?” he asked suspiciously.

  “A psychic told me,” I replied. “I have money. Cash in U.S. currency. And I am willing to pay you.”

  “The definition of an island,” Crumby said, “is a bit misunderstood by blokes like you. You American men from big cities only think of islands like Manhattan or Martha’s Vineyard. It’s not like that in this part of the world.”