Chase The Rabbit: Gretch Bayonne Action Adventure Series Book #1 (2 page)

              It went on that way for the next five years. I would write, and Mr. Pebbles would submit. By the time I left the home for boys, I’d had over one hundred articles published in dozens of magazines. 

              On my last day at the home, Mr. Pebbles gave me a savings account book. He had opened the account for me and had been depositing checks from my writings that whole time, unbeknownst to me. I had $214 in savings and dozens of offers for jobs at various newspapers and magazines. 

              “My advice, Bay,” he said, “would be not to take any of these job offers.”

              “Why not?” I asked. “I will need a job, an income. My mother said…”

              “Because,” he interrupted, “I have been practically giving your work away all these years. I’ve only been getting you an average of $2 per story. Now that you have proven yourself, you can command much more than that.  Ten, twelve dollars per story! You can earn two thousand dollars a year, maybe more! But if you accept a position at one publication, you will be under contract to them solely and will make much less. No one will own you. You can work for all of them! And with the reputation you have well earned, they will compete for your articles!” 

              “I understand” I said. 

              “William Randolph Hearst himself will want you to work for his papers, but Bay, do not do it! Do not trust anyone. They do not have your best interest at heart.  Remain your own man,” he said, holding his index finger up and looking me straight in the eye. And, never stop chasing the rabbit.”

***

I moved into an apartment in Hoboken and continued writing stories. It was much easier than I expected. Now I could actually go out and experience real stories instead of having to make everything up like I’d been doing as a child.  I quickly developed a style that I called “half and half.”  Half was truth and the other half, I made up. It was less work that way. And I didn’t have to chase them. The stories came to me! 

I would get one or two word “assignments” from magazines. They would be things like, “Write story on Prohibition!” or “Write story on Nazi Party!” Things like that. Sometimes the requests would just say, “Write story!”  “That’s just brilliant,” I would respond. “Thanks for the lead!” 

              I was ripping through my mail one day and got a request from the editor of
SIR!
magazine. “Write story on flirty women!”  I liked the idea. Lord knows I’d had experience in that department. So on April 14, 1932, the article appeared in the magazine.

              Things can get pretty weird when a woman starts flirting. Of all the damned writing assignments in the world, this was the one I was sent on by Stan, the gray bearded bastard editor of
SIR!
magazine. He was still pissed at me for mucking up my last article and cashing the check anyway. It was an easy $14 so I had to make good on this one. So I found myself in The Blue Gill Bar at 11:55 PM, pounding shots of whiskey with beer and chasing the crazy story. It was a seedy little place, so I figured I would strike gold and be home in time to slam out a thousand words on the Hermes before the coppers started running people off the sidewalks of dismay. All I had to do was wait for a lady to start flirting with me, and the story would write itself.  My angle was simple. Women flirt for two reasons. Number one, to get something, and number two, to entertain themselves and boost their own egos. That’s about it. But that is not a thousand words, so I had to milk it for something else. To no small amazement, that something else walked into the Blue Gill that night and plopped herself down on the bar stool next to me. A pretty dame of at least 40, Betty was dressed in black, with blonde hair and attitude from shoulder to wrist.

              She was very attractive and introduced herself by saying, “Well, are you going to buy me a drink or stare at my chest?” 

              “I guess I could do both,” I replied. “What are you drinking?”

              “Anything you want,” she said.  She was turning it on, too. Batting her eyes at me like the winged mammals in the Lugosi movie. She touched my shoulder, laughed for no reason, and gestured me to light her Camel.

              “What is your name?” she asked, per the usual flirting-for-a-drink game.

              “My friends call me Bay,” I replied. And that’s when it hit me. Literally. Everything else is a black smoke screen with two lines of credits that keep playing over and over again like a bad movie theater when the projection goes nuts. When the picture focused, I found myself flat on my back in a hospital room, the smell of alcohol predominate. And not the good kind. I had been decked in the head by Betty’s crazy jealous boyfriend with a beer bottle three minutes after she sat down. And I didn’t even get to use a single pick up line. There was a note pinned to my hospital gown. It read,”Where the hell is my story? Signed, Stan-
SIR!
magazine.” 

I knew I had to get the hell out of that hospital in quick order. I couldn’t pay the bill, even if I wanted to. And I figured they didn’t know who I was since I never carry any ID. I ripped the IV needle out of my arm and blood splattered everywhere. I changed out of the hospital gown and back into my black suit and tie and stuck my head out of the room. Good, no nurses! Making my way down the hallway, I found a pay phone and slammed a coin in and dialed Hobbs’ number. 

              “I need you!” I said. “Now!” 

              I had known Hobbs since the Packard incident, and he had always been there for me. Hobbs was a misfit like me, but he was more grounded, and seemed to live a normal life-got married, had children, a good job.  Despite all that, the second I called on him for anything, he was there like smoke on BBQ. He loved to be there whenever called upon, no matter which way my wind was blowing at the time. Unfortunately, he was often the recipient of smoke bellowing in his unsuspecting face. Yet he always came back for the pork steaks. He usually only got to the beans before the grease fire hit the fan. Yes, Hobbs was always there for me. He would scream in panic, but he was there. And he had a car. And it was a Packard. We sped off like the Keystone Cops and slid into traffic, me cursing the very angels who probably saved my life. 

              I wrote the “Flirty Women” story in the car on the way from the hospital to my squat on Bemming Avenue. I jammed the hand-written manuscript into a beat up old envelope and quickly mailed it off to
SIR!
magazine.

              A dozen letters were laying on the floor below my mail slot in the front door. There were requests from the usual periodicals for more stories.
Yank Magazine, The Spectator, Collier’s, Vanity Fair
and so on.

              Hobbs was telling me the whole time that we should go back to the hospital so I could check out “officially.”  Ignoring him, I began reading one letter from some dame named Patricia in NYC. She was a fan of my work, she said. And she was offering me two hundred dollars to chase the rabbit. She instructed me to contact the law firm of Hamilton & Shelberg to make arrangements to meet her. I didn’t like that idea at all, but it was a lot of money. I’d just taken a beer bottle to the head for $14 so how hard could this be? I sent Hobbs home and walked to the nearest pay phone. 

              “Hamilton & Shelberg” the female voice answered. 

              “Yes,” I said, “my name is Gretch Bayonne and I received a letter from one of your clients…” 

              “Oh, yes sir, one moment, I will get Mr. Hamilton on the line.” 

             
Well, that was fast
, I thought.
She must have known what I was talking about. 

              “Mr. Bay?” the man said.

              “Yes,” I answered. 

              “This is Mr. Hamilton. Our client would like you to meet her at a specific location, date and time. I can give you that information, but I have to tell you, she is very secretive and is insisting that you come alone and tell no one about this.” 

              “What is this all about?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t understand why she wants to meet with me.” 

              “She wants to retain your services,” he said. “That is all we know.” 

              “My services? To do what?” I asked. “I’m a writer.” 

              “Perhaps she wants you to write something, Mr. Bay. Would you like the information or should I tell her you are not interested?” he countered.

              “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.” 

              “Very good, sir,” he said. “She wants you to meet her at 7:30 PM at Truser’s Restaurant on 46th Street in Manhattan.” 

              “Okay,” I said, “and on what day?” 

              “Tonight,” he replied. 

              “Tonight?” I shot back. “I don’t think I can even get there by 7:30 PM!”

              “Well,” he said. “I would suggest you make every effort. She will have two hundred dollars in cash for you just for showing up.” 

              “I’ll be there,” I said.

              I had less than two hours to bathe, change clothes and make my way across the Hudson to Manhattan. As it turns out, two hundred dollars is a hell of a lot of motivation.

Knowing what I know now, I should have turned it down flat. 

Chapter Two

S
omehow I made it to the restaurant on time. I was as nervous as a German Shepherd on grass cutting day. Truser’s was a fancy, expensive place. I was ten minutes early and it dawned on me that I had no idea who this Patricia lady was or how I would find her.

              I stood in the huge entrance of the restaurant wondering what I should do when someone touched my shoulder from behind. I spun around, and there stood the most beautiful, amazing woman I had ever seen. 

              “Oh!” she said. “You startled me, Mr. Bay!” 

             
My God
, I thought.
This can’t be…

              “I’m Patricia,” she said, extending her hand. 

              For the first time in my life, I was speechless. I took her hand and nodded.

              “I’m sorry,” I said. “It is nice to meet you, Patricia.” 

              “And this is my daughter, Rose,” she replied.

              I barely looked at the little girl. She was probably around eleven or twelve years old. I felt like I was floating and ready to pass out. And in that instant, I fell madly in love with this angel, Patricia. I could not let go of her hand or stop staring at her.

              She tugged my hand and said, “Come, let’s get a table.” 

              As we were seated, my head was still floating. It was like an out of body experience. The waiter gave us menus, and after glancing over hers, she finally spoke. 

              “I am sure you are curious why I have asked you here, and why all the secrecy,” she said. 

              “Yes, yes, I am,” I said. 

              Her words seemed to come from the heavens. It didn’t matter what she was saying, as long as she was there and talking. 

              “My husband is missing,” she said, “and I want you to help me find him.” 

              I involuntarily shook my head no and said, “But Patricia, why me? I’m a writer, not a gumshoe.” 

              “Yes,” she said. “I know that. I have read many of your stories over the years. And, I have tried investigators, and they have all come up empty.” 

              I knew I was way out of my league, not only with this assignment, but with this woman. She was not only the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, but she obviously had a great deal of money as well. 

              “Please help me, Mr. Bay,” she said. “I can’t trust anyone else.” 

              That was all it took. She had me, hook, line and sinker.  Our food arrived and my head began to clear a bit. 

              “What can you tell me?” I asked. 

              She pulled a photograph from her purse. “This is my husband,” she said. “His name is Mark. He went missing almost a year ago and I believe he is in Hollywood, California.” 

              “What makes you think that?” I asked.