Rabbits Never Die-The Gretch Bayonne Action Adventure Series Book #2 Read online

  Rabbits Never Die

  Copyright© 2015 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: Haans Peterson

  Foreword: George Wier

  Acknowledgements: Cleve Sylcox, Steve Shelburg, Kevin I. Smith

  Other books in this series: Chase The Rabbit, The Hollywood Murders, Aloha, Lugosi!, 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 [email protected]

  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

  By George Wier

  I was raised on the fantastic. A great number of modern-day authors were. If you were to remove fantastic literature from our lives and so alter the timeline such that we were never afforded the opportunity to read in this genre, most of us wouldn’t be writers today. I’m talking about such icons from the 1930s, 40s and 50s as A. Merritt and Lester Dent, C.L. Moore, Jack Vance and Henry Kuttner. Take away our Doc Savage pulps and paperbacks, our yellowed-with-age Destroyer and Executioner serials, and missing would be the immediacy that seems inherent in our work—that essential element that makes action and adventure something people look forward to reading.

  And now, along comes Steven M. Thomas.

  Steven is a musician, a lyricist and a poet (and he’s been these things in that order, at least in my mind—and I must confess that it’s my suspicion that he invented Punk Rock all on his lonesome). But now here is his new, fresh off the cabbage truck Gretch Bayonne series, and suddenly the world is a little wobbly under my feet. What’s he doing, for crying out loud, penning action/adventure mystery/thrillers? (And after reading these first two, I have to add that he has single-handedly revived Fantastic Fiction as a genre.) Well, I’m here to answer that one: he’s having fun, that’s what he’s doing! And that pretty much summarizes the whole series, as far as I’m concerned—a big, sweating heap of unblushing fun!

  In this installment, Bay, our hero, tag-teams with intrepid reporter Wolf, from the New York Times, to solve the mystery of what caused the crash of the Graf Zeppelin. If it were any other writer, we’d be neck-deep in suspicious characters, dark motivations, and evil men doing dirty deeds dirt-cheap by Chapter Two. But no, instead we’re off on a continent-wide thrill ride chasing a cageful of missing flying monkeys and up to our pince-nezs in Hollywood stars and journalistic icons, including Jean Harlow, Clark Gable, and William Randolf Hearst, along with their moonstruck followers. But then again, that’s Steven Thomas, turning the literary equivalent of a gutsy poetic phrase and sending us off chasing a young, baseball-playing, dirigible-stealing Fidel Castro.

  So, now that you have the book in your hands, what are you waiting for? For this old, mystery writer to give you some keen and hidden insight? Well, you’re wasting your time, because here, this minute, you could be rubbing elbows with Bay and Wolf and off to solve the mystery of the disaster of the century.

  All right, so I’ll leave you with a little bit of a conundrum: you could Chase the Rabbit (and you may even be able to catch it!) but you’ll soon learn the truth of the matter—Rabbits Never Die.

  George Wier

  Austin, Texas

  July 2015

  Hollywood, the Graf Disaster and discovering the secret airship, The Rose was almost too much for Bay to take in. And it all happened in just twenty-one days in the summer of 1932.

  “I was told never to write about this. But what happened changed the lives of everyone on the planet.”-Bay

  Chapter One

  It felt good to be back home in Hoboken. Well, for the first forty-eight hours anyway, give or take. I wrote four stories in that time and didn't sleep a blink. I was too full of adrenaline. I jammed those stories out and mailed them off to the usual magazines. Good Housekeeping, Cosmopolitan, The New Yorker, and of course, SIR! for Bastard Stan. When I finally stepped out of my apartment to take them to the post office, it hit me hard that I was, indeed, back in New Jersey.

  “Where have you been, Bay?” one of my neighbors shouted.

  “Hollywood!” I yelled back.

  “And you came back?” he asked, laughing.

  Yeah. I missed Hollywood. I missed being in motion pictures. But perhaps most of all, I missed the Star Child, Jean Harlow.

  After walking off the set of her movie, Red Dust, I figured I'd flushed that career forever. No one would give me work there again. But that is okay. I am a writer. That's what I've always done, and that's what I will keep doing. Sure, the pay isn't nearly as much, but it is an honest living.

  The postal clerk gladly took my manuscripts as always. “Where have you been, Bay?” he asked.

  “Well, first I took the Graf to the Summer Olympics in California, then saved it from blowing up in the stadium, then I made movies with Bela Lugosi and Jean Harlow.”

  He looked at me with a big grin on his face. “Good one!” he exclaimed. “Hey, there's a certified letter here for you. Sign here.”

  “Oh, I don't know about that,” I said. “I don't like to sign for anything. It usually means trouble. Who is it from?”

  The clerk picked up the letter.

  “Someone named Wolf,” he answered, “from New York City.”

  “Let me see that!” I said.

  “You have to sign first, Bay,” he said, holding the letter to his chest.

  I scribbled my name on the form as he plopped the letter down on the counter in front of me. Sure enough, the return address was from Wolf of The New York Times.

  Well, son of a bitch, I thought. I wonder what he wants?

  Wolf was a legendary reporter. His weekly column, Wolf's Den was quite popular and had been syndicated in dozens of newspapers across the country for years. I'd been reading them since I was a kid. In fact, it was he who influenced me to use just one name as a byline. He was Wolf. And I became Bay. I admired him a great deal. And here he was, sending me a certified letter.

  I walked to Rosie's Café just down the street from the post office and sat at the counter.

  “Black coffee,” I told the waitress, “and bacon and eggs, please.”

  “Where have you been, Bay?” she asked.

  “I've been to England to visit the Queen,” I retorted. I tore the envelope open and unfolded the letter on the counter.

  Dear Bay:

  I have retired from writing my column to pursue the investigation of the Graf Disaster. I have evidence that the Shortridge Committee's findings were a white wash. I have good reason to believe that a conspiracy occurred. I intend to uncover the truth and write a book about it. I would like you to partner with me in the investigation and subsequent writing of said book. Please call The New York Times Office and ask for me. When they tell you I no longer work there, give them the code word Laundry. They have been instructed to patch whoever gives that code word through to my personal phone number. And Bay, please destroy this lette
r.

  Wolf

  I stuffed the letter into my pocket just as the waitress sat my breakfast down in front of me. My heart was racing like a horse about to hit the finish line dead first.

  “I can't stay,” I told the waitress, as I tossed a dollar bill on the counter.

  “Off to England again?” she laughed.

  “Maybe!” I said as I dashed out the door.

  I made it to the nearest pay phone, but the damned thing was occupied. I waited a minute, but it appeared the lady in the booth chatting away aimlessly might take forever.

  I figured I might as well sprint the next two blocks and take my chances that the phone booth there would be available. I was far too anxious to wait for Miss Chatty to finish up her conversation.

  By the time I arrived at the second pay phone, I was huffing and puffing, out of breathe, but fortunately, it was vacant. I slammed a nickel into the slot and dialed the newspaper.

  “New York Times,” the girl said.

  “I need to speak to your laundry!” I said excitedly.

  “Pardon me?” she replied.

  “Your laundry!” I shouted. “No, I'm sorry, I meant…”

  Click. She hung up. Son of a bitch! I thought.

  I dug into my pocket for another nickel. I didn't have one. In fact, I had no change at all. There was a time when all I carried was a sack of nickels. But in Hollywood, you don't need nickels.

  I really need to get a phone in my apartment, I thought. I made my way across the street to a store to get change.

  “Sorry,” the clerk said, “but we don't make change. You have to buy something.”

  I was back in Hoboken all right, the friendliest city in the nation. “Okay,” I said, feeling more and more agitated. “I'll take this pack of Blackjack gum!”

  As I crossed the street towards the pay phone, I could see a lady about to step into the phone booth.

  “Stop!” I shouted at her. “Just stop right there!” She froze and stared at me in terror.

  “Just step away from the phone booth!” I said. “There has been an emergency, and I need to use that phone right now!” The woman backed away, looking at me like I was crazy.

  “New York Times,” the girl said.

  “Yes,” I said very calmly, changing my voice slightly. “I need to speak with Wolf.”

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “But Mr. Wolf is no longer here.”

  “Laundry,” I replied.

  “Laundry?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. “It is a code word. You are supposed to know what it means.”

  “I apologize, sir,” she said. “But I do not know what you are talking about.”

  In that instant, I remembered that Wolf's editor's name was Michael Laundre. His last name was pronounced “laundry.”

  “May I speak with Michael Laundre?” I asked.

  “One moment please,” the girl said.

  “Michael Laundre,” the man said.

  “Good lord,” I said. “Your switchboard girl is a moron. I need to be patched through to Wolf. He gave me the code word of Laundry. Don't tell me you don't know anything about this either!”

  “I'm sorry about that,” he said. “Of course I know about it. Give me a minute and I will put you through to him.”

  Ten seconds of silence seemed like an eternity. Then there was a phone ringing. “Hello?” a man said.

  “Yes,” I answered. “This is Bay. You sent me a letter.”

  “Good lord, Bay!” he said. “Where the hell have you been? I mailed you that letter over a week ago!”

  “If one more person asks me where I have been,” I replied, “I swear to God, I am going to punch them in the face!”

  “Well, you can't very well punch me in the face over the telephone,” Wolf said. “Where are you right now?”

  “I am back here,” I said. “In Hoboken.”

  “I realize that,” Wolf said, “or you would not have received my letter. I just expected you to be back much sooner.”

  “I was busy,” I replied.

  “I understand,” Wolf said. “But

  are you busy now? We need to talk.”

  “I would be interested in talking with you,” I replied. “I know exactly why the Graf went down. I was there. I have the whole story. But I haven't slept in two days. And I need to take a shower.”

  “I think I have more than you even know,” he replied. “How much time do you need?” he asked.

  “How could you have more?” I asked. “You weren't there.”

  “We should talk about this in person,” Wolf said. “When can we meet?”

  “Give me twenty-four hours,” I replied.

  There was a long pause before he responded. “I will send a car for you,” he said, “in exactly twenty-four hours from now.”

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “It is 10:03 AM,” he replied.

  “Okay,” I said. “I will be ready at 10:03 AM tomorrow.”

  I walked back to my apartment, not knowing what tomorrow would bring. But I damned well knew what had happened on the Graf. I knew why she went down. And I knew the Shortridge Committee Report was wrong. But this was Wolf. If anyone could dig up information, it was Wolf. I wanted to find out what he knew.

  Chapter Two

  I crashed on the couch in a cloud of questions and dreamed up even more. I'd never slept so hard. But I deserved it. I'd just written four stories in short order on my first day back home. And I made all of them up off of the top of my head. That takes a lot out of a guy. Not to mention the craziness I'd gone through in the last few weeks. But the biggest story lay ahead of me. I was about to collaborate on that story with my hero--the writer, Wolf.

  No one had actually seen Wolf since he went into hiding a decade ago. He was loved by many for his hard hitting articles about politics and corruption. And despised by some. It all finally caught up to him as he was leaving a restaurant in 1922. I read about it in the papers like everyone else. I'll never forget that day.

  Wolf was ambushed while leaving the restaurant and sustained several gunshot wounds that nearly killed him. No one ever figured out who did it. He had a lot of enemies. But instead of quitting, Wolf pressed on, doing what he did best.

  Wolf wrote a column on his assassination attempt titled, Wolves Never Die, for which he won many awards, and high praise throughout the journalism community. That column had a huge impact on me. The man was incredible, and influenced me greatly. That's when I changed my pen name from Gretch Bayonne to just Bay.

  I switched the animal of a wolf into that of a rabbit and began using terms like sack the rabbit, meaning someone who had died, and chase the rabbit, a term I coined for running down a story. But none of that would have come about had it not been for Wolf.

  I was as nervous as a kitten on a highway as I knocked on Wolf's door. It was an unassuming house in Queens, New York. Not what I expected from the famous writer.

  “Bay?” the man asked as he opened the door.

  “Yes,” I said. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “Come in!” Wolf said excitedly.

  He didn't look anything like I'd imagined. He appeared younger than his 56 years, and was thinner than I expected.

  The entire living room was taken up by four tables, all of which were piled with papers and photographs. “Do you want me to start, or you?” he asked as we sat down.

  “You go ahead,” I replied. “I already know what happened to the Graf. So tell me what you think.”

  Wolf jumped at the chance of going first. He couldn't wait to tell me what he had learned so far.

  “I knew the Shortridge Committee findings were bogus,” he said, “so I started collecting photographs of the Graf at the Olympic Stadium. And this is what I found out.” He laid out a dozen photographs in front of me on the table.

  “Most of the photographs taken at the stadium are of the stars coming off of the ship,” he explained. “But these are taken from a vantage point o
f the back of the Graf. The cargo area.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Wolf laid a publicity poster on the table for the Summer Olympics. “You see here,” he explained, “down at the bottom in the corner, it shows that one of the attractions for the opening ceremonies would be Alvon and His Flying Monkeys.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can save you a lot of trouble. It was Alvon and the monkeys that brought the Graf down. I fought him and prevented it from happening inside the stadium.”

  “I know,” Wolf said. “But there's more to it than that.”

  “What do you mean, you know?” I asked. “How could you know that?”

  “Bela told me,” Wolf said. “And Jean Harlow and Groucho Marx knew something about it as well.”

  “They never mentioned that they had talked to you,” I said.

  “Why would they?” he asked. “They told the same thing to the Shortridge Committee. But it wasn't in the report.”

  Wolf drew my attention again to the poster. “So Alvon and the monkeys were going to be a part of the show,” he said. “But he is not mentioned as being a passenger on the Graf in the Shortridge report.”

  “What are you driving at?” I asked.

  Wolf pulled the poster off of the table to reveal the photographs. “You see in this picture,” he explained, “the monkey cage is being unloaded off of the ship.”

  He pointed to the next photograph. “Here we see the cage on the back of a truck.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Wolf jammed his index finger onto the subsequent photos in order. “Here,” he said, “the truck is driven off and out of the stadium through the North exit!”

  “I am not following you,” I said.

  “Bay,” he said. “If Alvon and his monkeys were scheduled to be a part of the opening ceremonies, why would they be driving the damned monkeys out of the stadium?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “And look at these men,” Wolf continued, pointing to the same set of photographs. “Do any of them look familiar to you?”