Chase The Rabbit: Gretch Bayonne Action Adventure Series Book #1 Page 14

  “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

  “My 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 wer
e 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.

  “Son of a bitch!” I shouted. “I thought I was going to die! What the hell is going on, Howard!”

  “Come on!” Hughes, said. “Get in the plane and I will tell you!”

  We took off into the sky and I couldn’t have been more relieved. As we leveled off, I had a boat load of questions for Mr. Hughes.

  “I know this seems a bit crazy right now,” Howard said. “But I am taking you to see a movie that will explain a lot of things.”

  “I don’t think a movie is going to explain anything,” I answered. “Who were those men that brought me here? I just found Mark, and he was hauled off, just like me. A movie is not going to explain this, Howard.”

  “It’s a lot more than a movie,” he said. “That is just the start.”

  We flew on for about two hours. Most of that time was spent making small talk about movies. Howard liked to talk about his movies. And it was clear to me, I wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of him as to where we were headed or why. I suspected it had something to do with the Graf. Other than that, I was clueless.

  We finally descended on what looked like a military base in the middle of the desert. There were many buildings, and a runway that looked pretty rough from the sky.

  “This is it,” Hughes said. “We are there.”

  We taxied down the runway and went into a large hangar.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Area 51,” Hughes said.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked as we climbed out of the plane.

  “This is the most secret place on the face of the planet,” Hughes responded.

  We entered a large elevator and started going down.

  I don’t know how many stories we dropped, but it took a long time. A hundred. Maybe more. We had to be at least a thousand feet underground. The elevator door swooshed open and I followed Hughes down a long corridor. We entered a large room that had bright lights and a high ceiling.

  “This is the control room,” Hughes announced excitedly.

  There were five movie screens, approximately six feet wide and four feet tall, arranged on angles so you could see them all at one time. A dozen large chairs completed the bizarre theater.

  “Have a seat, Bay,” Hughes said. “It’s showtime!”

  The lights slowly dimmed as the film began. I immediately recognized that the scene was shot in William Randolph Hearst’s library. It was his desk. Unoccupied, until he came into shot and sat down.

  “I am William Randolph Hearst,” he said. “And if you are seeing this film now, it is 1982. I have requested that this document not be shown for fifty years. My intentions for it to be revealed long after my death are strictly personal. And to set the record straight about The Rose.”

  Hearst was looking straight into the camera. It appeared he’d filmed it himself.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked Hughes. “And what is The Rose?”

  “Shut up,” Howard said, “and keep watching.”

  The date 1916 showed up in huge white letters. Hearst continued his narration.

  “1916: The German warship Zeppelin LZ61 is shot down off the coast of Lowestoft, England by British fighter aircraft.”

  “My God,” I said. “That is the ship that killed my parents!”

  “Keep watching, Bay,” Howard said.

  “1917: An infinite reserve of helium gas is discovered in a massive mine owned by the Hearst family.”

  “Why did he mention the Lowestoft event?” I asked.

  “Shut up, Bay. Just keep watching.”

  “1918: John Rockefeller, Henry Ford, Nikola Tesla and United States General Alvin Rosenthal attend a secret meeting in Washington, D.C. that I arranged. Project Rose is set in motion.”

  “Is this for real?” I asked.

  “1919: Hundreds of U.S. Army troops converge in the desert in Nevada. It is known as a new secret military training facility, code name: Area 51.”

  “That is where we are now?” I asked. “Area 51?”

  “Yes,” Hughes said. “Now watch this.”

  “1920: An article appears in the New York World newspaper that a massive military airship is being constructed underground at Area 51. The reporter is found dead the following week.”

  My jaw dropped. I couldn’t wrap my brain around what I was hearing. But here was the old man himself, shelling it out.

  “1921: Project Rose employs hundreds of civilian subcontractors who are all sworn to secrecy. Twenty-two men alleged to be involved in the project disappear that year. A city just outside of the area springs up for the sole purpose of accommodating the non-military workers. It would become the most secret city on the face of the planet. Albert Einstein visits New York City and is given the Nobel Prize for his considerable work in physics. He meets with me and Tesla and contributes considerably to the project in just one hour.”

  “This is a confession,” I said, “on film.”

  “Why do you think he doesn’t want it to be shown for fifty years?” replied Hughes.

  “1922: The final design of The Rose is completed by Tesla and me. Tesla incorporates working blocks with direct energy that apparently are powered by magical means. Many of the elements are not understood by the engineers that worked on the project and details are kept secret from Rockefeller and Ford. ‘You fill a balloon with helium, and it floats’, I told them at the time. ‘And you put engines on it to control where it goes. Beyond that, I leave it to Tesla’.”

  The five screens that this movie were being shown on almost surrounded me. And the sound was unlike anything I’d heard at a motion picture theater. Hearst was riveting. He was, after all, William Randolph Hearst.

  “1923: Work begins on the skeleton of the ship. While the basic design is that of a German Zeppelin, odd angular shapes are incorporated by Tesla that make the craft look spiky. They were made to house gravitational and non-gravitational energy equalizers that would, according to Tesla, not only power the ship, but allow it to travel at amazing speeds despite it’s massive size. There was a huge pendulum in the center of the ship. No one knew what it was used for. Tesla also designed the passenger sections of the craft to be airtight and contain their own oxygen source, complete with removing carbon monoxide. Tesla told me that this vessel could travel to the moon and back and not use any fuel.”

  “This is a movie idea, right?” I asked.

  “No,” Hughes whispered. “It is true.”

  “1924: Rockefeller loses interest in the project and pulls out his financial support. It is speculated that the cost is too great and his faith in Tesla is at issue. It is rumored that Rockefeller had invested nearly twenty-million dollars in the project up to that point.”

  Hearst was looking right at the camera. He was not an actor. It
suddenly dawned on me that this was real. He wasn’t kidding. It made the hair stand up on my arms. But the film didn’t stop there.

  “1925: Calvin Coolidge becomes President and is made aware of the government’s funding of Project Rose by a disgruntled Rockefeller. He demands all government funding and involvement in the project to cease.”

  Hearst didn’t stop there.

  “1926: Military involvement continues under the guise of a training facility, despite President Coolidge’s orders. General Rosenthal suffers a fatal heart attack.

  “1927: Manufacturers in Missouri, Utah and Colorado fall short in filling orders for the aluminum based understructure of the ship. Work slows down on the project due to lack of resources. But the dream lives on.

  “1928: Goodyear Tire Company is secretly contracted to manufacture eight rubber cells, each measuring over one thousand feet in length. A temporary plant is set up in Area 51 for the sole purpose of producing them on deadline.”

  “How could this go on without people knowing?” I asked.

  “People knew,” Hughes replied. “They knew in the desert town. They knew when they were being paid. And they knew when to keep their mouths shut.”

  “1929: Textile giants are given orders for massive amounts of special heavy fabric at a pay rate higher than they would normally receive. The fabric would be treated with a special chemical solution and used as the outer skin of The Rose. All subcontractors, including Goodyear, were working off the record. Despite the massive amount of money being spent, the project would ultimately contribute to the stock market crash of 1929.

  “1930: Tesla’s engines were built at a small Midwestern tooling company and trucked five at a time to Area 51. There would be fifty engines in all. They would be the key to The Rose’s failure or success. After eighteen years in the making, and millions of dollars and man hours spent, it would come down to these engines.

  “1931: Work on The Rose was nearing completion. I contacted Howard Hughes and asked him to be the test pilot. He accepted, of course. I also commissioned the Graf Zeppelin to transport Hollywood Stars on the first coast-to-coast flight of an airship under the pretense of publicizing the 1932 Summer Olympics. The idea was to make a spectacle out of the trip and film it for theatrical release. I would unveil The Rose at the premier of the Graf movie. The plan was to bring the ship down on top of the Marion Davies Theater just as the patrons were leaving. It would be the greatest debut of all time and change the world as we know it forever.”