The Great Paddleboard Race (George Bailey Detectve Series Book 3)

  The Paddleboard Race

  by

  Mike Hershman

  Dedicated to:

  Amy Elizabeth

  &

  George William

  Table of Contents

  The chapters are pretty short!!

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Copyright 2016

  Mike Hershman Publishing

  1.

  Walt looked at me.

  “C’mon GB, you gotta go see the guy’s picture, it’s on the Post Office wall.”

  My friend Walt, who hates it when I call him Wally, is trying too hard now to be a detective. We’ve been pretty lucky so far. On our first case we ended up with a reward and, on the second, we found some sunken treasure and were awarded college money for Walt, my girlfriend Sharon, and I.

  Now Walt sees dollar signs in every case. I keep telling him that it’s fun just catching bad guys and returning stolen stuff to the owner -- but Walt likes the reward part.

  “OK-OK – I’ll go –you sure he looks just like the guy?”

  “Yeah --- he’s a spittin image. I brought my annual.” Walt said, holding last year’s Hamilton City High School yearbook.

  We rode our bikes over to the Hamilton City Post Office. A long line of people held letters and packages. I could see Mr. Crumley, with his green eyeshade and blue post office uniform shirt, standing under the picture of President Roosevelt while he weighed a package for Mrs. Quigley. She looked over and nodded at me.

  “Look right there GB– he’s the guy -- here, look at our annual.” Walt opened the book up to the “Faculty” page.

  I looked carefully at the poster of Michael C. (Mad Mike) Proctor -- wanted by the FBI for the kidnapping and murder of Osgood S. Saterbury of the Saterbury Tuna Company. Mr. Saterbury had a large tuna cannery on the mainland, which packaged the Happy Tuna brand. How happy can a tuna be if he’s dead?

  “Look – I tell ya, he’s the same guy.” Walt said.

  I looked at the picture of Graham C. Torpor, B.A.-Accounting, Business Law, Typing. Walt was right -- they looked just like twins.

  “Look at the names,” Walt said. “Take Mr. Torpor’s middle initial, add it to the last name and move the letters around. Whatya get?”

  “Huh?”

  “Proctor, you moron, that’s what.”

  “Don’t call me a moron Wally.”

  “Don’t call me Wally. I’m going to go see if they’ve got an extra one of these wanted posters.”

  My name is George Bailey but Walt calls me GB. I try to call him Walt but sometimes forget.

  I watched Walt get in line behind a real fat lady holding a big package. He tapped her on the shoulder and said he would hold the package for her. She smiled at Walt and handed him the box. I thought he was going to drop it. You could tell it was heavier than he thought. By the time they finally got to the counter, he was sweating and his arms were shaking.

  Walt put the package on the counter in front of Mr. Crumley, who frowned and weighed it.

  “What do you have in this thing – an anvil?” Mr. Crumley said.

  “No, it’s just something for my daughter.”

  “Well it’s going to cost you 75 cents to ship it.”

  “That’s ridiculous, there’s a Depression on you know, I’m not spending that much money,” she said, turning quickly to Walt. “ Would you mind carrying this package back to my husband’s office young man?”

  “Ah --did you carry it all the way here?” Walt asked.

  “No my husband dropped me off.”

  “You want some stamps boy?” Crumley asked.

  “No, I was just wondering – ah, if you had an extra one of those wanted posters.”

  “Sure, which one --Machine Gun Kelly, I suppose?”

  “Nah, that Proctor guy.”

  “That’s funny, nobody ever asks for his,” Crumley said.

  Mr. Crumley came back with the poster. Walt and I left our bikes at the post office rack and walked two blocks with the lady to Island Real Estate. Walt carried the package and I held the wanted poster and yearbook. There was only one person in the office, a skinny nervous bald man who looked like that thin guy in Laurel and Hardy.

  “Virgil, are you crazy? They wanted 75 cents to mail this package. Take me home and give this boy something for carrying it over here,” the lady said.

  “Here.” Virgil flipped Walt a nickel.

  We thanked him and ran out.

  “Let’s go see Officer Keyes and show him what we got.” Walt said.

  When we arrived the police station, Officer Keyes was behind the counter.

  “What’s up boys?”

  “We found the murderer of the Happy Tuna guy.” Walt said.

  “What?”

  “You know, Officer Keyes, this guy.” I said, passing the wanted poster.

  Officer Keys looked at the picture and then at us. He knew we’d already solved some important cases.

  “Well where is he?”

  “He teaches typing at Hamilton City High School.”

  Officer Keyes laughed so hard—it took him a long time to stop.

  “OK, which one of you guys flunked typing?”

  I passed the open yearbook across the counter and pointed at Mr. Torpor.

  Officer Keyes stopped laughing.

  2.

  “You are an idiot,” I screamed.

  “Don’t call me and idiot GB.”

  “Officer Keyes thinks we’re crazy now. We can’t just go in with some half-baked idea anymore. He won’t believe us.”

  There was only one slight problem with the whole typing teacher as vicious killer theory. Mr. Torpor, with the clever alias, according to master detective Walt, was around 5’ 4” inches tall. Mad Mike was 6’ 2”.

  “I suppose you never heard of elevator shoes GB?”

  “Heck, they’d have to be elevator stilts.”

  Later we sat in my garage, which was also the official home of George Bailey and Associates, Detectives. The garage contained our dingy and motor – sitting on top of the bamboo trailer that we made to help solve one of our cases. I decided to nail the wanted poster of Mad Mike above the workbench to remind me to carefully check everything before jumping to conclusions again.

  “What’s that poster up there for George Bailey?” Sharon asked.

  “Ask Walt – he’ll tell you.

  Sharon’s my girlfriend and the smartest associate in our detective firm. Walt told her the story about the Happy Tuna case.

  “I can’t believe you guys tried to turn in Mr. Torpor for murder. He’s the mildest, nicest teacher in the whole school. I bet if he finds out, he’ll start crying. Walter Jenkins, you are just nuts,” she said. “I’ve got to get go
ing –I’m helping put up some posters for the paddleboard race.”

  “I’ll help you,” I said, “I’ll grab my hammer.”

  “We’ll need some nails too.”

  I unscrewed my Dad’s Mason jar and stuffed my pockets with nails.

  “My brother Gus is in the paddleboard race,” Walt said, “ but nobody can beat your cousin.”

  “I certainly hope not!” Sharon said.

  “I wonder what was in that ladies package today--- must have been gold or something.” Walt said.

  Sharon and I just looked at each other and shook our heads.

  3.

  “This OK Sharon?”

  “No -- just a little higher, I think, otherwise the tree will block it.”

  We were downtown on Oceanfront Walk, about a block south of the pier, by old wood fence next to the Fish-On Restaurant. I moved it higher, and nailed up the white and black poster.

  Great Paddleboard Race

  Hamilton Island

  To

  Long Beach

  Start at Hamilton Pier

  Saturday March 27, 1935

  Refreshments served

  Watch the World’s Greatest Paddleboarders

  We had to cut off the bottom section that said: Official starter --Legendary Surfer Duke Kahanamoku. Duke did acting jobs in Hollywood, usually as and Indian Chief and couldn’t make it after all. He was called away for a movie.

  “That looks good,” Sharon said, “we only have five more— maybe that telephone pole over there.”

  “OK.” I said and walked over to the pole.

  Riley, who operates the shoreboat, walked by.

  “Hi George Bailey, Hi Sharon – you got him working hard I see,” Riley winked at Sharon. She turned a little red cause Riley caught us kissing one time in his kitchen. I turned a little red too.

  “Don’t run over anybody in your shoreboat,” Sharon laughed.

  “Only the ones that don’t tip.”

  We got all the posters up and asked to stick one in the front window of Ulman’s Pharmacy. Mr. Ulman looked up from filling a prescription.

  “Right next to the Chocolate Ex-Lax sign –it’ll look good there. Sharon, tell your cousin I’ve got five bucks on him – if he needs any vitamins –they’re free.”

  “I’ll tell him, thanks!”

  Sharon’s cousin Butch “Cuda” Tyler was 24 and the best paddleboarder on the coast. He’d won competitions up and down the mainland, including the breakwater race at San Pedro and the Pier-to-Pier race in Manhattan Beach. The Hamilton Island to Long Beach race would be the longest race ever held -- 25 miles across the channel to Long Beach. There were 20 contestants including Walt’s brother Gus who was the youngest at 18.

  First price was $500 -- there was heavy betting both on the island and the mainland. I figured Ben Sr. at Ben’s Market handled most of the Island bets. He was the town bookie. The rumor was he wasn’t a very smart one – didn’t know how to move the odds as the bets came in. He was a much better grocer.

  As Sharon and I headed back up to her house, we saw Butch and a couple of his friends coming the other way. They wore T-Shirts for the Hamilton Island Surf Club. Most of the towns on the coast, including Palos Verdes, Manhattan Beach, and Long Beach had surf clubs. The strongest guy, other than Butch, was a guy from Palos Verdes Surf Club named Jerry “Jellyfish” Johnson. Jellyfish was good, everybody said, but he was no Cuda.

  “GB –how come you didn’t enter?” Butch said.

  “I like you too much Cuda – sides I didn’t want Sharon getting mad at me.”

  “If she wasn’t my cousin, I’d steal her away from you.”

  I’m 14 and half the size of the smallest competitor. Butch is a great guy and even offered to loan one of his old paddleboards to Walt and I. I helped him build a bamboo trailer like the one I made for my dinghy. Many of the good paddleboarder’s thought they were hot stuff and wouldn’t even talk to younger guys –not Cuda.

  “When I get back next week, we’ll go out surfing at Skipjack. Think my trailer can carry two paddleboards?”

  “Heck yeah – probably carry four.”

  “See ya GB.”

  4.

  It was about a half hour before the start of the race. Sharon, Walt and I drank lemonade at the refreshment stand set up on the beach. Volunteers squeezed lemons into pitchers. The lemonade cost a nickel a glass and you sweetened it yourself from a sugar bowl. I glanced over and noticed the competitors lined up down by the water on the south side of the pier.

  I looked behind me and saw Jake Neeves in his Greek Fishermen’s hat, blue shirt and white pants staring at the lemonade stand. He complained about the free refreshments. His Dory Fish Market’s restaurant was almost empty.

  “I sell lemonade too,” he said loudly, “next year there ain’t going to be a damn lemonade stand.”

  “But Jake, the money goes to charity,” a man said, “all the money generated by the race goes to charity.”

  “Well not all the money does,” Jake laughed.

  “Yeah, I guess your right,” the man said, looking over at a group of men huddled around Ben Sr. in his grocery apron ---stuffing bills in his big pocket while scribbling down notes on a small pad.

  “What’s the odds on that guy,” another man in swimming trunks and a T-shirt asked, pointing to a well built redhead in a grey hooded sweatshirt with Long Beach Surf Club printed on the back. “ He looks like he could get there in an hour.”

  “15 to 1,” Ben said, after turning his note pad to the first page. “ That’s Sandy “Sandcrab” Stevens – he’ll probably get there next month.

  “I’ll bet two bucks on him.”

  Ben smiled and shook his head grabbing the money. “You’re on.” Sandy Stevens had never finished higher than fourth and that was in the Seal Beach race when Palos Verdes and Jellyfish didn’t even show up. The surf was just too good that day at the Palos Verdes Cove.

  “Give me some of that too,” another man said. Ben started moving the odds lower.

  “OK but next one on Stevens is 10 to one.”

  Ben tried to see that the bets were matched off. He didn’t want too many bets on a long shot.”

  Betting and odds are kind of tough to understand, and I wasn’t very good at it.

  The competitor’s boards were all laid out in a row on the sand --several freshly painted. At the sound of the starting gun they were to grab their paddleboards and race down to the water –then paddle to the breakwater entrance where a fleet of 20 chase boats, one for each competitor, would follow alongside. The boats were supposed to remain clear until there was enough space, and then join their paddler. A chase boat could pass water or food to a guy using a long pole, but couldn’t assist him in any other way, unless, of course, he became sick or dropped out. If a paddler or his board touched the chase boat -- he was disqualified.

  With 10 minutes ‘til the start, the men took off their sweatshirts. Some stretched, still others joked with their fellow surf club friends who were there to cheer on their heroes.

  “Hey Sharon, look -- Butch is waving at us,” I said.

  Sharon smiled and waved – blowing him a kiss. I was sure glad they were cousins.

  “He sure looks good,” Sharon said, “I’ll bet he ends up way ahead.”

  “I hope you’re right, but Jellyfish looks good too.”

  “I know why they call him that,” she said, “he’s flabby and fat.”

  I looked at Jellyfish, who resembled one of those Greek gods you study in Mythology, only even in better shape.

  “He’s fat!” I laughed. “Where exactly is he fat?”

  “Oh everywhere, like mashed potatoes.”

  I could tell it didn’t make any sense to argue with Sharon when the subject concerned a competitor of her cousin Cuda.

  “Yeah, mashed potatoes --now I see – guy needs to do more sit-ups or something.”

  Jellyfish and another island guy, Gordon Wales, laughed at something – when he turned to
hand Gordon his sunglasses, Jellyfish’s stomach looked like he could do about 2,000 sit-ups.

  “Paddlers! Attention! Stand behind your boards, the Great Paddleboard Race will start in exactly 5 minutes.”

  “Let’s go watch them from the pier,” Walt said.

  Walt, Sharon and I hurried out to the end of the T-shaped pier. We turned the corner at the bait house and headed out the left side of the T. The paddlers would pass right below us on their way out. We heard a loud gunshot.

  “There they go!”

  We watched as they paddled out.

  “I see him,” I said.

  “Where?” said Sharon

  “Right there,” I said, pointing to Cuda’s white paddleboard.

  “But he’s in last place.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “he’s got 25 miles to catch up – he will.”

  As Cuda passed by us, he looked up and blew Sharon a kiss.

  5.

  The winner wouldn’t arrive in Long Beach for around five hours. Sharon was going with her aunt and uncle on their boat to watch the finish of the race in Long Beach. Walt and I took Sharon out to the boat in our dinghy.

  The Tyler’s 26-foot cruiser, Chelan, was named after a lake where they first met. Mr. Tyler stood by his swimstep and helped Sharon on board. They planned on staying overnight at a hotel. Mr. Tyler and Cuda had one room while the ladies would stay in another.

  We waved goodbye after helping them off their mooring.

  As they headed out the breakwater entrance I checked the horizon.

  “It sure looks foggy– I hope it burns off before they get there.” I said.

  “Don’t worry – it always does,” Walt said.

  It usually did, but about a half hour after Sharon left and about 2.5 hours after the start of the race you couldn’t see the buildings on the other side of the street. It was the worst fog I’d ever seen.

  “They’re all out in the middle of the channel by now.”

  “Well every boat has a compass at least,” Walt said.