Bucket of Fish (George Bailey Detective Seies Book 1) Page 2

  I read the third page article in the Hamilton Island News.

  John Johansen 43, a liquor distributor from San Pedro was reported missing by his wife Margaret after Johansen failed to return from a one-day trip to Hamilton Island.

  Mrs. Johansen had driven her husband to the steamship and watched as he boarded the 8:00 AM boat. “He told me to pick him up at 6:00 PM. That was three days ago. Sgt. Hollis of the Hamilton Island Police questioned several bar owners who said they saw Mr. Johansen on Friday.

  “Heck, it was Saturday morning when I saw him.”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s who you saw, he had on a suit and was right behind the Samoa Bar.”

  Gus walked in from the alley with his bucket full of corbina.

  “I got six out by Skipjack Point – I hitched a ride out and back – had to give the dumptruck driver a fish on the way back, what’re you guys doing?”

  “I’m just cleaning my tackle box – did you hear about the liquor guy who’s missing?”

  “Yeah, Bob Terrence told me. He says the guy probably ran off with some local island girl. Bob said the guy would probably show up in a week or so. What’s the matter Walt?”

  “Huh --- oh nothing,” I said.

  I knew I should probably just go to the police and tell them about the body I saw but I wasn’t sure it was the right idea. I never liked Sgt. Hollis very much. He was always walkin around town like a big shot. My friend Steve’s a shoeshine boy down by the steamship terminal and he said Sgt. Hollis was the worst tipper, always insisting that the shoes weren’t right and making Steve do them over. Gus said Sgt. Hollis liked to pick up older guys that he caught drinking beer up by the golf course and drive them way out to Skipjack Point and just leave them. They’d have to walk all the way home.

  “I guess it’s better than going to jail.” I said.

  “Not if he made you strip naked and took your clothes. Bobby Peterson said he saw Sgt Hollis one weekend with a jacket that he’d made Bobby take off at Skipjack.”

  I decided not to tell Sgt. Hollis anything, but I have a big problem. A murderer might be looking at a bucket with WJ scratched on the bottom wondering who the hell WJ is. After Gus left, GB and I tried to figure out what we should do next. We knew the ice truck had picked up the body. There are only two on the island. Carl drives one and delivers mainly to the houses. Elmer drives the other one.

  “Do you think it might have been Elmer that you saw?”

  “I couldn’t tell if it was Carl or Elmer. The guy had his collar up and a hat on.”

  “Thit.”

  Chapter 5

  It was 5:30 AM. GB and I sat on a flat rock on the side of a hill freezin’. We had been sitting on that rock every morning for the last three days. He had come up with the bright idea that we should stake out Elmer’s Icehouse and see if we could figure out anything. There were two ice vans in the dirt parking area next to the icehouse. We were hiding behind a big bush. We watched as it slowly got lighter. Carl showed up first as usual and walked down the alley. Carl had on a green plaid jacket and a grey wool cap. He unlocked the icehouse door kicking it past a high spot on the concrete floor. The lights came on next. Carl walked out to one of the vans and started it after a couple of tries. He then backed it up next to a high dock. Another man, who I didn’t recognize—he was shorter and much rounder than Carl, walked down the alley and met him. They quickly walked over, opened a large door, then moved something heavy wrapped in burlap ice bags into the back of the van. The other man threw a shovel in the van. Carl turned off the lights, locked the Icehouse door, jumped in the van and drove down the alley. The red taillights came on as he stopped at the intersection and turned right. We were just high enough on the hill to see the van heading out on Skipjack road.

  “That’s the body -- I know it is!” GB whispered.

  “Yeah, they’re going to bury it.”

  “I wonder where Elmer is?”

  We were just ready to leave when we saw Elmer enter the alley. He walked to the door, saw the lights were still off, shrugged his shoulders and walked back out the alley, turning left towards the pier.

  “He’s going to stop at the Donut Hole and have a cup of coffee.” I guessed.

  “Yeah, he’ll have a wait, it’ll take time to dig the hole.”

  “Yeah.”

  About 5 minutes later, Carl drove into the alley and parked next to the Icehouse. Elmer quickly followed, walking down the alley after him.

  They started loading the two trucks with huge slabs of ice. Once they finished, they locked up and headed out on their routes.

  “I wonder who the other guy with Carl was – I didn’t recognize him at all.” George Bailey said.

  “Maybe he’s still out by Skipjack Road somewhere,” I said, “ I didn’t see Carl take a shovel out of the truck.”

  “Yeah, let’s go stake it out and see if anybody comes down the road with a shovel.”

  I think I already said how smart GB is. We’d already seen them move the body because of his hunch. I wasn’t about to argue – we hiked down the hill and ran out to the start of Skipjack Road. Some hobos stood by a fence looking for work. A couple of them had a small fire going. One guy looked about the same size as the man we’d seen earlier in the alley. It was hard to tell. We never saw anybody with a shovel, and finally headed back to my house.

  I fixed us both a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When I pulled the jelly out of the icebox, I could tell it was cold. I was sure worried. Now that Mom had paid the bill Carl would be stopping at out house once a week.

  “You know, he was only gone about 5 minutes,” GB said, “we could ride our bikes out on Skipjack Road and see if we find anything. Give me a pencil and paper.” GB put the paper down on our kitchen table and started scribbling numbers all over it like a crazy man. Then he multiplied some and divided some.

  “Let’s ride out Skipjack a little over a mile, before the Halfway House.”

  It was three miles out to Skipjack Point. There’s an old rusty metal building that everyone calls the Halfway House.

  “You know I don’t own a bike.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s OK, I’ll ride on the handlebars – it’s flat all the way out there. You can pedal.”

  “How to you know it’s only that far?”

  GB explained that the top speed on a Model-T in good condition was 45 miles per hour. An old one like the ice truck with three people in it, including the body, would go slower –George figured it would average around 30 mph or so. In 2.5 minutes it would only go 1.25 miles. He guessed the body was dumped somewhere before the Halfway House. Boy, was he smart.

  We decided to go the first thing tomorrow. GB figured we’d be out there a while.

  “We should make some sandwiches.” I said.

  “I’ll make ‘em,” George said, “my Mom won’t care.”

  I was glad. GB’s dad was a dentist. His business was bad cause nobody went to see him unless they had a horrible toothache. He still made more money than most people. If I took four more pieces of our bread my mom would notice – and care.

  Chapter 6

  Mrs. Watson answered the door.

  “Oh hi Walter, George Bailey’s in his room – just go on back.”

  I walked down the short hallway. It was a two-bedroom house. GB’s room was on the right. He was sitting on the bed reading a new Flash Gordon Comic Book when I walked in.

  “Hold on, it’s a good part, Dr. Ming has Princess Aura locked in a room.”

  “Who cares –c’mon we gotta get going – I told my mom I’d be back by 1:00, she wants me to help her move some stuff out to our storage room.”

  “OK –OK. My mom made the sandwiches, I told her we were riding out to Skipjack to watch the guys surf for a while. If we find where they buried him quick, maybe we can.”

  “Who’s buried? George Bailey, I told you not to buy anymore of those trashy comic books!” Mrs. Watson said as she came in the room.

  “Oh just the lady in th
e book Mom – Princes Aura.”

  “Princess Aura – I hope you don’t read that junk Walter.”

  “Nah Mom – Wally likes Buck Rogers.”

  Is there something that hard about the name Walt – I mean how hard is it to just say Walt.

  We finally went out to the back yard shed and got GB’s bike. We had to take the dirty canvas “Hamilton City News” bag off the handlebars. GB’s paper route included our house. Even when my mom couldn’t afford the paper anymore, he would sometimes throw one on our porch if a customer was on vacation. He had to be careful cause his boss counted them pretty close. We pulled the rusty red bike out of the shed, and then pushed it out into the alley.

  “Let’s just walk it up to where the road flattens out.” GB said.

  He was carrying our two sandwiches in a paper grocery bag – his mom even wrote his full name on it – just like in school –George Bailey Watson.

  “Well, at least she didn’t put Room 7 on it.” I laughed.

  “Yeah, I told her not to even put my name on it when we go to high school. I’ll just stick it in my locker ‘til lunch.”

  When we got up to the flat spot on Skipjack Road we could still see four hobos by an old wood fence. They were just sitting there. It was 9:30 – they looked very sad. If they hadn’t been picked up yet – they weren’t going to find any work. There was a dump about 2.5 miles out on the road and people would pick guys up in the morning if they were going to need help cleaning out a garage or cutting trees and stuff.

  I was sure glad I wasn’t a hobo.

  GB got up on the handlebars. I had to tilt my head to the right to see around him. He was shorter than me, but getting taller. I knew this wouldn’t work in another year or so. It had been a lot easier last year –GB was about 4 inches shorter then.

  As we headed out on the hot bumpy asphalt road -- I started sweating pretty good. It was GB’s job to look left and right for tire tracks, footprints and anything that might look suspicious. It was my job to just make sure we didn’t crash on the pot –holed old road. There were dusty Eucalyptus leaves everywhere. I could smell them – and, of course, as GB would say –the dog thit. People would walk their dogs out here, a little way from town. As we got out about 3/4 miles -- there was less of it.

  “I’d better start looking harder, in a little bit.” GB said. We were in a sort of valley with low dusty dry bushes and prickly pear cactus plants. The bushes came right up to the road. There weren’t any trails or dirt roads yet. I knew there were a few further up the road ---closer to the Halfway House.

  Off in the distance I could see a buffalo eating in the yellow-brown low bushes. The buffalo had been brought to Hamilton Island as part of a Tom Mix movie that was filmed in the 20’s. The rumor was that the film company decided it would just be cheaper to let them go than to transport them back.

  “Wow –look at him – he’s big. Maybe we should get off and walk over closer to him.”

  “Are you nuts,” I said, “I read somewhere that they kill more people in some places than bears. They look like they’re slow – but they can really move when they want to.”

  My legs were getting a little tired.

  “Let’s take a rest here for a minute,” I said, “We’re about at the right place anyway,” I could make out the top of the Halfway House off in the distance.

  “Are you hungry yet?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Let’s just walk towards the Halfway House,” GB said, “I’ll watch the right side and you watch the left.”

  “OK.”

  An old four-door car came from Skipjack Point. There were two guys in the car and two big paddleboards tied on the top.

  “Hi George Bailey! Hey Wally, where’s that lazy brother of yours?” Tim O’Donnell asked.

  “Hi Tim, He’s working down at “Fish-ON!” waiting tables ‘til 6:00. Who else is out surfing?”

  “The only guys your age are Ray and Ben. They only have one board between them.”

  “How’d they get it out there?”

  “Ray rigged up a trailer for his bike – see you guys later.”

  “Bye.”

  Man, I thought, it would be hard to tow one of those big paddleboards behind a bike—they had to weigh about 80 pounds. I wanted to try surfing but I knew I was still a little too small. Ray Wrendt and Ben Lawson were both big and Ben was even a year older.

  We slowly walked on down the road. There was nothing but bushes and dirt and an occasional rusty tin can. GB found one and started kicking it down the middle of the road. I just pushed the bike and looked on my side of the road.

  “See anything?”

  “Not yet --- you?”

  “Nothin.”

  After awhile we really were getting bored and decided to have lunch. We scouted around for a comfortable spot. GB was a little ahead of me.

  “Walt –come here quick.”

  “What is it?”

  “Look over here – footprints, deep ones, like somebody was real fat, or was carrying something.

  I looked down -- there were deep heavy footprints in both directions heading off to the right. We looked up and down the road to make sure no cars were following us and followed their trail about 60 yards. We came to a spot where tall bushes hid your view of the road – and the road’s view of you. Behind a large bush was some turned up dirt – like my Mom’s garden. It was about the size of a grave.

  A grave!

  We just couldn’t believe we found it. My stomach felt all funny, like I was goin to throw up or something. I looked at GB. He looked worse.

  We search the nearby bushes and found something hidden behind a tumbleweed --- a shovel

  As we rode back to town -- it was hard to steer. I was shaking so hard. I watched GB, head down, thinking. He was shaking too. I was now convinced he was a genius. We had been just short of the distance that he’d calculated. When we finally got to his house. He jumped off the handlebars and turned around to face me.

  “I forgot to calculate how slow they were going on their way out of town. It’s uphill and a 20 mph zone. They sure didn’t want a ticket with a dead body where the ice should be.”

  “What do you think we should do now GB?”

  “I think you’d better get home Wally –er Walt –you’re mom will be waiting –it’s almost 1:00.

  “What’s our next move?” I asked, but I could tell GB was thinking hard.

  Chapter 7

  Mom opened the door to our room. It was 6:00 AM. Gus was still asleep in his

  bed.

  “You wanted me to wake you up Walter --- are you going fishing?

  “Thanks.”

  My Mom’s a secretary at the steamship company. After she left, I just lay in bed for a while and thought. Now that we knew about the body, the grave, and everything – we should probably tell the police. I knew the family would be worried about him and I sure didn’t feel good about not telling anybody. Maybe I was wrong about Officer Hollis -- after all, he’d never done anything bad to me. Course I was too young to drink beer --- I sure wouldn’t like walking back naked from Skipjack Point.

  I got up, dressed -- grabbed my fishing gear and headed down to the pier. As I walked along Oceanfront Walk, I passed by Jake Neeves, who was leaning against the wall. Jake used to be a dory fisherman. When the dory fishing finally gave out, he bought a bunch of old dories and lined them up on a vacant lot near the pier –filled them up with ice and fish--- called it the “Dory Fishmarket.” He did a great business --- the tourists all loved his lobster soup.

  “Hi pal – if you catch any halibut – bring em’ over to the store –I’ll buy ‘em”

  “Thanks Mr. Neeves – I’m just trying for corbina and perch—using sandcrabs.”

  “Corbina – they’re good – but tourists all want halibut or lobster.”

  I ran down to the beach, rolled up my pants, and starting digging in the wet sand for some sandcrabs. It didn’t take too long. I had about 20 or so, mostly sm
aller ones. I put them in my rusty paint can with some sand and water so they could just dig around ‘til I needed ‘em. I went out to my favorite spot on the pier, hooked on a couple and cast out in the surf break. I got a hit almost immediately and reeled in a nice sized corbina. It was just a great day, there must have been a huge school of corbina feeding that day. Before I knew it, I had ten. I was sure glad I remembered to bring my gunnysack that day. I was cleaning them, looked up and saw GB running out towards me waving a newspaper.

  “Hey Walt – there’s an article here about a reward for that dead guy.”

  A couple of people strolling on the pier turned and looked at him.

  “Jeez GB, you don’t have to announce it to everybody.”

  “Look –look, it says here that the family has announced a $500 reward for any information.”

  I grabbed the paper, which was folded open on the third page. Just below was an article on the first soapbox derby, whatever that was, and below that ---------

  The family of John Johansen, the missing beer distributor from San Pedro, has announced at $500 reward for any information concerning his whereabouts. Mr. Johansen was last seen on Friday -------------------------------.

  “What should we do?” I asked. I had felt bad about the family and not telling anybody. I knew GB did too. I wish I could say the reward didn’t mean anything, but $500 was a lot of money. “I think we should go tell Officer Hollis.”

  “He’s such a jerk though,” GB said, “besides, he probably won’t even believe us.”

  “Yeah, but it’s just not right – we should tell him. How would you like it if somebody killed your dad and nobody said anything?”

  “You’re right – I got a pocket knife, I’ll help you finish cleaning those fish and we’ll go to the police station. We’ll just tell him everything and then we’ll both get new bikes.”

  “What will we do with the other $400?”

  “Heck, it’ll be more than that,” GB said, “maybe we could build an airplane or a rocket ship or something.”