Bucket of Fish

by Mike Hershman

  Bucket of Fish

  by

  Mike Hershman

  Dedicated to:

  My Grandsons and Editors

  James Miguel

  &

  John Michael

  ALSO BY MIKE HERSHMAN

  Runs Good No Reverse

  Joaquin’s Ghost

  Razberryville A Ghost Town –coming soon

  Half-Full Glass—coming soon

  Trucksbury Bomber Command -- coming soon

  GEORGE BAILEY SERIES

  Bucket of Fish

  Stolen Diving Suit

  The Great Paddleboard Race

  Missing Mamba

  HAMILTON ISLAND STORIES

  Dear Sgt. Sherlock –coming soon

  Chicken in the Pot –coming soon

  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

  Epilogue

  Copyright 2016

  Mike Hershman Publishing

  George Bailey Series

  Now on Amazon

  Hamilton Island, California 1934

  Chapter 1

  Grandpa sent Mom a camera with a roll of film for her birthday. She’s already taken pictures all over the island – tourists getting off the steamship, moored boats in the harbor, kids on paddleboards, and my brother Gus by his rowboat. Last Sunday, after church, she had me take a picture of her in front of the Arcade. I could hear the whistles, bells and thumps of the pinball and skee-ball games. Mom frowned when I focused in on a cute tourist girl holding a double chocolate cone.

  On our way home Mom looked down at the camera.

  “Oh darn it Walter, I only have one left and Grandpa still wants a picture of you with your fish. Run up tomorrow after you catch them –just don’t clean them first.”

  “Can’t I just take the picture down by the pier?”

  ===========

  The next day I held the string of fish with both hands in front of me—had to lean back ‘cause they were heavy.

  “Move over closer to the flower pot—I want Grandma to see my rose bush.”

  I scooted to the right, watching out for thorns.

  “Those pants look silly, they’re way too short,” Mom said as she snapped my picture, “We’re going to need some new ones for school – the kids will all laugh at you.”

  “That’s quite a catch Walter – you’re mom cookin ‘em for you?” Mrs. Olsen, our landlady, asked.

  “Yeah – probably tonight.”

  We’ve got to cook them tonight. Mom couldn’t pay the iceman when he came around to collect. She said we had to eat what’s left in the icebox --string beans, carrots – had to use up the milk too.

  Times were tough on Hamilton Island. We were only 22 miles from Los Angeles, but the steamship was too expensive for a lot of tourists. Mom was happy that I was such a good fisherman. She didn’t even spend any money on bait cause I always dug for sand-crabs before I fished. The soft-shelled crabs worked best – especially the smaller ones. I would walk about 1/3 of the way out on the pier and cast near the shore break. Barred perch and corbina hunted for sand-crabs there.

  “Hey mom – I’d better clean these now.”

  “OK – run back out to the pier – I don’t want all the stray cats here like last time.”

  “OK.”

  I ran with my fish – back in my bait bucket now with a kitchen knife. I ran out on Oceanfront Walk past strolling couples, kids on rusty bikes and an old man in a patched business suit. It was probably the man’s only clothes.

  “That’s quite a collection – where are you going with those fish?” He asked.

  “Gotta clean ‘em!”

  “Wanna sell ‘em? I’ll give you a nickel.”

  I was missing a back tooth. The old man was missing at least four in front.

  “Nah – goin to eat ‘em tonight – thanks.” I yelled back as I headed out on the pier.

  The pier had a concrete cleaning sink with a rusty faucet and a drain that led right over the side into the water. There was a blood stained concrete counter next to the sink. I took the first fish, chopped off the head and tossed it overhand into the surf. I saw Gus out fishing on his rowboat. On my second toss – he finally looked up.

  “Hey how many did ya catch?”

  A seagull dove at the falling fish head, missed, dove again and grabbed it – wings flapping hard against the weight.

  “Seven – five perch and two corbina.”

  “Tell Mom I want the corbina.”

  “I want one too.”

  “We’ll split ‘em then.” Gus said, as he rowed away.

  “OK.”

  I cleaned the other fish, first the head, then I slit on the bottom, pulled out the guts and tossed them over – then scraped off the scales. I threw the cleaned fish back in the bucket and headed for home. I went up the back alley behind the tackle shop. Sometimes the owner, Harold, would throw out some rusted hooks he couldn’t sell, or old salesman samples. I went through the trash and found five small rusty hooks -- they’d work OK-- I put them in my pocket. When I get home, I’ll put them in my tackle box – an old wood cigar box, with some other hooks, sinkers and old spark plugs. Spark plugs make great sinkers after you closed the spark gap. I’d tie lighter string to my line so if the sinker got caught I wouldn’t lose my whole rig. The bait was free and the rig was free.

  I headed up the alley and saw a pair of shoes sticking out between rusty dented up trashcans behind the “Samoa” bar. The shoes were under a pile of gunnysacks. I moved closer. They were shiny, cordovan and white –they looked almost brand new and were about Gus’ size. Heck, I could always use some gunnysacks too.

  I bent down by the cans, pulled hard on the nearest shoe, and almost screamed when I saw there was an ankle attached. I jumped back -- the shoe didn’t move at all.

  I thought he might be a sleeping hobo. I was sure glad I didn’t wake him. Hobos were all over now, especially over on the mainland -- guys out of work, riding boxcars lookin’ for jobs, sleepin’ in parks, beaches and even next to trash cans like this guy. I couldn’t figure out the new shoes though.

  I started off on a shortcut between two houses. I’d just turned behind a low fence when a van came down the alley. I looked over the fence. The van was an “Elmer’s Ice” white Model T. A man with his collar up and a hat on pulled up with the passenger side next to the trashcans – got out, and looked real fast up and down the street. I watched for a minute, and then saw the man grab the hobo’s ankles. Someone else was holding the other end but I couldn’t see him. He was still by the side of the van.

  Suddenly I could see part of the person they were carrying. He was no hobo, the man had on a nice grey suit with a large dark red stain on the vest and a knife sticking out of his chest.

  My heart pounded real hard. I took off and knocked over my bucket of fish -- making a loud clank. I almost stepped on one of the fish as I went between the houses, turned the corner and
ran up to my house. I never looked back.

  When I got to our house -- no one was home. I waited about an hour or so then slowly snuck back to get my fish. When I got there -- the bucket and all my fish were gone!

  Chapter 2

  Boy was I scared. I didn’t know if the iceman saw me. I knew he must have heard the bucket clank. Did he take my fish? First I thought it might have been some cats, but the bucket was gone too. Maybe hobos came by and stole them. Heck, everyone was hungry these days – it could have been the owner of the house taking out his trash. I hoped it was anybody but the iceman. Our regular iceman is a guy named Carl, but I couldn’t tell if the man in the truck was Carl. Did he see me?

  Why was the guy stabbed and what was iceman doing loading him in the ice truck? Man I was glad Mom hadn’t paid the ice bill – I sure didn’t want to see Carl. My bucket was only a year old and it had my initials on the bottom – course our kitchen knife with the yellow handle was missing too.

  “Where are those fish? – I’ll start dinner,” Mom said.

  “Ah --- one of the big guys at the end of the pier stole them – and my bucket,” I lied.

  “What ---who --- did you recognize him?” Mom was really mad – that was our dinner.

  “Nah Mom – he grabbed it fast and took off.”

  “Oh damn.” Mom started to cry.

  “Don’t worry – I‘ll catch some more tomorrow.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t just tell her about the iceman and the body. I guess I was just hoping that everything would go away. Maybe the iceman got in a fight with the guy at the bar and just stabbed him by accident. Right – stabbed him in the chest by accident.

  I was afraid to go fishing if the iceman or the other guy carrying the body took my bucket.

  “Where’s my corbina little brother?”

  I told Gus about the other kid stealing my fish. He was madder than Mom. Gus was 16, three years older than me, and was really strong. He got in fights all the time and never lost.

  “Who the heck took it – I’ll kill him?”

  “I don’t know, he ran so fast, I never saw him before.”

  “Was he one of the guys that hang around Billy Condon?”

  Billy Condon was the leader of a bunch of guys, about 15, that fished for Spanish mackerel at the end of the pier. When they caught the fish they’d cast ‘em overhead against the bait house wall to kill ‘em. I never fished out there. He was a bully and I always tried to stay away from him.

  “No, it was some other guy.”

  Gus kept nagging me for a description of the guy – he’d been looking forward to that corbina all afternoon. I usually liked corbina too, but I wasn’t hungry at all.

  Chapter 3

  “Wally – let’s go fithing.”

  Guys always called me “Wally”. I hated “Wally,” course I hated “Walter” too. “Walt” was my favorite of the three, but just barely.

  “Sounds good—but maybe we should try a different spot.”

  “Whataya mean – different spot. We always fith off the damn pier.”

  George Bailey Watson is a red head with freckles -- he was missing two of his front teeth and had real squinty eyes. Everyone called him George Bailey cause he was a junior. I don’t know why we didn’t call him George Junior – didn’t matter – same number of words. I just called him GB. His hair, long on top, always stood straight up, like he’d just put his fingers in light socket. He had sort of a lisp, cause of his missing teeth. We always made fun of him – called him dumb thit and stuff.

  I talked GB into surf fishing a few blocks down from the pier. I just wanted to stay away from the area around the pier for a while.

  “Lets check the back of the tackle shop –maybe Harold threw out some thtuff.”

  “Nah, I got plenty.”

  “I can’t cast good enough to thurf fish.”

  “I’ll teach you.

  When we got to the spot I’d chosen, I dug us up some crabs. I was lucky and found some nice soft shells right away.

  “Now, the thing is -- you gotta remember to keep your thumb on the line real lightly when you cast and just before your sinker hits the water put your thumb down hard – else you’ll get a backlash.”

  “OK.”

  GB cast out his line, didn’t to what I said, and made the biggest bird’s nest I’ve ever seen.

  “Doggone it!”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. I told you to put your stupid thumb on the line dummy.”

  “Don’t call me that, Wally.”

  “Don’t call me Wally.”

  “OK –Deal.”

  “Deal.”

  I sat down next to GB and started trying to untangle his line.

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  GB looked at me, scrunched his forehead, and said he could. I pestered him a couple more times ‘til I was sure and then told him all about the dead guy and the iceman. I was afraid to tell him but I just couldn’t walk around forever knowing about the dead guy without telling somebody. It’s mighty hard not to share something like that with somebody. Besides, GB was one of the smartest guys in our class. He got almost straight A’s in everything. He sounded funny and some people thought he wasn’t too bright because of that. They were wrong.

  “I wonder what happened?” GB asked, “Do you think the iceman killed the guy?”

  “Sure looks that way don’t it.”

  “Yeah – my mom always tells dad to stay away from that Samoa bar. The owner, Trenton, is supposed to be some kind of crook.”

  Trenton was huge with a broken nose sort of crunched to the left on his face. His fingers were like giant sausages; he was bald with a faded cheap tattoo of a panther on his arm.

  “I know that guy,” I said, “ He offered to buy some of my perch one day when he was walking with a pretty looking lady on the pier. He looked down in my bucket. I remember cause he told me he’d trade some whiskey for the perch if my dad wanted some.”

  “Your dad’s dead.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “What’d he do then?”

  “He offered me fifty cents – heck I had ten fish –big ones too.”

  “That’s a nickel each – not bad.”

  “I don’t know – I just didn’t like the guy – plus my mom wanted the fish – four of ‘em were corbina.”

  “Were you using the same bucket that you lost?” GB asked watching me trying to untangle his line.

  “Yeah just a regular old bucket ‘cept for my initials on the bottom.”

  “That bucket had your initials?” His eyebrows looked like they were halfway up his forehead.

  “ Only underneath the bottom.”

  “Uh oh.”

  WJ could stand for William Jones, William Johnson, Wesley James or Wyatt Jelowoski. It could also stand for Walter Jenkins, which, unfortunately, happened to be me. My middle name was Quentin. Thank God I didn’t scratch a Q on the bottom of that stupid bucket.

  WQJ!

  I could just hear Carl asking my Mom when he carried in the ice if I had a middle name. I wish I’d gotten a better look at that iceman – maybe he wasn’t Carl.

  “What the heck are we going to do?”

  “Why don’t you just go and tell the police about what you saw?”

  “Oh great, I tell them I saw a body by some trash cans that’s not there anymore. Two guys loaded the body in the back of the ice truck. There was a knife sticking out of the body’s chest. I see Carl with Officer Hollis playing volleyball together every weekend. Just before he sets the ball, Officer Hollis will say.

  “Hey Carl, Walter Jenkins said he saw one of your guys loading a guy in the ice truck.”

  “Sgt. Hollis wouldn’t to that. I’ll bet you a nickel.”

  “I ain’t takin’ that bet you moron.”

  “Don’t call me a moron Wally.”

  “It’s Walt OK --- sorry GB.”

  We walked up by Beachfront Walk, set our rods against the low wall, sat down
in the sand and tried to figure out what to do.

  Chapter 4

  The next day I sat at an old redwood table in the courtyard of our apartment building. I had my hooks and sinkers out while rearranging my tackle box. It was about 11:00 AM, the fishing had been bad that morning. There was a rusty empty paint can in the garage that I had to use for my bucket. It had about a ¼ inch of dried up white paint in the bottom. I only ended up with three small perch--they might make a meal for me only.

  The sun was warm on my back, it was August 10 --I still had a month of summer left before school started. It would be my first year at Hamilton City High School. I was thinking about school and had almost forgotten about the dead hobo, and the iceman, when GB came through the alley gate. He was holding a newspaper.

  “ Hey Walt,” he said reading from the paper, “It says here that a man from Los Angeles has been reported missing by his family. He’s a beer distributor name John Johansen. His wife said he left four days ago to visit some customers on Hamilton Island and hasn’t returned yet. She said he was wearing a grey suit. Wow, a beer distributor, he must be really getting rich now!”

  I knew what he meant. Congress got rid of Prohibition earlier in the year – which made the sale of liquor legal for the first time in 13 years. The bars were all open again with signs, and tourists could now use the front door instead of the alley entrance. During Prohibition the owners of the bars boarded up the front of the bar and sold bootleg alcohol. All of the alley entrances had peepholes. The police looked the other way --- tourists were too important on Hamilton Island and the boaters had to have their booze. Even the Ben’s Market delivery boy sold beer stored in the false bottom of Model-T delivery van.

  “Did it say what kind of shoes he was wearing?” I asked.

  “Nah – there’s nothing about the thoes –here look.”

  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.