Stolen Diving Suit (George Bailey Series Book 2)

by Mike Hershman

“There’s a new spark plug in the workbench over there,” Walt pointed. “Stan said he’d just deduct it from my pay.”

  “Get it and we’ll take this thing back to my house,” I said.

  It took Walt a second to find a spark plug.

  “Let’s go.”

  I grabbed the bottom by the propeller and Walt grabbed the top by the gas tank. After we locked up the shack, we walked down the street to my garage.

  When we got there, we scrounged around for some wood and built a stand for the outboard by the workbench.

  “Do you have an old trash can GB? “We can put water in it and test this thing, once we get it fixed.”

  “Yeah,” I ran out by our trashcans, remembering a tall narrow black barrel that must have held oil or something.

  First we cleaned the outside of the engine real good and checked the recommendations in the brochure. After a trip to the hardware store for some new rope for the starter, and a trip to the gas station for oil, gear oil, and a can of gas, we came back and worked on the engine for about an hour. We installed the new spark plug, changed the gear oil and cleaned the fuel lines.

  “Man, if Stan sees this thing, he’s gonna want it back.” I said.

  “Nah, he got some new ones this year.”

  We were excited to see if the outboard worked. I ran out into the garden, grabbed a hose and filled the black barrel half up with water. Then we lowered the bottom part of the outboard into the water.

  We wrapped the rope around the top and pulled --- nothing. We repeated the process a couple more times.

  “Pull that lever over there,” I said, checking the manual, “ and give it a little gas.”

  Walt tried again -- it turned over a couple of times, coughed and died. After two more tries it roared to life --black smoke filled the garage.

  “Open the garage doors, George Bailey --- we don’t want to breath all this exhaust.”

  When I opened the door, my Mom was running towards me.

  “What in the world is all that racket?”

  I smiled. “It’s our new boat motor mom --- it runs neat!”

  “Well, turn it off right now – you boy’s will wake up every baby in Hamilton City.”

  After we turned it off, we decided to take the motor down to the paddleboard dock and try it. Walt and I lugged it down Oceanfront Walk. I waved at Sharon as I walked by the Chamber building.

  There was a kid just coming in on his paddleboard right when we got down to the dock.

  “Hey kid, can you take me over to that boat?” I jumped on before he had a chance to think about it, and we paddled over to the boat. When I got back to the dock with the boat we installed the engine --then pulled the cord. It started right up. I got in the front and Walt steered the outboard. We cruised up and down all the rows of moored boats and even headed out to the harbor entrance buoy. There were a couple of seals seating on the buoy. Walt barked at them –they barked back.

  On the way back I filled him in on the “Bolivia.”

  “I wonder where it sank, and if anything is still on it.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m sure going to find out.”

  10.

  While working the next day at the Police Station, I saw Riley Jensen walk by the front window. Riley’s the shoreboat operator and always wears a straw hat and a Hawaiian shirt. I ran out the door and yelled at him.

  “Hey, hi Riley.”

  “Hey, George Bailey – I sure feel safer now that you’re wearing that badge -- hope old Keyes ain’t workin’ you to hard.” Riley walked back and shook my hand.

  “Nah,” I laughed, “he’s fun to work for.”

  “Well don’t solve all his cases – give him a chance.”

  “Riley, I uh, was reading about that shipwreck back in 1897 – the “Bolivia,” and it said the survivors stopped at Oscar Jensen’s house. Was he your dad?”

  “Sure was, Pop talked about that night all the time, fact some of the survivors even wrote him later – I still have the letters -- got them after Pop died. Why, you studying it in school or something?”

  “I was just interested in it – I read about it at the library the other night.”

  “Well, why don’t you stop by one night and I’ll show you the letters—a couple are pretty long. I gotta run now – hey, I know some guys you can lock up for me. I’ll give you their names.”

  “I bet I can guess.” I laughed.

  Riley walked down towards the pier. He was about 30 or so and a good fisherman. Officer Keyes walked into the office with a handcuffed man about 25 years old.

  “He was trying to grab some cash out of Sally’s register. He’s lucky I was walking by or Sally would have killed him. Why don’t you go ahead and book him George Bailey and I’ll finish up my paperwork.”

  Officer Keyes removed the man’s handcuffs and I had him sit down next to my desk while I completed the booking information. His name was Harold Fisher and he was from Bakersfield, California. Harold was a hobo -- he’d heard there were jobs available on the island and had come over on the steamer a week ago. He’d been camping out up along Skipjack Road and had hidden his bedroll in a eucalyptus tree about a quarter mile up the road.

  “There’s a dirt trail that leads up near it.”

  “Oh, I know where that is – don’t worry, I can run out and pick it up after work.”

  “Thanks Officer.”

  “My name’s George Bailey.”

  “ Well then --thanks George Bailey.”

  I took Harold’s fingerprints –remembering to just roll each finger gently after I put the ink on.

  “Just relax Harold, let me do the work – that’s it nice and easy.”

  Then I took his photo, first a front shot and then a side. He was about 5’5”. When we were all done, I led him back into the cell.

  “The judge will be here in two days Harold. If you need to use the bathroom just call – the restaurant you tried to rob makes lunch and dinner when we have prisoners. This will be easy, we don’t even have to call – she already knows you’re here.

  “Hell, she’ll try to poison me.”

  “Not I chance,” I laughed, “ we pay her good money for those sandwiches, she’ll be happy she has another customer.

  “I just tried to steal that money cause I was hungry – least I get fed. Do you work nights too?”

  “Nah, Deputy Shell works the night shift. I’ve only met him a couple of times myself, I don’t get here ‘til lunchtime and leave at 5:00.”

  “You go to school?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to be a sophomore next year.”

  “ I got as far as the ninth grade before they kicked me out.”

  “That’s more than a lot of guys.”

  “Yeah.”

  Harold wasn’t a bad guy. I figured Sharon and I could run out on our bikes and pick up the bedroll. We both bought new bikes last year with some of the reward money we got on the bootlegger case. Walt, Sharon and I got $500 apiece. I thought maybe on our way back we could see if Riley was home. He lived in his parent’s old house at the start of Skipjack road.

  11.

  “That’s the tree over there,” I said, “you wait here with the bikes and I’ll run out and get Harold’s bedroll.”

  “You’re sure a nice policeman, George Bailey,” Sharon said, “If I ever get arrested, I hope it’s by you.”

  I ran out to the tree. Harold had done a good job of hiding the dusty green army blanket –tied together with an old brown belt. The roll was thick-- probably some clothes in it too. I climbed up the tree and grabbed the roll, then carried it back to the bike.

  “That thing looks pretty dirty – maybe I should wash it for him.” Sharon said.

  “Your Mom will kill you if you wash some hobo’s stuff.”

  “I’ll do it when she’s at work in the morning. It’s so hot right now – the stuff will dry on the clothesline before she gets home.”

  “You sure.”

  “Of course I’
m sure – you don’t want that dirty thing in your office ‘til he gets out do you.”

  We rode our bike down to Riley’s house -- a two-story place with a picket fence about a block out of town, and surrounded by vacant lots. Riley sat on a wicker rocker on the front porch.

  “Hey Riley, Sharon and I stopped by to look at those letters your have.”

  “What’s the bedroll for – you running away from home?”

  “Nah ---it belongs to some guy we locked up today – I picked it up for him.”

  “Just bring the bikes inside the fence – I don’t want anybody stealing them. I can make you guys some lemonade. I’ll go get the letters. You can look at them here on the porch – it’s too damn hot inside the house.”

  “I’ll make the lemonade Mr. Jensen,” Sharon said, “ You two just sit out here.”

  “Thanks, the lemons are in the cupboard just above the sink – sugar’s there too. There’s an ice pick in the right front drawer – just chunk some off in the ice box. Elmer delivered a new block about an hour ago.”

  “I’ll help you Sharon – you just relax Riley.”

  “Man this is great,” Riley said.

  Sharon got down the big pitcher. I cut and squeezed the lemons. Then I took the ice pick and went over to the icebox. I lifted up the lid and chopped away. When I came back by with the ice, I brushed against Sharon. She turned and gave me a kiss on the cheek –right then Riley walked back into the kitchen.

  “Oops, sorry, I wanted to show you kids where the glasses were – now I see why you were in such a hurry to help, George Bailey.”

  Sharon and I both blushed. We walked out to the porch. Riley came out with a shoebox with some faded letters. I looked through them. Most were postmarked from San Francisco and dated from 1898 – 1903. They were all from a man named Thaddeus Frederick. Most of the later letters talked about his marriage, job and much later – his two children. The first one was the most interesting.

  Jan 3, 1898

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jensen,

  I’m sorry it has taken me so long to write and thank you for all your wonderful hospitality last year. To have one moment been worried that I would never see another sunset and then, when it finally came up, to have been enjoying a warm coffee in your home. I can’t begin to express my gratitude. I was in such a state of shock that I don’t believe I ever told you what happened to me that dreadful night.

  The night still haunts me. I was in my bunk, trying to steady myself as our ship slammed into a never-ending stream of huge waves. Suddenly I heard a loud crash. My roommate, an elderly man, rolled out of his lower bunk and let out a loud cry. As we stumbled up the gangway, it was all chaos as frantic crewmen lowered away the lifeboats –the passengers in their lifejackets and nightclothes scampered onto the small craft.

  I was on the larboard side of the boat and looked toward the stern. I could just make out a point of land directly behind me. I then looked directly abeam and saw a small light on the land up on a high hill. They lowered women and children away first and then the men. The Captain and several crewmen elected to stay with the ship, as did one gentleman who seemed intent on protecting his cargo. I suddenly realized that all of the boats were away and drifting quickly to the stern. I was a strong swimmer and the Island didn’t appear that far away. I dove in and swam towards the light. The current and swells moved the light constantly to the right and I was making little headway. It took a long time but I finally managed to make shore not far from the other lifeboats.

  Several of the men had decided to march to the other side of the island and summon help. One of the crewmen was familiar with your fair island and knew that Hamilton City was but 3 miles to the east. We found a dirt wagon trail leading in that direction and set off. I was soaking wet and felt the walk would be better than sitting on that cold beach. I took off my shirt and wrung out as much water as possible. I was first to reach your wonderful home as I practically ran the entire way.

  I will never, ever forget the way you immediately took me in, Mr. Jensen, and began emptying the contents of your own closet. You’re a much larger man, but those were the best fitting garments I shall ever wear. I will never again have as fine a meal as you made me that night, Mrs. Jensen. I will never, ever forget your kindness

  Yours very truly,

  Thaddeus

  “He talks about a light, Riley,” I said as I sipped my lemonade, “a light directly on the larboard side of the ship. Doesn’t he mean port or left?”

  “Yeah, larboard’s and old term for port.”

  “I wonder what the light was --- there’s no houses out there now.”

  “The only thing I can think of is Grady’s shack.”

  “Grady?”

  “Yeah, he was an old hermit who lived on that side of the island. I was born in 1900 and remember him ‘til I was about ten years old. He’d sometimes walk by our house on his trips to town – he often carried a bedroll like the one you have out there. More lemonade Sharon?”

  12.

  The next night, Sharon and I went back to the library. I left my uniform on hoping to impress Mrs. Quigley, who sat by the reference desk writing on a yellow legal pad.

  “Excuse me Mrs. Quigley, you may not remember --I asked the other day to see the nautical maps of the island.”

  “I remember you -- the young man with chocolate chip cookies – correct?”

  “Yes ma’am – I don’t have any this time.”

  “I expect you don’t –what is the meaning of that badge you’re wearing?”

  “I’m a cadet with the police department – if fact, I was hoping to ask you some questions.”

  “Questions?’

  “Yeah ah, I mean yes, regarding the break-in last year.”

  “It’s about time someone from the police came around to inquire about the break-in. That is someone other than that criminal, Officer Hollis.”

  “Did you ever find anything else missing?”

  “I haven’t noticed anything else.”

  “Let’s see, if I remember right, you were missing logs from the Island Steamship Company for 1897, and a history of the Island.”

  “Yes it was “Early Hamilton Island,” written by Seymour Boardley, a retired History Professor from UCLA, who had a home on the island. Mr. Boardley died in 1928. It was our only copy, the book is now out of print.”

  I thanked Mrs. Quigley and told her I promised to work hard on the case.

  “By the way, could you describe the two fisherman who asked about the nautical charts?”

  “Do you think they might have been involved?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “They were both a little taller than you and older --- perhaps twenty or thereabouts. One had very curly blonde hair and a noticeable scar on his forehead. The other bore a striking resemblance to our former President.”

  “Herbert Hoover.”

  “Yes indeed, a younger version – with darker hair of course.”

  “Well thanks again.”

  “There is one other thing, Officer.”

  “Yes ma’am.” I liked it when people called me Officer.

  “Don’t you want to see those nautical charts?’

  “I sure do.”

  She took me back to a room with several rolled up maps in cubbyholes against one wall. There were brass plates underneath each cubbyhole with typed descriptions of the maps. I pulled one marked Hamilton Island, dated 1890, and another dated 1930.

  When I got back, I spread the maps out on the empty table while Sharon worked through the final editions of the Hamilton Island News for 1897.

  “I didn’t see anything else nearly as interesting as the shipwreck,” she said, “mostly notifications of bake sales, and scores of baseball games. There were also several interviews of passengers –most of them agreed with that letter we saw at Riley’s --two other people talked about a single light high up on the island.”

  “I think Walt and I will ride out there one day --- maybe we ca
n find where Grady’s shack used to be.”

  “Why would we want to do that?”

  I was looking hard at the map laid out in front of me. I was mostly interested in the area near Skipjack Point and the depth of the water. There were several high spots including a narrow section, about 100 feet deep and roughly 200 yards offshore. The flat section went out for about a quarter mile, otherwise the water was deep –really deep –roughly 100 fathoms –600 feet.

  “Aren’t you going to answer me?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I just have an idea, if we could locate that shack, we’d have some idea where the boat was when Thaddeus dove in the water.”

  “Oh – OK, I understand.”

  I walked Sharon back to her house. I saw her Mom and Dad through the half open Venetian blinds. They were listening to the radio, but hadn’t seen us. Sharon pulled me back behind a rose trellis near the front door and gave me a quick kiss.

  Sharon is my best associate.

  13.

  “I can’t believe your girlfriend washed my stuff,” Harold said, “she’s sure a great lady, George Bailey --- you better hang on to her.”

  “Don’t worry Harold, I will. I put your stuff in our property room. When we release you --- you’ll get it back.”

  Harold sat on the bottom bunk. He’s still our only prisoner. Sometimes, when I take my break, I go back and talk to him. Harold’s a nice guy and has sure seen a lot in the last four years. He’d roamed all over the Western United States, harvesting apples in Central Washington, digging ditches near San Francisco and picking tomatoes northeast of San Diego. He mainly rode in boxcars.

  “I’ve ridden trains up and down California, Oregon and Washington, but I’ve never bought a train ticket in my life. These are mighty hard times you know.”

  “Things will get better some day,” I said, but I really didn’t believe it – or know how they could.

  Later, I filled Officer Keyes in on my interview of Mrs. Quigley.

  “It might help your case if you could have a look at that history book. I remember Professor Boardley --he lived up on Hillcrest Drive in that house with the two anchors by the porch -- died a few years ago.”