Robert A. Mills, click
here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.
Blogs by Robert A. Mills
GERTE 7/27/2013 4:42:11 PM
The first time I went to Hawaii was in 1967, and I wore a white shirt, tie, blue blazer and gray slacks. I took two suits and three pairs of patent-leather shoes. I thought all airline passengers, especially those in First Class, dressed up.
It was back in the days when 1st Class truly was 1st Class: polished silverware and shimmering white trays with immaculate linens, an array of wines and aperitifs in crystal glasses; scrumptious dessert carts with real ice cream and fresh baked pies.
I was comped a suite at the Princess Kaiulani Hotel, but it did not take long to realize the sunset from the bar at the Halekulani was the best in Waikiki.
My first night in Honolulu I had dinner at Pfizer’s Hofbrau House in the International Marketplace. My waitress was Gerte Dolmann, a buxom blonde in her early twenties, with ringlets, pigtails, 5’10” et al, and I, even though married back on the Mainland, fell madly in love before dessert.
I am off at ten-thirty, she told me, while delivering strudel and coffee.
We went to Moonie, a comedy club near the Ala Wai Canal, where by 5 AM, I was at a ringside table and had become fast friends with Don Ho, Jack Lord, James MacArthur and Al Harrington. I was a big hit dancing in a hula contest, a haole in an Italian silk suit, who thought the hula was some native form of square dancing.
Gerte, who spoke, arguably, impeccable English, French, Italian, Yiddish, Castilian Spanish and of course German, had come to Hawaii by way of California, and she and I never became an item, despite the fact she was something of a knockout. She told me she was a CIA agent. I did not believe her. I should have.
Our romance, such as it was, was relegated to togs on the tennis court (shorts so short my testicles peeked out when I sat down),baggy jogging pants at Kapiolani Park, and ill-fitting, colorful bathing trunks with huge lilacs painted purple and white (a big smasherooney at Ontario Beach Park back home!) — and a beige, molded but skimpy two-piece bikini for Gerte on the beach at Waikiki (a tourist-photo nut’s delight).
Gerte, it seemed, was looking for something more permanent; I was looking only to get laid. And finding a new job. I hated being a radio and TV personality in western New York — a small fish in a big pond.
I had a car whenever I was on Oahu, a gorgeous white Cadillac Sedan Deville, owned by an old family friend, Bill Lee. A Navy veteran stationed at Pearl, Bill, brother to a woman I knew back home, had jumped ship near the Aloha Tower during World War One; he had made a fortune in costume jewelry; Bill and his maid lived in a small but charming house on Monsarrat Avenue, near Diamond Head Mountain.
He had bought the Cadillac brand-new in 1963, but he rarely drove it. It was mine, however, whenever I was in Hawaii, (which, though I did not know it at the time, was to be nearly 200 trips).
One night Gerte introduced me to her roommate Larry Smith (they had separate bedrooms), someone she had apparently known in California. Larry, an attractive young man, asked me if I knew Johnny Bright.
Never had the pleasure, I told him.
He leaned over. Johnny, shake hands with Bob Mills from Rochester, a friend of Gerte’s, here.
Johnny Bright, I soon learned, was a 3-dot gossip columnist for the Honolulu Advertiser. He had recently informed his boss that he was leaving the paper to return to the Mainland.
I gave my editor notice last week, he told me. Told Art Hinds I was taking a gig at the LA Times next month. You wanna write for the Advertiser?
Did I! I went to see Hinds the next day, and he asked me if I had any writing experience. I sold a couple shorts stories to Seventeen, I told him, plus a couple to some lit mags — been toying with a novel on and off for a while.
He sent me away to write up a few pretend columns; I borrowed a portable typewriter from Gerte and holed up in my suite for a few days while I banged out a bunch of 3-dot prose pieces for Hinds. All gems, each better than anything Bright had ever done, I dropped them off at Hinds’ office.
I went by Pfizer’s Hofbrau House to see Gerte, but I was told she no longer worked there. Back in my hotel suite, I snapped the case shut on her typewriter and carried it to her apartment; the landlady, a Mrs. Cranston, said Gerte had moved back to California.
Whadda I do with her typewriter? I asked.
I dunno. How much you want for it?
A week later I went to watch the sunset and I ran into Larry Smith in the Halekalani bar. Gerte was suddenly called back to San Fran, he said. Nothing here for her. When do you go home?
I told him, Next Saturday night, at eight-thirty.
He asked me how long I had the PK suite for?
I dunno, I said; until Tuesday, I think.
Can I have it till then? he asked. I cannot move into my new place until Wednesday.
Sure. Just don’t charge anything. And stay outta the mini-bar. By the way, I asked, you didnt happen to be at the apartment the night Gerte and I almost — ?
Of course. Where did you think I be? Almost, he added, seems to be the operative word.
He drove me to the airport that Saturday after I dropped the Cadillac off and had a couple beers with Bill Lee.
At Christmas time, I heard from Will Moyle, a newsroom colleague of mine who knew everything, that Gerte and Larry Smith had gotten married. Both of them, it turned out, were full-fledged CIA agents, and they had moved to Saigon, attached to the US Embassy there. They took the last helicopter out a while later.
In any event, they were now a bona fide, real-life Mr. and Mrs. Smith — without the gunshots and mayhem.
As president of a major travel agency, I went back to Hawaii many times before I retired, but I never again dined at Pfizer’s Hofbrau House in the International Marketplace. I heard Moonie had gone out of business. Don Ho, Jack Lord and most of the old gang were dead.
Gerte Dolmann Smith, if she is still alive today, is an old lady, nearly eighty.
I never went to work for the Honolulu Advertiser. I retired as a radio and TV personality in western NY after almost thirty years.
The Halekulani bar is still the best place on Waikiki to watch the sunset over the Pacific. I never did hear from Art Hinds.
