Where Did Those Monikers Come From?

Where did that name 

originate from?

By Tom Morrow

There isn't a more personal possession that is near and dear to most Americans than their automobile. As a result the names of some cars have become household words. But the origin of the various monikers are either unknown or of a strange mythodology.

  For you younger readers here's how some of today's rolling stock originated.

Chevrolet: Louis Chevrolet was a race car driver and designer who founded the company that later emerged with General Motors.

 Oldsmobile: Entrepreneur R. E. Olds started the Olds motor vehicle company in 1897. The company eventually was merged into the General Motors family. During the mid-20^th century, a popular truck, the REO, using Olds’ initials as its moniker, was produced.

Rolls-Royce: Sir Henry Rolls founded his company in 1903 in England. Charles Royce publicized and promoted the handcrafted cars.

Mercedes-Benz: Carl Benz is believed to have been the first to invent the automobile back in 1879. Mercedes Jellinek was a young girl whose father was a German diplomat and investor in the Benz Company.

Buick: David Dunbar Buick, a Scotsman, sold his failing Buick motor company to William Durant in 1908. Durant used it as a cornerstone of what would become the General Motors empire. Buick ended up so poor he couldn't afford a telephone, let alone a car with his name on it.

Ford: Henry Ford wasn't the first to build an automobile, but he was the first to figure out how to mass-produce vehicles using his innovation and development of the assembly line.

Nissan Sentra: According to company officials, this model is the Nissan company’s mainstream or central car. The word Sentra sounds like central, as well as century, which evokes image of safety. It's that simple.

Volvo: Simply put, it's Latin meaning “I roll.”

Camaro: When General Motors first came out with its sports car in 1967, officials said it meant “Pal” in French because the first mission of the new car was to be a “close companion” to its owner. However, a French auto executive pointed out that Camaro not only doesn’t mean anything in English, it has no meaning in French as well.

Nova: Although it was designed to be a “stellar of a seller” for Chevy, when the first units were introduced in Mexico, its somewhat superstitious public wasn't too receptive to the new model. In Spanish, “No va” translates to “no go.” But over the years, tradition has prevailed. If it's a Chevy, it works, making it one of the top vehicles of choice for most Mexicans.

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Below, find the next chapter from my novella, “Dark Angel.”

If you missed any or all previous chapters of “Dark Angel,” go to http://www.tomorrowsmusings.com/ to find all of my previous columns and chapter.

Chapter

11

       Merle Sanbourne was still shaking from his new-found power. In fact, it was keeping him awake and his wife noted his unsettled demeanor.

       “Are you alright?” she asked.

       “Oh, ah, yes, I’m fine,” he replied. “I just am concerned about a couple of things at work.”

       He was hoping she wouldn’t ask him what they were – and, she didn’t.

       Sanbourne pondered whether or not to place any more classified ads in the newspaper. He recently had a near-encounter with gang-’bangers in the parking lot of one of the shopping centers near his home. A group of black youths had gathered around a group of cars. At first he thought they were trying to steal one of them, but then he realized there was another across the way selling some sort of drugs. He sat in his car, watching. More than a half-dozen people passed by the youth. It appeared to be an exchange of cash for some sort of drugs. Merle was surprised by his clientele. At least two women, both of whom looked as though they were housewives, and, probably mothers. Others were younger people from teen-agers to what could have been college-age twenty-somethings.

       “The scourge of drugs in our society, especially among younger people, is eating away at the fabric of the nation,” Merle thought to himself. He didn’t consider himself a so-called flag-waver, but on the other hand, drugs are a threat to everyone’s well-being.

       Through his thoughts, Merle talked himself into placing another classified ad. All he had to do was wait for that morning paper to be delivered reporting another sniper death.

----------------------------------------

       While the homicide rate in Oceanside exceeded what it had been for each of the past two years, Danny thought this latest report might be a good thing. While murder is still murder, no one on the OPD or in the neighborhoods were complaining about the absence of molesters and gang activities.

       “The problems are still with us, just not as visible or obvious as they were because of these sniper killings,” Stein reckoned.

       Danny agreed.

       Nearly two weeks had passed since the first sniper shooting and the Dobbins’ murder, when on his way home one evening Danny got a call on his car radio that another sniper attack had occurred. When the dispatcher gave him the address, Danny realized the crime scene was some seven blocks from the earlier sniper shooting.

Danny pulled up to the scene where a crowd already had gathered. Stein was there directing uniformed officers to keep the crowd back. Among the spectators were several gang-’bangers. This time, there were two TV reporters and their cameras.

“Can you give us any details?” one of the reporters asked as Danny made his way through the crowd.

“I just got here,” he replied. “When I know something I’ll try and pass it along.” He lied. Danny hated the press, especially TV reporters. They were more interested in how they looked on camera than they were at gathering the facts of a story.

       “What happened?,” Danny asked Detective Stein as he walked up to where the victim was lying.

       “Well, Jesus Santos, here, got himself shot,” Stein said, looking again at the victim’s I.D., “That’s his name according to his driver’s license. Anyway, ol’ Hey-Zeus was talkin’ with a bunch of his homeys when suddenly his head blew apart.”

Stein added in his usual drowl fashion: “Someone around here doesn’t like gang-’bangers.”

       Danny pulled back the sheet the field tech team had covered the body with. Stein was right. It was a head shot. Small hole going into the forehead -- big hole on the other side.

       “This guy was dead before he hit the ground,” Stein reckoned.

       From the looks of the victim, he appeared to be the target of the same sniper as Hans Schlicter was some 10 days previous. This crime scene also was at a private residence, only in the backyard of the victim’s parents’ home. Stein already had determined the slug had passed through the victim’s head and probably was embedded into a wooden fence to the north of where the target was standing.

       “We were just talking. We weren’t hurtin’ nobody,” one of the ‘bangers told Danny in Spanish. “We weren’t doin’ nothing.’”

       The ‘banger’s voice had a tone of innocence with a touch of “poor little us.” Another of his buddies standing nearby was grousing to the effect, “Wait’ll we get the S-O-B that done this.”

       Danny paid little attention other than to say, “It probably wasn’t from what you were doing today, but it obviously had something to do with past activities.”

       There was little for the field techies to do other than take plenty of photographs of the body and portions of the fence where the slug was suspected of being embedded. Uniformed officers and Stein were taking statements from all of those who admitted to being present when the victim fell.

       Danny directed Stein to see if he could retrieve the bullet from the fence, if, in fact, it was there.

       “Found it!” Stein said. He motioned for one of the forensic technicians to carefully remove it after several photographs were taken.

       “Let me try something,” Danny said, walking over to the fence. He picked up a thin piece of wood from alongside the fence. It was straight, about three-feet long. It appeared to be a piece of wallboard molding.

       Danny stood in front of the fence, facing the victim. He held the stick out from his nose, aiming it straight over the body. He estimated where the young man had been standing. The victim, Jesus Montoya, was about 5’, 7” tall. Danny lifted the stick upward, over the roof of the house. The same ridge as the first sniper victim was in the background.

       “That’s where our guy was shot from,” Danny told Stein. “See that pine tree on the top of the hill?”

       Stein shaded his eyes, squinting slightly.

       “Yep, I do.”

       “I estimate the shot must have come from just to the east of the tree –‘bout 6 or 7 hundred yards, at least. The shooter might have even used the tree as a steadying point,” Danny said. “I’ll get Shamus and go up there right away. You stay here and make sure everything that’s possible is gathered. Also, get statements from the ‘bangers who were here. Since it’s one of their homeys, I’m sure they’ll have plenty to say.”

       Danny Saenz called for another field tech to meet them up on the ridge, close to where they were on the previous sniper shooting.

       “It’s odd that we have two sniper killings within two weeks and both were from nearly the same location,” Shamus said as they approached the pine tree Danny had seen from the backyard where the victim was killed.

       They could see the field technician’s car driving up the ridge road coming from the opposite direction.

       “When I was a lot younger, we used to come up here, park, and make out with our girls,” Shamus recalled.

       “That was way before my time, old man,” Danny said, chuckling.

       “Hey, it wasn’t that long ago.”

       “Long enough,” the young detective quipped. “I’m surprised you can remember back that far.” It seemed like old times, Danny and Shamus working together again. He fondly remembered how Shamus patiently taught him the ropes of being a good homicide detective.

       “Things are never as they seem,” Shamus always would caution Danny. “It’s always what or whom you least expect.”

       When the forensic tech arrived, Danny directed her to go over a wide area, specifically where Shamus and he reckoned the shooter must have been when the shot was fired.

       “A good sniper always looks at his terrain,” Shamus told her. “Look for anything. In particular, look for grass or weeds that might have been disturbed in the last few hours. If you find something like that, look closely for footprints.”

       Danny added that even though the area was fraught with tire markings, he said it might be possible to separate out his car and the tech’s car from any others since the police department uses a specific brand and tread for every vehicle.

       “We’re going back to the station. Let me know if you find anything,” Danny said as he and Shamus got back in the car.

       “Yeah, and break out one of those new military scopes that measure distances and see if you can determine how far that shot must have been,” Shamus added.

       “How’d you know we had those scopes?” the tech asked with a puzzled look.

“Hey, I’m an old detective from way back. I know how to get in the know.”     

       Back at the station, Danny and Shamus found Joe Stein waiting for them in the squad room.

       “Whadda ya find out about our vic?” Danny asked.

       “Well, his real name is Jesus Manuel Rodriguez. That driver’s license at the scene was a phony. His family knows him as “Little Jessie;” his gang buddies call him “El Zorro.” He’s 18 years old, has been arrested only once, for possession of marijuana, but he’s suspected on a bunch of shit,” Stein replied. “I think the reason they call him ‘El Zorro’ is that he’s out-foxed us many times.”

       “El Zorro?” Danny had heard of him, but had no idea the gang leader was so young. “So, ‘the fox’ finally got caught.”

       “Yeah, and it doesn’t sound like this little fox made it into the hen house,” Shamus chimed in with a chuckle.

       “Our big challenge now is to find out who the ‘hound’ is that brought him down,” Danny mused.

       “I think the bigger question is why was ‘he’ the target?” Shamus asked. “I mean someone must have really had it out for this guy.”

       “Maybe it’s what he represents – you know, being a gang leader,” Stein said.

       “Naw, it’s gotta be more than that,” Danny countered. “Have you checked with the dicks in the gang detail to see what’s the name of his home boys?”

       “Yeah, matter-of-fact I did,” Stein replied. “They’re known as ‘The Conquistadors.” Our guys in vice say that gang is heavy into dealing.”

       “That could be significant,” Shamus said, looking at each of the two detectives. “Maybe someone’s kid got messed up with drugs and …”

       “Well, how do you explain the earlier sniper shooting of a child molester?” Danny asked.

       “Maybe we have a vigilante on our hands,” said Stein. “Someone who’s tryin’ to clean up the neighborhood, and is taking a shortcut to do it. ‘Suppose he wears a mask when he goes out hunting?”

       Danny ignored Stein’s stab at humor.

       “I can’t say that anyone is gonna miss either of these assholes, but, we can’t have our citizenry going around and playing Lone Ranger, now can we,” Danny said with a grin.

A Child's Eye-View of Retirement

The Minds of Children

By Tom Morrow

 Just before Christmas break, an elementary school teacher asked her young students how they would spend their holidays. One of her students wrote the following:

“We always used to spend Christmas with Pa Pa and Na Na. They used to live in a big brick house, but Pa Pa got retarded and they moved to Florida, so now they live in a place with a lot of other retarded people. They all live in tin boxes. They ride in big three-wheeled tricycles and they all wear name tags because they don't know who they are. They go to a big building called a wrecked hall. But if it was wrecked they got it fixed because it's all right now. They play games and do exercises there, but don't do them very good.

“There is a swimming pool there. They go into it and just stand there with their hats on. I Guess They don't know how to swim.

“As you go into their park, there is a doll house with a little man sitting in there. He watches all day so they can't get out without him seeing them. When they sneak out they go to the beach and pick up shells.

“My Na Na used to bake cookies and stuff, but I guess she forgot how. Nobody cooks they just eat out. They eat the same thing every night, Early Birds. Some of the people are so retarded that they don't know how to cook at all, so My Na Na and Pa Pa bring food into the wreck hall and they call it pot luck.

“My Na Na says Pa Pa worked all his life and earned his retardment. I wish they would move back here but I guess the little man in the dollhouse won't let them out.”

Quite quotable:

“The two most beautiful words in the English language are check enclosed.”  --- author Dorothy Parker

“Don't tell my mother that I'm in politics. She thinks I play the piano in a brothel.” ---Author Jack Higgins, from one of his novels.

Fox news commentator Bret Hume once observed: “An old lawyers’ adage says when your weak on the law, argue the facts. When your weak on the fax, argue the law. When your weak on both, pound the table.”

The great Yogi Berra on what it takes to win: “You give 100 percent in the first half of the game, and if that is not enough, in the second half you give what's left.

World War II's Little Known Facts:

More U.S. servicemen died in the Air Corps than the Marine Corps. While completing the required 30 missions, an airman's chance of being killed was 71 percent.

Generally speaking, there was no such thing as an average fighter pilot. You were either an ace or a target.  For instance, Japanese Ace Hiroyo Nishizawa shot down over 80 planes. He died while a passenger on a cargo plane .

 It was a common practice on fighter planes to load every 5th round with a tracer round to aid in aiming. This was a big mistake.  Tracers had different ballistics so (at long range) if your tracers were hitting the target 80% of your rounds were missing.  Worse yet tracers instantly told your enemy he was under fire and from which direction.  Worst of all was the practice of loading a string of tracers at the end of the belt to tell you that you were out of ammo. This was definitely not something you wanted to tell the enemy. Units that stopped using tracers saw their success rate nearly double and their loss rate go down.

When Allied armies reached the Rhine, the first thing men did was pee in it.  This was pretty universal from the lowest private to Winston Churchill (who made a big show of it) and Gen. George S. Patton (who had himself photographed in the act). 

For some good reading, try these two novels:

Below, find my web site link for last minute “Holiday Shopping.” Both of my novels, “Nebraska Doppelganger” and the mystery novel, “Haunted Bones,” for free shipping:

http://www.tomorrowsnovels.com/

Here’s Chapter 10 of my novella, “Dark Angel.”

Chapter

10

       Shamus was at Danny’s desk when the detective arrived back at the station. This time his old mentor was dressed for business – slacks, shoes, socks, but he still was wearing an Aloha shirt. Danny thought it looked like the same shirt as the day before. But, don’t they all look alike? More and more Oceanside men were wearing them, almost year ‘round, as if it were the city’s status symbol or uniform. It definitely was that particular fashion statement for Shamus.

       “I’m glad you’re here,” Danny said to Shamus as he walked into the squad room. “I’ve been giving our sniper case a lot of thought. Maybe we should keep a close eye on known molesters and areas where snipers just might lie in wait to shoot at ‘em,” he said.

       “It’s a nice idea, but it won’t work,” Shamus told his one-time partner. “Do you have any idea how far a good sniper can shoot? The record is 1.5 miles by a Canadian soldier during the Afghan war,” he said. “But, those fantastic distances didn’t start showing up until World War II.”

       Shamus explained that Soviet and German snipers were strategic weapons during the fighting on the Eastern front. The most famous of the German snipers was Major Erwin Konig, who supposedly squared off against Soviet sharpshooter Vassili Zaitsev, a Russian farmer, who became a crack shot hunting rabbits as a boy. Zaitsev is credited with having 114 enemy kills during the Siege of Stalingrad.

       According to a TV documentary, Major Konig was sent to Stalingrad to hunt for Zaitsev, who was creating havoc by knocking off high-ranking German officers. Supposedly it was a duel to the death. At the end of the hunt, both sharp-shooters had each other in their scopes. Zaitsev fired first, hitting Konig with a shot down the scope and into his eye.

       But, as impressive as that shot was, probably the most stunning record was made by a female sniper during World War II, Lyudmila M. Pavlichenko, a Ukranian peasant girl. She killed 309 German troops, including 36 enemy snipers.

The most successful of all World War II snipers was Fyodor Okhlopkov, an ethnic Yakut. He is credited with as many as 429 kills during the winter war between Soviet and German armies on the Eastern front. By comparison, Allied snipers scored a small percentage of these numbers.

       Many of the Soviet-German sniper feats were recorded during the Siege of Stalingrad, as portrayed in a partially fictional Hollywood film, “Enemy at the Gates.”

       “It takes a highly-trained sharp-shooter to do that kind of work,” Shamus explained. “The most important aspect, other than being a good shot, is patience. A sniper may lie in wait all day just to be able to take one shot.”

       Shamus went on to say that even though sniper rifles have been developed to the point they’ll hit their target more than a mile away, during World War II, Korea, and even in Vietnam, a lot of Marine and Army snipers preferred to use the old World War I-era Springfield .303 bolt-action rifle.

       “It was far more accurate and lighter in weight. It did the job,” he concluded. “I would say that all indications point to our sniper friend using a Springfield. The retrieved slug bears that out. It could have been fired from another weapon, but my guess is it’s an old “oh-three.” Besides, it’s far easier to conceal than a more modern sniper weapon.” 

       Danny joined the department 10 years ago after a four-year stint in the U.S. Navy. He attended the police academy after taking community college.

       He not only is the first one in his family to graduate from college, but the first to join a law enforcement agency. Oceanside Police was perfect because he grew up in the city, graduating from Oceanside High before joining the Navy.

       Shamus O’Rourke was an enigma to most of his fellow officers when he worked at the department. Most just knew he had been in the Marine Corps. Few, if any, knew where he grew up or anything about his family.

       Numerous attempts on Danny’s part failed to expand that knowledge too much farther. Since retiring, Shamus kept pretty much to himself, but, he and Danny had many philosophical discussions over more than a few beers.

       Shamus had two secrets and Danny was the only one who knew the basics and little more: he had been in the thick of battle during the Vietnam War, and, he had been married twice with one daughter by the first wife. Probably the reason neither of the marriages lasted is because of the tragic death of the daughter. At age 7, she was abducted, molested, and murdered when Shamus was still a patrolman with the OPD. That much was recorded. Shamus never mentioned his daughter; barely mentioned his first wife; and jokingly referred to the second as a mistake that continues to have a friendly relationship.

       Nothing was said by either for a moment or two. Finally, Danny broke the silence.

       “Do you think our sniper here in town is on a vendetta, trying to right some wrong?”

       “Could be,” Shamus replied. “One thing’s for certain – if he doesn’t want to be caught you aren’t going to find him.”

       “Why do you say that?”

       “From the evidence so far, this guy is military-trained, and that means he knows things about camouflage and hiding tactics that you haven’t even thought about,” Shamus explained.

“You remember us walking up on the ridge?”

       Danny shook his head in the affirmative.

       “Well, he could have been within a few yards from us and we’d never know it.”

       “Do you think he was?”

       “Naw. He probably parked his car down on a street on the south side of the ridge. He did his business, then slipped down the hill and made his getaway. If he were to have been seen by anyone, which is doubtful, he could always use excuses as “I’ve been target shooting” or “hunting.”

       “Even though it’s illegal to fire a weapon in town?” Danny asked.

       “No doubt he’d be so innocent about the situation, probably no one would question it.”

       Shamus got up from sitting on the corner of Danny’s desk.

       “I’m going now. Rest assured, though, we haven’t seen the last of this guy’s work,” Shamus concluded. “And, believe me, this guy considers what he’s doing as an obligation.”

The Path Between Two Oceans!

Historically Speaking...

By Tom Morrow

     The so-called “Path Between Two Oceans,” more commonly known as the Panama Canal, is the result of a long-held 18^th and 19^th centuries dream by American leaders to shorten the trip by more than 7,000 miles from the East coast of the United States to its West coast.

     Travel by ship from East to West and vice versa required sailing around the southern tip of South America. The only alternative was to debark from a ship on the isthmus of Central America and traverse the jungle and board another ship on the opposite coast. The long, arduous and disease-infested trip made the “around the (Cape) Horn” voyage preferable.

     Ironically, back in 1878, it was a French company that first attempted cutting a canal through the narrowest part of the Panama isthmus. The private company was led by Ferdinand de Lesseps. Because of under-financing, disease, mudslides, and poor planning, the venture was abandoned. The French effort was disastrous as some 22,000 workers lost their lives in countless construction accidents, as well as battling the disease-ridden jungle and tropical heat.

     In 1901, President Theodore Roosevelt led the American movement to build a canal. The first choice was a path across Nicaragua, but volcanic eruptions caused that plan to be discarded in favor of one across Panama, which at that time was a province of Colombia. But, Roosevelt’s overtures for permission to build were rebuffed by the Colombians. Not to be deterred, Roosevelt encouraged a group of politicians in Panama to secede from Colombia and form their own country. To ensure Colombia wouldn’t interfere, Roosevelt stationed a U.S. Navy warship to patrol the coastline of Panama.

     Before any sort of trouble had time to erupt, the United States received a “sea-to-sea right-of-way” in perpetuity from the new Panamanian Republic. The treaty gave the United States a “zone” of five-miles on each side of the path for the canal. In 1903, the U.S. construction crews moved in and after 11 years of planning, fighting disease and the development of construction facilities, the canal opened for full operations in 1914. Although no longer in office, Roosevelt was there for the dedication ceremonies.

     The cost of building the canal was enormous. Some 5,600 lives were lost, mostly to disease. The cost was staggering and no exact amount has ever been placed. The canal is 48 miles long, 500 feet wide, and 40 feet deep. It was the most ambitious construction project ever undertaken in modern times.

     Not without controversy, the U.S. administered the Canal Zone as American  territory until it was handed back to Panama in 1999.

     Depending upon shipping traffic, it takes approximately 12 to 15 hours to traverse the canal. With no traffic, it’s a nine-hour traverse, but there is a constant stream of ships waiting to go from one ocean to the other.

     Going through the canal on a cruise ship is a popular vacation trip. It’s an adventure everyone should do at least once in a lifetime.

More colloquialisms

“The Whole Nine Yards,” as in: “Give ‘em the whole nine yards,” or “They took the whole nine yards.” This saying comes from the battlefront, probably World War I. Nine yards is the length of an ammunition belt for a machine gun. Taking the whole nine yards, indeed, would be quite an impact.

     The word “Nasty” comes from the late 19^th and early 20^th century. Thomas Nast was a popular newspaper political cartoonist. His drawings frequently would skewer politicians and business leaders. His work was often referred to as “Nasties.” Over the years, the word has become part of American vocabulary meaning anything distasteful or dirty. Examples: Parents admonishing their children to put something down because “that’s nasty,” or someone talking vulgar as in “he has a nasty mouth.”

     The following example is NOT a dirty or off-color saying: With all the chilly weather we’ve been having, it’s been “cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.” Now, before you get excited or offended, let me explain. During the days of sailing warships (16^th, 17^th, and 18^th centuries), the cannon balls were held in place alongside the guns for easy access to gun crews as they fired at the enemy. The cannon balls were held in place, sitting on an apparatus made of brass known as a “monkey.” What began as an entirely innocent saying, has morphed down through the years and taken on an off-color or nasty connotation.

     So, the next time you’re having a trivia discussion on history, try the above three slang examples to show off your knowledge … just a tad.

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     If you haven't any idea to get that special friend, try one of my books as a gift. Go to my web site and get free shipping. Go to the below link:

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   Now, continue reading my Novella, "Dark Angel."

Chapter

9

       Danny got little sleep that night. He tossed and turned to the point Yolanda wakened several times. Danny kept thinking about both murder cases, but Dr. Dobbins’ recall to the alleged attack at his home kept coming back to him. Something wasn’t right in the old physician’s account of what happened.

       The next morning back at the office, Danny told his partner, Joe Stein, they were going back out to the murder scene at the Dobbins home. The doctor remained in the hospital for observation, so Danny wanted to get back to the scene before anything was cleaned up.

       As the two detectives walked into the bedroom, the murder scene, Danny began looking closely at the walls, especially near and around the couple’s king-sized bed where Harriet Dobbins’ body was found.

       “What are we looking for?” Joe Stein asked.

       “Anything the field tech team might have missed,” Danny replied. “Hand me those photographs of the murder scene.”

       Stein thumbed through the folder he was carrying of the evidence summary. He handed seven photographs to his partner.

       Danny shuffled through all seven pictures.

       “Are these all we have?” he asked.

       “Yeah, that’s what they sent over from the lab,” was Stein’s reply.

       “I don’t see any photo evidence of blood specs on the wall behind the headboard of the bed, yet, I can see some right here,” Danny said, pointing to very faint blood spatters.

       “I can see how they might of missed ‘em,” Stein said. “Hell, I didn’t see them until just now when you pointed to them.”

       “That’s why they call us ‘detectives,’” Danny said with a sarcastic chuckle. “We’re supposed to see this stuff.”

       Danny’s eyes followed the faint blood stains up the wall. He got a chair from the living room so as to get closer to the ceiling.

       “You have to look very close, but you can see the line of blood up onto the ceiling,” Danny said, pointing it out to his partner. “I really need Sherlock Holmes’ magnifying glass to really see this stuff.”

       Stein laughed, thinking it was a joke.

       “I’m serious, Joe. This is significant.”

       “How so?”

       “Well, we can tell where the perp was standing when he beat the woman, and we may be able to determine the type of weapon. I’d say some sort of a stick or club.”

       “A golf club?” Stein asked.

       “Could have been. Let’s look around to see if the doc has a set of clubs. Don’t all doctors golf on Wednesdays?”

       Stein left the bedroom and started looking around the house, in closets, anywhere a set of clubs might be kept.

       “Check the garage,” Danny yelled so his partner could hear him from the other parts of the house.

       Within two minutes, Stein re-entered the bedroom carrying a set of golf clubs.

       “How ‘bout these?” Stein asked.

       “Anything missing?”

       Stein began going through the bag, checking the various clubs.

       “There’s no driver,” Joe said. “There’s a No. 2, No. 3, and No. 4, but no biggie.”

       “Whoever heard of a golfer with no driver?” Danny said. “So, if that be the murder weapon, where is it?”

       “Dunno,” Stein said. “I’ll look around some more.”

       Stein came back about 10 minutes later with the missing club. “I found it up in a storage bin over the workbench in the garage.”

       “Hmmmm. Now, that’s awful considerate of the perp to hide the weapon before he left,” Danny said, pondering the discovery. “Let’s get the tech team back out here and have them get everything they can off of these blood stains. Determine, without a doubt, they’re from Mrs. Dobbins.”

       Danny took off his rubber gloves. “Bag that golf club and give it to the techies.”

       “By ‘bag it,’ ya mean ya want it back in the golf bag, or into a plastic bag,” Stein said with a slight smile on his face.

       “In a plastic bag, ya dumb kraut,” Danny said, shaking his head.    

       “I know, I know. I’m just trying to put a little levity into our work,” Stein replied.

       “Yeah, well, I’ve been in homicide for the past five years and I’ve yet to find anything funny about murder,” Danny replied. “You stay here until the techies arrive, I’m going back to the station to get a closer look at what evidence they collected yesterday.”

       On the drive back to the main police station, Danny kept going over the evidence and Dr. Dobbins’ story in his mind. The detective pondered: why the murderer would hide the murder weapon? Why would he club Mrs. Dobbins to death, but just wound the doctor by shooting him and not killing him? Why would a perpetrator break into a beach home, kill one of the occupants, wound the other, and not take anything? Where’s the gun?

       Why and where, indeed?

Pearl Harbor Happened Only Yesterday!

Historically Speaking...

By Tom Morrow

Today is Pearl Harbor Day. As Franklin D. Roosevelt told Congress, it's a day that has lived "in infamy" for America ever since Dec. 7, 1941.

To younger generations, this important day in United States history has about as much significance as Columbus Day – something more or less important that happened long ago. If you're over 60 years of age, this day represents more than just another one of those "war stories" our parents or grandparents may have told us.

As we go through our lives, we have benchmarks that give us instant recall as to where we were and what we were doing when a dramatic or traumatic incident occurs. Even though I was a very small child, I vividly recall being at my grandparents’ home for Sunday dinner. Everyone suddenly huddled around the radio, then the women started crying. If you were remember May 8, or Aug. 14, 1945, or Nov. 22, 1963, you remember exactly where you were and what you were doing, and, you don't have to be reminded what happened. These are historic benchmarks that stay with us forever.

The day the Japanese attacked our Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor on the island of Oahu, Hawaii, was the beginning of the United States becoming the most powerful nation in the world. Until that day, this country was more or less satisfied with its isolationist status. The war raging in Europe wasn't our business, and the Japanese atrocities in Asia were ever so far away. After all, we had two great oceans keeping all of that bad news away from us.

We should recognize that the Empire of Japan awakened us to our tremendous vulnerabilities on that fateful day of Dec. 7, 1941. Only the timidity of the Japanese command saved us from hand-to-hand combat in Hawaii and probably here in California. The Japanese High Command hadn't realized just how successful they were when they broke off their attack and returned to Japan.

During that same time over in the Atlantic, if Nazi Germany had been able to launch just 50 additional submarines, our Navy would have been completely cut off from our allies in Europe. England would have most assuredly fallen. It was our tenacity and vital supply ships that kept that stubborn British island afloat.

Saturday morning at 9 a.m., a shrinking group of old survivors will gather as they do every year on this date throughout the nation. Locally, those who witnessed, fought, and survived the attack that morning 72 years ago will meet for a brief remembrance ceremony at Oceanside Harbor. The gathering is smaller each year. The club, if you want to call it that, is one that doesn’t have a membership chairman. If you were there, military or civilian, you are a survivor.

If you want to hear real war stories, talk with any survivor, if you can find or know one or two. You'll hear stories you won't think possible. Can you imagine yourself on the night of Dec. 7, 1941, standing watch on the dock of Battleship Row where the USS Arizona went down, and having to listen to pounding on the sunken hull from still-alive sailors trapped inside? There was no way to get them out. After a couple of weeks the pounding stopped. That's just one of many horrific survivor tales that was told to me on one of the many occasions I met with the local Pearl Harbor Survivors Association chapter.

It's been nearly 72 years, but for those of us who remember, it happened only yesterday.  

Below, find Chapter 8 of my novella, "Dark Angel." If you're looking for a literary Christmas gift, try my web site for my novels at the below link:

http://www.tomorrowsnovels.com/

Chapter

8

A slight mist was forming from the overcast sky. It was more than the usual evening marine layer that hung off the coast of Oceanside. It could mean a chance of rain, something seldom seen in Southern California, except in January and February. For the most part the song title is right, “It Never Rains in Southern California.”

Detective Danny Saenz had parked his unmarked police car in front of a Zip ‘n’ Split convenience market to pick up a half-gallon of milk to take home when he encountered three Latino gang-bangers standing in the parking lot. They were harassing a homeless man, threatening to take away his shopping cart filled with what appeared to be all of his belongings, plus a big bag of aluminum cans.

“Hey, let the old one alone,” Danny yelled in Spanish.

“Who’s gonna make us, asshole?”

“I will,” Danny shouted back in a commanding voice, pulling his jacket away from his waist, exposing his gun and badge.

“Stinkin’ cop,” the leader of the group of three shouted back.

None of the trio looked more than 17 or 18 – the youngest couldn’t be more than 13 or 14. All were wearing similar garb: baseball cap worn backwards, one had on an Oakland Raiders jersey, the other two were in white t-shirts, and all were wearing their pants low below their waist, with long, white socks pulled tight to just below their short pant-legs. Danny always wondered how anyone could wear their trousers that low and not have them drop around their ankles. This sort of fashion with the pants and caps started many years ago by Latinos and now was growing in popularity, as well as Blacks and some Anglos try to emulate the style as well.

“Oh, it looks like you ‘bangers are ex-cons,” Danny said as the three began backing off.

“Whadda ya mean, man? We ain’t never been to no prison,” the leader said in a defiant tone. The other two were shaking their heads in the negative.

“Well, I see you’re wearing your pants to advertise you were someone’s prison bitch while you were inside.”

The youngest of the ‘bangers, standing behind the other two, could be seen slowly pulling his pants up around his waist.

“Who says we were,” the second ‘banger shouted.

“Oh, you telegraph to everyone by just the way you’re wearing your panties.” Danny had no idea if wearing trousers in that manner meant anything other than the style of a bunch of youngsters wanting to be hip or tough. He had heard about the prison aspect, but had no idea of its validity. Nonetheless, it was effective in taking this particular trio off guard.

“Bullshit!” the leader grumbled. “Let’s go, man.” The ‘bangers walked across the parking lot. “I’ll remember you, cop,” the leader yelled over his shoulder,” looking back with a glare.

“I’ll remember you, too, Jose,” Danny smiled.

Danny slowly walked over to the old man, while watching the gang-bangers shuffle on down the street.

“Stay here in front of the store until those guys are out of sight,” Danny told him. “I’ll tell the manager inside you’ll be moving along in a few minutes, but don’t go anywhere until we know they’re gone,” Danny nodded toward the three young men walking east from the store.

Danny got the milk his wife had told him not to forget. He stayed, chatting with the homeless man for about 10 minutes. Before leaving, he slipped the old man a five-dollar bill.

“Here, don’t spend it on booze,” he smiled.

“Sir, I surely won’t,” the old man replied. “This will feed me in between meals at one of the shelters. These ol’ bones thank ya, son, they surely do.”

Back in his car, Danny got on his radio and asked to meet a patrol car in the area. When the patrolwoman arrived, Danny told her what had happened at the Zip ‘n’ Split and to keep watch to make sure the gang-bangers didn’t come back to harass the old man. Then, he continued on home. He didn’t want to present a carton of warm milk to his wife, because his five kids would be expecting cold milk with their dinner.

Yolanda was at the stove finishing up the evening meal when Danny walked through the door. Four of the kids were in front of the television set in the family room; his son, Daniel (Little Danny), Jr., was in his room doing homework. Little Danny, as he was known in the family, was a straight-'A' eighth-grade student, who, when at home, spent more time reading than anything else. His father and mother could see their eldest son becoming a college scholar in less than five years because he’s on track to finish high school in only three.

“A good day, dear?” Yolanda asked with a smile.

Danny smiled back, “I’m a homicide detective, what do you think?”

Yolanda went back to stirring some gravy on the stove.

“Oh, you found a body.”

“Two of ‘em,” her husband mumbled, sitting down at the kitchen table with that morning’s paper he had yet to read.

Yolanda shook her head slightly as she continued stirring.

“Other than that, I had a safe, normal day,” Danny said without looking up from the paper.

“Thank you, Jesus,” his wife said.

“Jesus had nothing to do with it, sweetheart. It was my keen eye, expert knowledge of police procedures, and a stunning personality that kept me safe,” Danny whispered with a smile, again without looking up. “Oh, and my good looks didn’t hurt.”

Again, Yolanda shook her head. “Don’t let your ego fall out of your ass and break your heel,” she replied, chuckling.

“Sweetheart, the children,” Danny smiled, looking up at her.

“They’re in front of the TV. They can’t hear or pay attention to anything else, and Danny, Jr., has his head in a book. So, I’m home free with that one,” she replied with a laugh.

“Not to change the subject, but we …”

“But you are?” Danny interrupted, continuing to read his paper.

“We need to talk about planning for Teresa’s quincienara,” Yolanda said.

To a Latino family, the daughter turning 15 is a right-of-passage into womanhood.

“How much is that gonna cost me?”

“Well, if we have it at the Elks Lodge so everyone in both families can come, I think it will be around $7,000 to $8,000.”

“Good god, can’t we just have a simple little birthday party for a 15-year-old girl?” he said in an astonished voice. He had abandoned the sports section and was looking directly at his wife.

“No, we can’t. She’s looking forward to it. Besides, your mom and dad, and my parents have agreed to help with everything.”

“What is ‘everything?” Danny asked in a non-believing manner.

“Well, they think they all can come up with maybe a thousand dollars -- and, don’t forget aunts and uncles.”

“There aren’t that many ‘aunts and uncles,’” he said, going back to the newspaper.

“Don’t forget her godfather, Shamus,” Yolanda reminded.

“Hell, he’ll probably put up more than all the others combined. By-the-way, I saw him today.”

       “How’s he doing?” she asked while beginning to set the table for the evening meal.

       “Same ol’ Shamus. Nothing ever changes with him. He’s giving me a hand on one of my cases.”

       “That’s odd. I thought he was retired?”

       “Yeah, well he is. I just wanted some fresh eyes on this particular case.”

       “What is it?”

       “You don’t wanna know.”

       “Of course I do. I’m a woman interested in her husband’s work.”

       “Trust me, dear. Let’s just have dinner without bringing my work to the table. Crap, the Padres lost again,” Danny said, going back to the sports page.