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.