Category Archives: Truth

November 20, 2025 · 8:20 pm

My First Novel: Chapter Nine

Okay, folks. So, we never quite got to 160 “likes”. We’re stuck in the 150’s. But some readers have reached out to ask when I’ll post Chapter Nine — so here it is! If you are reading these chapters please let me know by “liking” these posts, either on this blog or on my Facebook page. Thanks for reading!

Chapter Nine

Shivering in the falling cold, Mike was relieved to see Horst walk out to the waiting Mercedes. But as the driver opened the door for Horst to join Huber in the backseat, Mike’s momentary relief turned to alarm.

How could he follow Huber’s car when his stolen Impala was hidden several blocks away? By the time he’d retrieve it, Horst and Huber would be long gone. And he had no idea where the two old Nazis were going.

His next thoughts came fast.

Were they going back to Murphy’s Ranch? Then again, the portal might not be there anymore. They may not even be headed to a time portal. They could be meeting with more conspirators, maybe at another time portal. Mike had no idea. He wished he could call the cops for backup – but it was hopeless. What he’d seen and done in the past few days was too nuts to be believed.

Mike knew he was on his own.

He took out his notebook and, driven by training, wrote down the plate number of Huber’s Mercedes. As Huber’s driver started the car, Mike’s iPhone vibrated. The screen lit up with a message: “Old Griffith Park Zoo.” Mike knew nothing about old Griffith Park Zoo, but he knew where Griffith Park Zoo was back in ‘51.

Mike figured maybe Horst and Huber didn’t know their messages were going to the phone that Horst had lost — and he had found!

It was a lucky break. One Mike desperately needed.

As Huber’s car drove away, Mike ran to where he’d stashed his Impala, hot-wired it again, and made the half-hour drive to Griffith Park — taking side streets and staying off the highway. He knew this part of town like the back of his hand. That was another lucky break.

He could use several more.

A little after 5:30 PM, Mike parked his stolen Impala behind the Griffith Park Merry-Go-Round, which was deserted at this late hour. Mike had last seen it more than six decades ago, and it now looked worn and dilapidated.

Mike felt a lot like that vintage carousel.

The small corral for the pony rides looked almost like it did when he was a boy, but the lights in the parking lot weren’t there when he was a kid. At least not these lights. They were brighter than he’d like them to be right now. Trailing his two Nazi targets, Mike preferred the concealing darkness. He moved as fast as he could, walking uphill toward where he knew the zoo should be. Would he find Horst and Huber there? Was he too late?

Mike reached into his jacket for his .45. He didn’t know what to expect.

Cresting the ridge, the rising moon illuminated an eerie scene. The concrete, cave-like, animal enclosures Mike remembered as a child were still there — but all the bars were gone. The animals were gone, too. It was a familiar scene – and it was also very new. Another stark reminder that he was a time traveler.

Mike moved toward the ruined enclosures, careful to stay out of sight. Their concrete walls were covered with a lot of the same crazy, avant-garde paintings he’d seen at Murphy’s Ranch after he passed through the time portal. Was this some wild, city-wide art project? The cold night breeze carried the sound of voices ahead — stopping him in his tracks.

The voices were coming from the other side of a low wall, about five feet high. In the moonlight, Mike could make out silhouettes on the other side of the wall. He crept up behind it — and took out his .45 for insurance.

He could hear Dr. Huber speaking in German. Horst was doing most of the talking, but he was doing it in English. Mike couldn’t tell how many people were in this clandestine meeting but, besides Horst, he heard the voices of at least a half dozen others. He got out his notebook and, in the rising moonlight, started taking notes on what they were saying.

Of course, they were all talking crazy.

Compared to Horst and Huber, the other voices sounded much younger. They were all male, though that didn’t mean no women were present. There was just enough light that Mike could see who they were, but he’d have to expose himself to get a better look – and he didn’t dare do that. He was likely outnumbered. Apparently, these guys were members of a paramilitary group calling themselves “The Bund Boys”. They were armed and ready to be part of whatever plot the two old Nazis had cooked up.

The Bund Boys. Mike was well-aware of who “The Bund” were. In the years leading up to the war, The German American Bund backed the Nazis and resisted American intervention against Hitler’s regime — even after the antisemitic horrors of Kristallnacht in ‘38 and the Blitzkrieg invasion of Poland the following year.

The Bund held big rallies in American major cities with Nazi flags flying and stiff-arm salutes. Twenty thousand of these fanatics gathered in New York City for a rally at Madison Square Garden in ‘39. The Nazi followers at Murphy’s Ranch were cozy with The Bund. But after Pearl Harbor, The Bund lost its mojo in America – and the Murphy’s Ranch cabal was rolled up by Hoover’s G-men.

Now, Horst and Huber were conspiring with 21^st century American Nazis. The very thought disgusted Mike. Hadn’t he, and millions of Americans, fought to bury Nazism and Fascism once and for all? Yet, the toxic ideology of white supremacy and fascist rule represented by the swastika was still alive in this abandoned corner of Griffith Park – sixty-three years after The Fuhrer blew his brains out in his Berlin bunker.

In the company of these avid young Nazis, neither Horst nor Huber said anything about time travel or their plan to transport the leaders of the Third Reich into the future. Instead, they were talking about something The Bund Boys were calling “Helter-Skelter”.

“Charlie Manson had the right idea,” said one of the Bund Boys. “But he was a nutcase relying on a bunch of strung-out hippies to put his vision into action. That don’t mean he wasn’t right about Helter-Skelter. It you do it right, you can start the race war. There’s a hell of a lot more of us than the coloreds and the foreigners and the faggots. And we’ve got a shit ton more guns. We’re just prepping for the moment when we can touch it off.”

“We’re all in with you two on the white man getting back on top in this country,” said another Bund Boy. “We know old Horst here is a good man – and he told us you can help us. He says you’re some kind of bad ass Nazi genius. That’s why we’re here. We just wanna know how you can help us.”

The guy was obviously addressing Dr. Huber. Huber’s English wasn’t good, so he spoke in German as Horst translated. Truth be told, the Bund Boys probably loved getting the straight dope in Hitler’s mother tongue.

Through Horst, Huber said he’d spent a lifetime preparing for this great moment, and if they all worked together, the day was coming soon when white Christian men would once again rule America and ultimately the world. Democracy had shown itself to be too weak to oppose godless Communism in Russia and China, and too soft on so-called “civil rights” and “equal opportunity” here in America. The laws of nature don’t recognize equal opportunity. Natural law is the survival of the fittest. “We,” declared Huber, “are white men. God made us supreme among the human races. It is our divine right to reclaim our preeminent place in the world.” Mike was sure he’d have heard a lusty “Sieg Heil!” if this meeting wasn’t on the down low.

Dr. Huber pressed on. Decadent western women now dared to consider themselves equal to men. But once America was re-established as a white Christian nationalist state, the natural order would be restored in the family, in the church, and in the government. The Bund Boys were eating it up. Still, they pressed Dr. Huber. How could he help them make all this come to pass?

Dr. Huber played his cards close to the vest. Mike could tell that the old scientist knew these guys were just useful idiots. The Bund Boys had stockpiled an arsenal of weapons and explosives and they’d developed a loose alliance of like-minded militia groups across the country. They dreamed of igniting a race war, but they had no strategic plan beyond their sick “Helter-Skelter” pipe dreams.

Mike listened as Huber assured the assembled wackos that he had contacts with a powerful group of wealthy, well-connected Nazi leaders who were waiting for the critical moment to make common cause with the right-wing American militia movement. But these great leaders needed to know that men like the Bund Boys had the stomach for a real fight. They needed a sign. They needed to see action. What were the Bund Boys willing to do to demonstrate they were prepared to go to war for the future of the white race?

The Bund Boys asserted their willingness to die for the glorious cause, but they needed more direction. Horst took over, telling them they had to make sure they struck the right targets, and that they did so in coordination with militias across the country – and with overwhelming numbers and firepower. Horst and Huber could help them procure that firepower. The Bund Boys liked the sound of that.

“You’re talking about launching our own Tet Offensive,” said a Bund Boy who seemed to be the lead voice in the group. “Hit the enemy hard in dozens of places all at once.” Mike had no clue what a “Tet Offensive” was — but it sounded ominous.

Horst told the Bund Boys that their next meeting would be at Murphy’s Ranch tomorrow night at 8:00 pm. Operational security required that they each bring just one member of a fellow militia group to attend. “Any man you bring to this meeting must be someone you know and trust more than your own family. A man who would die alongside you. A man you can trust with your life. Write their names on this paper and I will let you know tomorrow morning if they are cleared to attend. There can be no leaks, no stupid mistakes, or it will not end well for you – and for our cause. Great and powerful men are relying on a loyal army. You and your allies can be that army.”

There was a pause as the men wrote down names. Or at least Mike figured that’s what the pause was all about. A minute later, Horst continued. More information would be revealed at the meeting tomorrow night. Powerful weapons would be made available. Until then, they’d communicate through the normal channels. Horst would be their contact. Sure enough, the meeting concluded with a hushed “Sieg Heil!”

Mike hung back in the shadows as the conspirators dispersed. He saw no point in trailing Horst and Huber. The two old Nazis surely needed their rest. Besides, he knew when and where their next move would take place.

Mike returned to his stolen Impala and got behind the wheel. But before he hotwired the ignition again, he took out his iPhone, opened the Google app just like the Apple Genius had showed him, and typed “Tet Offensive” into the search bar. He wasn’t sure he’d spelled “Tet” correctly, but the results came up instantly. He read how the Tet Offensive was a turning point in the Vietnam War. The Vietnam War? Mike had scant time to learn why the U.S. was fighting in Vietnam in 1968. He wasn’t even sure where Vietnam was. The article said that it was another battle against Communism, like the war going on in Korea when Mike stepped through that damned time portal.

But what Mike read next gave him the shakes. The Tet Offensive was a series of surprise attacks launched simultaneously by the North Vietnamese in 100 towns and cities across South Vietnam. Holy shit! If Horst and Huber and their fanatical militia pals were planning something on that scale, it wasn’t something Mike could tackle on his own. He had to bring in local, state, and federal authorities – and fast!

But how could he do that? What would he tell them? What tangible evidence did he have? What would law enforcement think when he rolled out this crazy story? Mike couldn’t even rationally explain who he was or how he got here. His current ID was more than a half-century old. The cops would likely hold him for psychiatric observation. He’d lose any chance to disrupt this insane Nazi scheme. And he’d never be to get back to 1951.

He’d never again see his beloved Gloria.

It was now 7:00 pm, and while a lot had gone down that evening, the night was still young. After a long, bewildering day, Mike yearned to touch home base at Zack’s. He’d have a couple beers, pull himself together and come up with a plan – that is if the cops didn’t collar him in his hot Impala before he got to Malibu. If that happened, all bets were off. Mike decided he’d have to leave the Impala behind and commandeer a new ride.

Mike pulled a blank page out of his notebook, scribbled a message, and left it on the dashboard before getting out of the car with his bag of tools. “Dear cops,” it read, “I stole this from a car lot in Santa Monica. Please see that it gets returned. And don’t bother dusting it for prints.”

“This thief went missing a long time ago.”

4 Comments

Filed under Adventure, Art, Classic Film, History, literature, Politics, Truth

Tagged as books, crime fiction, Crime novel, Detective fiction, fiction, history, mystery, Paul Barrosse, World War Two, writing

November 19, 2025 · 2:46 pm

The Fun Begins on December 26th…

My First Novel: Chapter Eight

And now, my friends, Chapter Eight! When we get to 160 “likes” — I’ll drop Chapter Nine. You can read the whole novel-to-date in sequence by clicking on “My Novel” in the “Landmarks” menu at right. Enjoy!

Chapter Eight

Late the next morning, as the sun rose over the still-agitated Pacific, Mike woke up in his cave with a brutal hangover. He’d have to do a lot better than he did last night if he wanted to solve this case and return to 1951 and Gloria. Mike looked like a fall-down drunk on a week-long bender. If he didn’t find some clean clothes soon, he’d be mistaken for a homeless bum. Of course, he was currently homeless. He’d figure out what to do about that later.

Right now, Mike had to find Dr. Huber – and fast. Huber would be looking to connect with his old protégé, Horst Mueller, who was, according to their plan, likely at Cal Tech in Pasadena.

Last night at Zack’s, Gina told him that his iPhone just needed a charge. So, that was the next step. He’d charge up the crazy black brick and see what else it could tell him. There was no time to lose. He staggered out to the highway and walked into a corner store.

“Sorry, buddy,” the old man behind the counter said. “You can just turn around and get out. I can smell you from here. You look like you slept on the damn beach.”

“I did. But don’t worry, I’m not staying long…”

“You sure as hell ain’t!”

Mike held up his iPhone. “Do you know where I can charge this thing?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about those newfangled phones. I have a flip-phone myself. My daughter got it for me. Don’t need all those bells and whistles.”

“I get it, pal. But do you know where I can charge this thing?”

“You don’t have a charger?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then you gotta get one.”

“Any idea where?”

“What am I? The Answer Man? Try the Apple Store in Santa Monica. It’s on the Third Street promenade. My daughter took me there once. They got everything. It’s all too goddamned expensive. Me? I’ll keep my flip-phone, thank you.”

The Apple Store. So, that’s what that apple on the back of his iPhone meant. It was a trademark. “Thanks for the tip,” he said to the cantankerous proprietor.

“You’re welcome. And here’s another tip. Take a goddamn shower. You’re stinkin’ up the joint.”

Mike walked out onto the street. The guy was right. Mike was smelling awfully ripe. He ran down to the beach, took off everything but his boxer shorts, and plunged into the ocean. The cold water was cleansing — and invigorating. After a few moments, he got out of the surf, ditched his soggy boxers, and put his clothes and shoes back on. It wasn’t the hot, soapy shower he needed, but it would have to do for now.

Mike walked back to PCH and spent some of his precious cash on a cab ride to Santa Monica. Fifteen minutes later, the cabbie pulled up in front of the Apple Store, which clearly had nothing to do with fruit.

It was like no store Mike had ever seen before: the hushed, polite voices, the unnatural pleasantness, and all those futuristic devices. The overhead light was way too bright, and the ridiculously young staff was way too upbeat, intelligent, and eager to help. Mike felt awkward admitting that he didn’t know how to use his iPhone — but there was no problem. He was directed to the “genius bar”, where a 20-something “Apple Genius” quickly powered-up Mike’s phone and showed him the basics, like how to retrieve old messages, click on “links” and “Google” things he wanted to know. The damn thing was also a camera. He could take pictures with his phone! How crazy is that?

It was mind-bending how much information Mike now had at his fingertips. He spent more of his dwindling cash on a charger, left the Apple Store, and sat down on a bench to do his first “online” research.

Whatever Mike “Googled” came up on his iPhone with lightning speed. Mike typed “Horst Mueller” into Google and the screen soon displayed a series of “links” to articles about Horst, including the recent announcement of his Nobel Prize in Astrophysics. He also learned that Dr. Horst Mueller was now 79 years old and a Professor Emeritus at Cal Tech.

Dr. Huber’s old protégé had stuck to the script and played his part to the letter.

Another link led Mike to the vital information that Horst kept office hours at Cal Tech on Tuesday and Thursday evenings between 4:00 and 6:00 pm. And today was Thursday. Mike marveled, at the speed with which he could gather information. It was a detective’s dream! But it was already 11:30 am, so Mike had to move fast. Horst would surely lead him to Dr. Huber. But first, he had to solve his transportation problem.

With the scant cash he had left, Mike couldn’t afford cab fare from Santa Monica to Pasadena, and he didn’t have a valid driver’s license. The one in his wallet expired on March 31, 1952. He hated to do it, but Mike would have to steal a car. He found a hardware store and spent his last few dollars on a thin metal ruler, flat head and Phillips screwdrivers, a hammer, and wire cutters – all tools of the car stealing trade. Plus, a box of matches and a new pocket notebook.

Mike walked down Santa Monica Boulevard and came upon an upscale vintage car lot, where he picked out a 1962 Chevy Impala Sport Coupe in cherry condition. The Impala’s technology was old enough that Mike, employing his low-tech private eye skills, would have no trouble getting it started. He set a fire in a dumpster on the opposite end of the car lot, and while everybody was reacting to the raging dumpster fire, Mike jimmied the driver’s side door open and hotwired the ignition. The Impala’s 283 V-8 engine roared to life — and Mike drove it off the lot without anyone noticing.

Despite his surface cool, Mike was a desperate man. He turned the Impala into an alley, took out a screwdriver, and switched license plates with a parked car. He wasn’t proud of his theft, but the situation was dire. He was trying to save America from an evil Nazi plot. He couldn’t possibly go to the police for help. At least not yet. They’d figure he was nuts.

Mike never trained for a mission like this in the Marines – and they didn’t cover stuff like this at the police academy. As he steered his hot Impala out of the alley, his mind was racing. He was going to have to make it up as he went along. Go with his gut.

Rather than driving directly to Pasadena and staking out Professor Mueller at Cal Tech, Mike took the risk of going back to Zack’s in his stolen car. Why take such a chance? The only explanation was his magnetic attraction to the lovely Gina. He had a few hours to spare before who-knows-what might happen, and he wanted to spend that time at Zack’s with her. He wasn’t sure why, but Gina reminded him of Gloria.

Mike pulled into Zack’s parking lot. No sirens pursued him. So far, so good. Ten minutes later, Gina was serving him lunch at the bar. As he gazed at her, Mike felt guilty. Was he really that fickle? Was the memory of his beloved Gloria so easily replaced by this new vision of female perfection? What was he doing here anyway? He was wasting time. He should be in Pasadena, waiting for Horst and Huber to make contact.

The nation’s future might be in the balance. But here he was, sitting on his old barstool.

Gina asked Mike if he wanted dessert. He ordered a slice of pecan pie and told her he had to go to Cal Tech. She showed him how to “MapQuest” the quickest route from Zack’s to Cal Tech. Factoring traffic, he was about 90 minutes away. Mike had to get going, but it was hard to tear himself away from Gina. They were still huddled over Mike’s iPhone when Gina’s grandmother came out from the back room.

She saw Mike and froze.

She was stunned to see the spitting image of her old flame, Mike Delaney, sitting at her bar, chatting up her granddaughter.

It was impossible. Was this the same guy who ran out on her fifty-seven years ago — on the day she accepted his marriage proposal? Was he the faithless fiancé who disappeared without a trace? Had he been here before and she didn’t notice? How long had Gina known him? Her heart was beating fast. Could this guy be her long-lost Mike? Or did he just look like Mike? Hell, he was wearing the same suit Mike always wore. The only suit he owned.

77-year-old Gloria fingered the vintage ring around her neck and wondered whether she was losing her mind.

It was 1:30 pm. Mike had to go, or he’d be cutting it way too close. He devoured his pecan pie and went out the door in a hurry. Gloria watched him from the window as he fired up an old Impala and drove out of the parking lot.

“Who is that guy, Gina?”

“Which guy?”

“The one you were just talking with at the bar. The one in the dirty suit.”

“Oh, him. That’s Mike. He’s new. Came in here last night for the first time.”

“Did you catch his last name?”

“No, just Mike. He’s kind of funny. He’s got an iPhone and he barely knows how to use it. I was just showing him how to use MapQuest. He’s worse than you with technology.”

“You sure he came in here for the first time last night?”

“Yeah. First time I ever saw him here.”

Gloria glanced at the calendar hanging over the bar. It was December 13^th. Last night was the 12^th – fifty-seven years to the day since Mike Delaney vanished. She’d worn his ring ever since. The memory of him haunted her to this day.

Ten years after Mike disappeared, Gloria married — but the guy wound up being a jerk, and their brief, unhappy union produced nothing more than Gina’s mother.

For more than five decades, Gloria carried a torch for the man that went away. Could this young guy somehow be that man? It was a crazy thought, she told herself. But, as she cleaned up after the lunch crowd, it was a thought she couldn’t put away.

Mike was making good time as he exited the 210 Freeway at Hill Street, headed for the Cal Tech campus in Pasadena. He drove down Hill Street and approached the intersection with Colorado Boulevard. He held the iPhone close to his face. It was hard to see the directions with the glare from the sunlight hitting the glass face of the phone.

As he went through the intersection, Mike heard what sounded like a short blast of a police siren. Looking in his rearview mirror, he saw he was being pulled over by Pasadena’s finest. Damn. This was going to be a problem for a whole host of reasons. How could he save American democracy while in prison for grand theft auto?

As a cop, Mike had made a lot of traffic stops in his time. He knew the drill. And he knew he’d be screwed as soon as they asked for his driver’s license — the one with an expiration date in 1952! He pulled over and weighed his options. They were all bad. The cops got out of their squad car and started walking toward him with their hands on their holsters. Were they worried he was a violent felon? Of course, they were. He was driving a stolen car.

The cop on the driver’s side tapped the window. Mike rolled it down. He knew the best thing to do was to be polite and comply with the officer’s directions.

“Hey, buddy,” the cop said with the same false friendliness Mike always employed in such stops when he was a cop. “You are aware that, since July of this year, it’s been illegal to use a hand-held cell phone while driving in California?”

“Yeah,” Mike lied. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t see the directions.”

“Distracted driving can get you killed, buddy – and others along with you. I’m going to have to write you a ticket.”

For a split second, Mike felt a wave of relief. They weren’t aware he’d stolen the car. Yet he knew all hell would break loose with the officer’s next question.

“Can I see your driver’s license?”

With that, Mike gunned his engine, burning rubber, and accelerating as fast as a 1962 Impala could go. The cops were caught flat-footed. Why would anyone in his right mind flee a traffic ticket? They ran back to their squad car, hit the siren, lights flashing, and followed in pursuit. Mike was already out of sight, but he knew exactly what they’d be saying as they radioed for backup. “Be on the lookout for a red, early-60’s Chevy Impala sedan. Driver is wanted for using a hand-held cell phone while driving. Suspect he may be guilty of something worse…”

Mike’s adrenaline was racing as fast as his stolen car. When the cops ran his plates, they’d be thrown off course. That gave him some comfort. And some more time. He could no longer hear any sirens as he took a winding course through side streets before pulling into an alley behind one of the more nondescript buildings on the Cal Tech campus. He parked the car out of sight behind a large trash bin. There was no one around. According to MapQuest, he was within blocks of Horst Mueller’s office in the Applied Physics and Materials Science Department.

It was now 3:00 — an hour before Horst was scheduled to be in his office.

Mike proceeded on foot to Horst’s office building, taking care to use a less-traveled path through alleys, behind buildings, dumpsters, and bushes. He strode calmly and casually to attract as little attention as possible. It appeared that most of the students were indoors now. It figured, Mike thought. It’s cold outside, and most of these Cal Tech eggheads were probably in the library, in class, or in their dorm rooms studying. That’s not how Mike approached his studies at UCLA. Rare were the days when he didn’t swap his homework for a game of pickup basketball or a movie at The Fox in Westwood.

Mike found a safe spot in the shadows directly across from the Applied Physics and Materials Science building. It was 3:20. Horst could be arriving anytime. So, too, might his old mentor, Dr. Huber. Mike settled in for the stakeout. The sun was sinking. He wished he had his overcoat. He really needed to do something about his clothes. He was, he had to admit, a mess. He needed a shave. And he smelled awful again.

A short time later, Mike watched as a black Mercedes Benz sedan pulled up in front of Horst’s building. A uniformed driver got out and opened the rear passenger door facing the curb. He helped an elderly man out of the car and up onto the sidewalk. The old guy walked with a cane, but he was nimble enough to manage the fifty or so feet to the front door of the building. Mike wished he had a pair of binoculars. He was doing a lot of wishing lately.

The sun had dropped behind the building at this point, casting a shadow on the sidewalk, so Mike moved up behind a tree to get a closer look at the old man before he went inside. He was Horst Mueller alright. A half-century older, but definitely Mike’s man.

Horst’s driver waited in the car out front. Mike concluded the old man wasn’t planning to stay in his office very long. Hopefully he was waiting for Dr. Huber to arrive and then they’d both travel to the time portal – or wherever else they planned to go. As long as Horst’s car was parked right where Mike could see it, he figured it was best to stay put and see what developed. But Jesus, it was getting cold.

It was a few degrees colder by 4:45. The sun was setting when Mike caught sight of Dr. Otto Huber in the glow of a streetlight, headed toward Horst’s office. Mike watched Dr. Huber walk in and out of the darkness as he passed under several streetlights before reaching Horst’s car. The driver came out to greet him, opened the door to the back seat, and helped the old Nazi inside. Huber was surely waiting for Horst to come out of his office. Then Mike would trail the two conspirators as they proceeded to do whatever they planned to do next.

It was weird, thought Mike, that Dr. Huber was now at least twenty years younger than his protégé.

Then again, what about this situation wasn’t weird?

5 Comments

Filed under Adventure, Art, Classic Film, History, literature, Novel, Politics, Truth

Tagged as books, crime fiction, Detective fiction, fiction, life, Paul Barrosse, short-story, World War Two, writing

November 11, 2025 · 1:54 pm

My First Novel: Chapter Seven

We’re over 120 “likes” now, so without further ado — here’s Chapter Seven. As always, all the acts can be read in sequence by clicking on “My Novel” in the “Landmarks” menu to your right. 150 “likes” will release Chapter Eight. Thanks for reading, folks!

Chapter Seven

Quietly and single-mindedly, Mike trailed Dr. Huber through the time portal with no clue what to expect. He might’ve thought about Gloria — about the ring he gave her and the proposal she’d pretty much accepted just a few hours ago.

But he didn’t.

Into the future he went.

He didn’t feel anything other than a slight bit of nausea as he advanced decades into the future. It was dark inside the portal. There wasn’t any Frankenstein’s laboratory-like zapping and pyrotechnics. It was a smooth transition, as if there was no discernable border between the present and future.

Seconds passed — or was it less? Dr. Huber was somewhere ahead of him, perhaps only a few feet away. Mike couldn’t tell. He walked forward slowly, deliberately, stalking Huber through the darkness of the portal, trying to keep pace with his unseen target. His adrenaline was flowing. He was on a mission — and he loved it.

Suddenly, Mike got whacked across the face! Where did all these crazy tree branches come from?

It was clear that Mike was no longer in the portal.

The moon lit his way as Mike struggled through the overgrown chaparral, feeling his way through burrs, thorns, and cobwebs with his .45 in hand. Hearing a rustling up ahead, he caught a glimpse of Dr. Huber, who didn’t appear to know he was being followed.

Mike tracked Huber for several hundred feet, from just outside the building housing the portal to the foot of the steps leading up and out of the compound. Dense foliage blocked the entire passage as he pursued the unsuspecting Huber into December 12, 2008.

Mike paused as Huber stopped at the bottom of the steps to catch his breath. The moonlight revealed a dilapidated building at the base of the steps. Mike remembered passing the same building on both of his trips to the compound, but now it appeared as though some mad artist had covered the derelict structure with bizarre, Picasso-like paintings. It was Mike’s first solid evidence that he’d travelled in time.

He was chasing Dr. Huber, but Mike was the one who was lost. Huber knew where he was going. The mad Nazi scientist was following a grand plan, more than five decades in the making. Mike was just a lone hunter trying to keep up with his prey.

Huber was surprisingly nimble for an older man. He moved briskly up the five hundred concrete steps and unlocked the compound’s now-ruined gate. He closed the gate and padlocked the chain before stepping out onto Sullivan Ridge Road, unaware that Mike was on his heels. Behind the gate, Mike watched from the bushes as a souped-up car of a make he’d never seen before skidded to a sudden stop along the shoulder of the road, picked Huber up, and raced off down the street.

Mike watched as Huber’s wild-looking hot rod sped down the road toward Pacific Coast Highway. He saw the situation clearly. Huber’s getaway was no coincidence. He’d planned it all perfectly. His next step would be to link up with Horst and check out their new and improved time portal. That could lead to a rebirth of Hitler’s Third Reich right here in America – and unimaginable horrors.

Mike had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea that he was now fifty-seven years in the future. He would have to get his mind right – and fast – to keep up with Dr. Huber. Mike had little of value in his pockets, other than fifty-six dollars in cash, his trusty .45, and the iPhone he’d found. He figured Huber would be meeting up with Horst at Cal Tech. He just didn’t know exactly when.

It was likely very soon.

Besides trying to save the future from the return of Nazism, Mike had another big reason to wrap up this case. It wasn’t patriotism, the thrill of the hunt, or the reward money. Mike had to track down Huber as soon as possible so he could get back to 1951 and Gloria. What’ll she think when the guy she just agreed to marry suddenly disappears? And, if he does manage to get back to her, how will he ever explain where he went? Mike tried hard to push such thoughts aside. He needed to focus on the here and now — whatever that meant anymore. He looked at his watch. It was 8:00 pm. Despite all he’d been through, the night was young.

Mike knew it was probably hopeless, but he looked for his car where he parked it on the side of Sullivan Ridge Road. Of course, it was no longer there. He was less than a mile from Pacific Coast Highway, so he could always walk down to PCH and thumb a ride north to Malibu. Back in his old neighborhood, he could get his bearings and maybe find someone who could help him figure out what to do with his iPhone. Maybe it had more secrets to reveal?

Mike jogged down to PCH, which was lit much brighter than back in his day, though the moonlight on the ocean looked just the same as it always did. Mike walked north, thumbing a ride along the way. The cars that passed him didn’t look like anything he’d ever seen. They were smaller and had a lot less chrome. No fins, big fenders or running boards to be seen. They looked like something out of Popular Mechanics. And the people in them weren’t dressed like he was. None of the guys wore hats. Self-consciously, Mike reached for his fedora. It wasn’t on his head. He must have lost it while trailing Huber through the overgrown brush on Murphy’s Ranch.

Mike looked for a pay phone to see if any of his old phone numbers still worked, but he couldn’t find one. There was a phone booth every other block back in ‘51. He finally found one at Will Rogers State Beach — but it had been vandalized. The phone cord was cut and there was no receiver. No phone book, either. Jerks, Mike muttered. Why mess with a damn phone book?

A couple of twenty-something surfers and their girls were looking for their car in the parking lot. Mike wondered what they’d think of a guy who looked like he might be from half a century in the past. He needn’t have worried. They passed him without a word. They were dressed different than beachgoers in his day, the girls were wearing a whole lot less, but to them Mike must have appeared to be just another black and white square.

Mike was in a whole new world. From now on, he’d have to tread carefully with every step he made. Right now, all he could do was keep moving northward and hope to find Zack’s — if it was still there. But why would it be? How could he be sure that anything from 1951 was still where it used to be?

Hitchhiking didn’t seem too popular anymore, so Mike walked the last few miles to Zack’s Oceanside Dive.

Fortunately, Zack’s was right where Mike hoped it would be. He picked up his step when he saw the newspaper racks on Zack’s front porch. He could finally confirm the date! The Los Angeles Times and The Daily News mastheads made it clear that both editions were published on Friday, December 12, 2008.

So, it was true. He’d just travelled fifty-seven years into the future.

Suddenly, a pang for Gloria stung him worse than the pain in his hip. How the hell was he going to get back to her? Mike’s mind swarmed with questions for which he had no answers. He reminded himself to focus. Take it moment to moment. Moment to moment.

Mike opened Zack’s familiar front door. A crude, monotonous, percussion-heavy music played on the jukebox, which was nothing like Zack’s old jukebox. Above the bar, there were three large television sets – all tuned to a different station. And in color! The sound was off on all the TVs. The pounding music dominated.

The joint was jumping. Mike was glad that Zack’s appeared to be doing a decent business after all these years. Taking in the patrons, he saw that none of the men were wearing suit jackets. Not a necktie in the place. Some of the ladies wore pants. Many of them stared into the same kind of iPhone he had in his pocket. These iPhones clearly weren’t a rare commodity.

Besides the clientele, the music, and the televisions, Zack’s hadn’t changed all that much. It looked like the same dowdy seaside dive Mike always knew, except that Gloria was no longer behind the bar. Then again, if the newspapers in the boxes out front were correct, Gloria would now be 77-years old.

Mike’s mind wandered for a moment. There was something oddly familiar about the gal behind the bar. Was he nuts? Damn, Mike thought, as he settled onto his usual stool at the bar. She looks just like Gloria.

The young woman took Mike’s drink order. Did her voice sound a bit like Gloria’s? He dismissed the thought and enjoyed his first bourbon. He’d catch up with crazy Dr. Huber tomorrow. All he had to do was track down Horst Mueller, who’d likely be found at Cal Tech. He’d get a car in the morning and drive out to Pasadena. Right now, he needed to relax and get a grip on his bizarre situation. He called for another shot. Then another. No beer tonight for Mike. The stress of time travel had him back on the hard stuff.

There was a Daily News sports section sitting on the bar and Mike paged through it. An article on the pro baseball offseason made no mention of his beloved Hollywood Stars. Mike read that there were now two major league teams in town, the Angels and the Dodgers. Were these the same Dodgers that played in Brooklyn? Did the Stars still exist? Was Gilmore Field still standing? Mike shoved the sports page down the bar. He was in deep shit. If he didn’t stay focused, madness could be just around the corner.

Several rounds later, Mike had focused enough to learn the barmaid’s name was Gina but little else. He told her his name was Mike, feeling slightly more comfortable — and more than a little guilty. After all, he was engaged to Gloria. But the all-too-familiar-looking Gina was a pleasure to talk to – and as long as she set up the drinks, Mike would knock ‘em down.

By now, Gloria would have started pouring him coffee.

Way too many bourbons later, Mike was still looking for the right moment to confess to Gina that he was a traveler from the distant past. Of course, that would be stupid — but he had lots of questions that needed answers. First, he wanted to know more about his iPhone. So, he took a chance. Pulling it out of his pocket, he complained to Gina that it didn’t work. Gina knew what it was right away.

“Cool. An iPhone! Wish I had one. How much did it cost?”

Mike had no idea what it cost. He assumed it was probably expensive. “Way too much,” he said with a feeble smile. Gina laughed. “I know,” she said, “but they’re worth it.”

Mike handed the iPhone to her. “Looks like your battery’s dead. You just need to re-charge it,” she said, handing it back to him. She was sorry she didn’t have a charger. “You must be a high roller, Mike. You’re on the cutting edge of technology.” Mike smiled. If she thinks an iPhone is cutting edge, he mused to himself, how about a damn time portal? His head was swimming. There was something about Gina. Something familiar. She told Mike he could get an iPhone charger just about anywhere.

While Gina served her other customers, Mike listened to the conversations at the bar. He couldn’t keep up. The sports scores and current events were beyond him. He was fifty-seven years behind the times. He knocked back his last shot, bid Gina a too-flirtatious goodbye, and made his stumbling exit.

Weaving his way out of Zack’s, Mike made his way to a secluded spot on the beach that he knew well: a surfer’s cove where he’d camped overnight many times. There was a small cave at low tide, carved out by decades of pounding surf. He’d crash there. In the morning he’d get a car, charge up his iPhone and track down Horst – and Huber.

It was bizarre being stuck in the future, but he was determined to stop this mad Nazi plot and get back to Gloria, marry her, baby her up, and live happily ever after. That is, if he could make it back to 1951.

He was very drunk. And tired. So very, very tired. Soon, the crashing waves lulled him to a blessed, boozy sleep.

6 Comments

Filed under Adventure, Art, Classic Film, History, literature, Novel, Politics, Truth

Tagged as books, Detective fiction, family, fiction, Los Angeles, love, Malibu, mystery, Paul Barrosse, World War Two, writing

November 9, 2025 · 7:16 pm

My First Novel: Chapter Six

Cool. The 100 “likes” goal having been reached, please enjoy Chapter Six. Of course, you can read the whole novel to-date by clicking on “My Novel” in the “Landmarks” menu to the right. Once we get to 120 “likes” — I’ll deliver Chapter Seven. As always, thanks for reading!

Chapter Six

Mike got dressed and drove over to the Malibu post office. Sure enough, there was Dr. Otto Huber’s mug on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list, with a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to his capture. Mike didn’t know whether to be impressed or not. Sure, ten grand was a lot of money – but if this guy was really a scientific genius that could keep Uncle Sam ahead of the Kremlin in the bomb and missile game, ten grand seemed like chump change. Then again, he and Gloria could afford a nice house with that kind of dough.

It was just about lunchtime, so Mike left the post office and headed straight to Zack’s. He’d get a bite to eat and, unfortunately, he had to let Gloria know that he couldn’t take her to An American in Paris that night. He hated to break their first official date, but he had to be at Murphy’s Ranch before 7:00 to witness Horst and Huber make their next move. Of course, he couldn’t tell Gloria that. He’d just say he was starting work on a new case. Mike didn’t like holding out on his intended, but it wasn’t a lie. Not really. He was a detective. Everyone was on a need-to-know basis. Especially, the girl he loved.

Mike’s blood was up. He’d grown cynical since the end of the war and his battles with the police department brass. He was having an increasingly hard time with everything and everybody — except Gloria. But Mike’s detective juices were flowing again. This was one hell of a mystery to be solved. Plus, the reward money for nabbing Huber would pay for a Hawaiian honeymoon — and a big downpayment on that house. They could start their life together in style.

Andy had warned Mike about trying to take down Huber on his own, but he couldn’t go to the authorities. Not with his reputation as a renegade. There was no way he could approach the LAPD or the FBI with a kooky-sounding story about one of their most wanted fugitives traveling back and forth from the present to the future — through a fucking time portal in the ruins of a hidden Nazi hideout just off Pacific Coast Highway.

Hearing such nutty stuff, they’d probably lock him up.

Mike needed to follow up on what he heard at Murphy’s Ranch last night. If he got there by 7:00 pm, he might learn whether Huber and Horst were just two nutcases — or whether they were truly capable of doing the incredible things they were talking about.

When Mike got to Zack’s, his favorite spot at the bar was open. But Gloria was nowhere in sight. Her mother, Barbara, was behind the bar. When she saw Mike take his stool, she put down the mug she was washing and made her way over to have a chat with the guy who just gave her twenty-year-old daughter an expensive engagement ring.

“Hi, Mike. You want something for lunch?”

“Sure do, Barbara. I’ll have a bowl of chili and a side of fries.”

Barbara kept her eyes on Mike as she turned her head slightly in the direction of the kitchen window and called out, “Chili and fries!”

“Something to drink?”

“I’ll have a Coke.”

She kept her gaze on Mike while reaching below the bar and pulling a Coke bottle out of the cooler. She was still looking at him as she popped open the bottle and put it in front of him.

“Gloria’s working in the kitchen right now. You wanna talk to her?”

“I’d love to.”

“I’ll have her bring out your chili and fries.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

There was a beat as Barbara stared Mike down.

“So, Mike… Is there anything you want to talk to me about?”

Mike was caught flat-footed. But before he could reply, Gloria glided in with Mike’s food and saved his ass. “I’ve got it, Ma,” she said. “The man’s hungry. He’s not looking for conversation.”

“Who knows what he’s looking for?” said Barbara, throwing up her hands. “Enjoy your lunch, Mike. We’ll talk when you have an opening in your busy schedule.”

Barbara went into the kitchen. Mike didn’t mean to hold out on Gloria’s mom, but he didn’t know what to say.

Gloria came out and set Mike’s chili down in front of him, her smile a luminous beam. She wore his ring on a chain around her neck. “Look what I got from my steady,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Careful you don’t dip it in my chili.”

Mike knew it wasn’t a very funny line – but Gloria laughed anyway. He was thrilled that Gloria accepted his ring — but how long would she make him wait? She said they had time. But how much time? She said it wasn’t like he was going off to war. But in a way, maybe he was. If she only knew the truth. And if she knew, would she approve of what he was doing? Or would she think he was a hopeless case – a loser chasing windmills, like that old Spanish guy he read about in college.

Mike took charge of the conversation. He pretended to blush. Well, maybe he wasn’t pretending.

“Your mom had me cornered for a moment there.”

“She may not show it, but she likes you, Mike.”

“And you?”

Gloria placed her hand over Mike’s. “Like I said. You’re my steady guy, you goof.” She gave him an air kiss then spun around to attend to customers at the other end of the bar. He watched his ring fly around her neck, as her perfume lingered in the air. She always wore the same perfume. Jasmine. It was winter, but Gloria always smelled like spring.

Mike wolfed down his lunch, ordered a dessert, and ate that in a hurry, too. When Gloria came to take his plate, Mike was flummoxed. He didn’t expect this part to be so hard. In one way, it was just a last-minute change of plans. On another level, it was a sneak peek into the lousy, last-minute life of a detective.

He confessed to Gloria that he couldn’t take her out because he was working a new case and had an important meeting at 7:00. To Mike’s surprise, she understood right away. Or at least she pretended that she did. “Go do your job,” she purred. “We can see the movies another night.”

Damn, Mike realized, she just might be the perfect girl for him.

Mike paid his bill and Gloria motioned him to follow her out the back door. Once outside, she gave him a passionate, no-mistake kiss, wrapping her leg tightly around his waist. “Of course, I’m gonna marry you, Mike,” she said, staring into his tired eyes. “See you tomorrow, baby.” She kissed him again – and, big as he was, he almost dropped to his knees, his heart racing.

Mike promised Gloria they’d be married as soon as he closed this new case, but she had no clue how crazy this case was. Mike didn’t know either. Gloria didn’t know how his detective business worked. Sometimes Mike didn’t know either.

Luckily, Gloria didn’t ask Mike anything about his new case – so he didn’t have to make up a lie. What would she think if her brand new fiancé was investigating a dangerous, time-traveling Nazi genius?

That evening, Mike was trying not to dream about Gloria as he shivered in the moonlit shadows on Sullivan Ridge Road, waiting for Dr. Huber to show up at Murphy’s Ranch. He needed to focus on the job at hand. A pair of headlights drove up and parked on the shoulder, just about where Mike had parked the night before. Mike watched as Huber emerged and headed for the gate to the hidden compound.

Huber unlocked the chain, opened the gate, the locked it again. Mike waited a beat, then climbed over the fence as quietly as he could. In the moonlight, he could see Huber making his way down that long flight of steps. He trailed the Nazi fugitive down those five hundred steps and along the creek to the door of the cinder block building that housed the time portal. The Zeitportal. Mike shook his head and exhaled. Was that old Nazi scientist truly traveling through time? He might find out tonight.

Mike hid behind the foliage about twenty yards from the door of the blockhouse, as a nervous, shotgun-toting Horst greeted Huber, prepared to gun down any interloper. Mike took out his .45 and assessed the situation. He could get off more shots than Horst, but Horst only needed one reasonably accurate blast to win the battle. So, Mike hung back and watched from beyond the range of Horst’s shotgun. When Horst followed Huber into the building and closed the door, Mike combat-crawled up to the nearest window to hear what the conspirators were saying. He was sorry that he was wearing his best suit — and pissed that he’d forgotten his pocket notebook. Gloria was too much on his mind. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

As Mike listened below the window, it occurred to him that these two guys didn’t have much in the way of security. Just jittery young Horst and his shotgun. But, of course, Mike figured, they’re scientific eggheads, not trained espionage agents. And maybe they’re afraid to trust anyone else with their plans. After all, Huber’s a wanted fugitive with a hefty price on his head. That’s a lonely spot to be in.

The two men were in a heated conversation. Horst, with more than a little attitude, stridently reminded his elder that he was no mere flunky, content to be spoon-fed the great doctor’s plan bit-by-bit. Horst Mueller demanded to know Huber’s entire plan in advance. He had every right to be fully informed or he couldn’t be of maximum service to the glorious cause. Horst reminded his esteemed elder partner that his parents were founding members of the original Murphy’s Ranch enclave, and they’d spent millions on Huber’s time-travel project. It was clear to Mike that Horst was an arrogant, privileged rich boy. And a true-believing Nazi zealot to boot.

For a moment, Mike considered how satisfying it would be to take this prick down with one clean shot from his .45.

Horst was on a roll now — a wealthy, pampered heir having an indignant tantrum. Dr. Huber did not interrupt as his agitated acolyte reminded him how he’d practically grown up in this hidden compound. When Horst’s parents were arrested in the raid after Pearl Harbor, betrayed no doubt by the ignorant laborers who worked on the property, he wanted to travel to Germany and enlist in Hitler’s army, but he was only twelve years old. Instead, he stayed in school, enrolled in Cal Tech at the age of seventeen, and became a pioneering computer science prodigy. Horst pointedly stated that he wasn’t just a security guard. He wasn’t just Huber’s secretary. He was a genius in his own right, the good doctor’s equal: a fellow fighter for the great Aryan cause.

Huber endured the young man’s rant. 22-year-old Horst was his most devoted protégé, so despite his instinct to scold the intemperate youth, the old physicist put his arm around Horst and spoke to him with the warmth of a father figure. As Mike listened, Huber assured Horst that their plan would succeed, that Nazism would survive far into the future. He, Huber, would literally carry the Fuhrer’s vision through the time portal that he and Horst had built. Nazism would travel through their time portal and into a distant tomorrow. And Horst would play a central role in the glorious campaign to follow.

Mike couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was Huber running some elaborate con job? Was he bilking this fascist rich boy? Getting him to bankroll his research into time travel? Mike strained to keep up with their conversation and the helter-skelter mix of German and English. But it seemed clear that tonight was D-Day for this far-fetched operation.

Dr. Huber started walking Horst through each step of their plan for the last time. It was the wildest thing Mike had ever heard. As he crouched beneath the window, Mike’s legs began to cramp and the pain in his hip returned with a vengeance, but he stayed focused on the plot being laid out by Dr. Huber. It sounded like total madness. Was Huber serious? Or a high-stakes Nazi grifter?

Huber told Horst that when he crosses through the portal, the date will be December 12, 2008 – fifty-seven years into the future. Just as it has been on his previous two trips through the portal. Huber’s first priority upon arriving in the future will be to link up with Horst. By that time, Dr. Horst Mueller should be a 79-year-old Nobel Prize-winning astrophysicist and professor emeritus at Cal Tech in Pasadena.

Of course, young Horst was pleased to hear this. It played to his enormous ego. But, Dr. Huber emphasized, it will take nearly six decades of hard work and fanatical devotion to their plan for Horst to become the right man at the right time in 2008. By then, Horst will have spent a lifetime secretly improving their time portal – and building another hidden portal in an old Berlin bomb shelter.

Dr. Huber gave his iPhone to Horst and warned him not to tell anyone about its existence. He explained that reverse engineering this device will allow Horst to make huge technological leaps over his colleagues in computer science, assuring his advancement at Cal Tech – and a likely Nobel Prize. Meanwhile, Huber explained, it will be Horst’s task to improve their portal’s passenger capacity and date range.

As Mike understood it, the big problem seemed to be that the portal could currently only take one or two people back and forth from the present day and time to the same day and time in 2008. And that wouldn’t suffice if their scheme was to be successful. They must be able to go further back into the past — before Hitler retreated to the Fuhrerbunker in Berlin on January 16, 1945. Huber pointed to a large calendar in the wall. Huber had settled on a target date of January 1, 1945. It would be a great new year for the Third Reich after all.

The plan was to gather the cream of the Nazi hierarchy, including Hitler himself, and bring them all into the future. “Just think of it, Horst — Speer, Goebbels, Goering, and Himmler – all of them traveling through our portal and arriving here in the United States. We’ll gather a well-armed underground army from all the American militia groups and conquer The United States from the inside!”

Mike wondered who these “American militia groups” were that Dr. Huber was talking about. The German American Bund had been a big deal before Pearl Harbor and the FBI had busted quite a few cells of Nazi spies and saboteurs during the war. And sure, those white-hooded, racist Ku Klux Klan creeps were also up to no good. But Mike didn’t have to wonder for too long, as Dr. Huber continued to enlighten his protégé.

“The spirit of Nazism is very much alive in America in 2008. Their national leaders talk of unity and racial equality – but white supremacy is still embraced by millions. Many groups have armed themselves, especially in the rural areas. They dream of a new civil war. And we, Horst, we will provide them with the leadership they need to win that war.”

He clapped Horst on the back. “Now, to work!”

Mike’s head hurt. So did his legs. That old piece of Jap shrapnel was calling out from his hip. It was hard for Mike to believe that Dr. Huber’s crazy plan wasn’t just some kind of elaborate scam, cooked up to swindle Horst into bankrolling his mad experiments. But if Huber was a con artist, he was a damned good one.

Huber went about tweaking dials, turning knobs and calling out numbers to Horst, who dutifully wrote them down. It appeared that Huber was minutes away from stepping through the time portal.

At that point, Mike had a crazy thought. Why not follow Huber through the portal and see what the hell was actually going on? If Huber was just running a con job on a gullible rich kid, Mike would soon find out. And if Huber was telling the truth…holy shit.

Mike felt again how much he loved the thrill of solving a mystery. That’s what he enjoyed about detective work. Sure, Huber was a valuable fugitive. There was the reward money to consider. Mike could easily get the drop on both men and bag Huber right now. Horst was busy preparing the portal and his shotgun was resting against the wall, too far away to do him any good if Mike made his move.

As Huber stepped toward the portal, Mike tossed a large rock on the roof. Horst looked up at the ceiling, grabbed his shotgun, and ran out the door, allowing Mike just enough time to slip inside unnoticed, just as Dr. Huber was passing through the time portal.

Without pausing to reconsider, without thinking of his beloved Gloria, Mike Delaney drew his .45 and followed the Nazi genius into the unknown.

5 Comments

Filed under Art, Classic Film, History, literature, Novel, Politics, Truth

Tagged as books, Detective fiction, family, fiction, Los Angeles, Malibu, Paul Barrosse, short-story, World War Two, writing

November 8, 2025 · 8:12 pm

My First Novel: Chapter Five

Okay. We’ve reached 90 likes. So, here’s Chapter Five! Thanks for reading, folks. Keep those comments coming. Our boy Mike is getting deeper into the unknown. Of course, you can read the whole novel in sequence at right in “Landmarks” by clicking on “My Novel”. 100 “likes” and I’ll drop Chapter Six.

Chapter Five

The sun was setting as Mike drove slowly up Sullivan Ridge Road above Rustic Canyon. After a while, the road wasn’t paved. A half-mile in, it got bumpy, and he knew he was close to Murphy’s Ranch. The road wasn’t well travelled, but it wasn’t forgotten. For decades, Hollywood big shots had made their homes in the hills high above the hidden Nazi compound. It was dark when Mike parked his car, tucking it out of sight behind the roadside chaparral.

Mike had no reason to think anybody was following him, but he moved like he was being tracked. As on any dangerous case, he had his old Marine combat knife strapped to his right shin. He was also packing the 45-caliber automatic pistol he’d found on a shell-torn Pacific battlefield and smuggled stateside as a souvenir. Both had saved his life more than once. If things got as crazy as he imagined they might, he could need them tonight.

Mike had only walked about a few dozen yards when he managed to find the overgrown gate to Murphy’s Ranch. He climbed over the chained and locked gate and made his way down the five hundred vertigo-inducing concrete steps into what remained of the secret fascist enclave. He couldn’t see much in what little moonlight there was, but he didn’t dare use his flashlight. He advanced as if he was walking point on a night patrol. He had to find the meeting place, wherever it was, by 8:00. And he only had twenty minutes to get there.

Mike followed the shallow creek at the bottom of the canyon and with ten minutes to spare, he came upon a cinder block pillbox with lights ablaze in the one small window he could see. Voices could be heard inside.

The meeting was already underway.

Mike looked at his watch. 7:56. “Holy crap,” he whispered, it was really happening. He felt for the .45 under his jacket and crept up beside the window, careful to stay out of sight.

Keeping in the shadows, Mike peered through the window. It was a twenty-five-foot square chamber. Sophisticated machinery was in evidence everywhere: lots of wires and pipes and dials and buttons, but nothing Mike recognized. Two men were speaking what sounded like a mix of English and German. The young man didn’t seem to be as fluent in German as the older man, whose vocabulary and accent were superb. Mike listened for a moment. The younger man, who appeared to be in his early twenties, addressed the older man as “Doctor Huber.”

Mike understood the dynamics of rank and could tell that the younger guy was clearly subordinate to Huber, who looked more than thirty years older than his obvious assistant. Extremely agitated, Huber told the young man, whom he called “Horst,” that he was angry with himself for losing something. Some wondrous piece of advanced technology. At that moment, Mike wished his mom had spoken a lot more German around the house, and that he’d been more attentive in class at UCLA. But since Horst spoke less German than Huber, it wasn’t hard for Mike to get the gist of what they were saying. He was pleased with how well he was keeping up with their conversation — though what Dr. Huber said next made Mike wonder if he truly understood what they were saying at all.

If Mike heard him right, Dr. Huber was complaining to Horst that he’d intended to bring this incredible object “Zurück aus der Zukunft.” Mike took out his pocket notebook and wrote it down. “Zurück aus der Zukunft.” He had to make sure he remembered the words right – because they meant “back from the future.”

Did Huber really say, “back from the future”? What could that mean? Horst mentioned the word “future” several times. But Mike still couldn’t make out what exactly Dr. Huber had lost.

Huber told Horst that the device he’d just lost had far more computing power than anything current science had produced. Huber was adamant that he had to go back through the “Zeitportal” to find another such device. Mike jotted “Zeitportal” in his notebook. It wasn’t a difficult word to understand. “Ziet” meant “time”. And “portal” was the same word in English. Were these guys talking about a time portal?

Mike was listening very closely now, keen to understand every word of this crazy conversation. He took notes as the two scientists discussed how Huber’s lost piece of technology could advance their master plan. “Time portal?” “Master plan?” Mike didn’t like the sound of Germans talking about a master plan.

Mike couldn’t believe what he was hearing and seeing. This might turn out to be the wildest case he’d ever stumbled into.

And he was stone cold sober.

As Mike eavesdropped, he gathered that Horst was living in the hidden, forgotten compound, guarding the time portal that he and Dr. Huber had built. The portal was comprised of a large ring of wires and steel about thirty feet in circumference, with electronics and lights that meant nothing at all to Mike. Dr. Huber stepped toward that otherworldly contraption and declared he’d be back within the hour with another device like the one he lost. Mike watched in amazement as Horst fiddled with various controls and fired up the time portal, which hummed to life. Then, Dr. Huber entered the time portal and disappeared.

Mike was slack-jawed at what he was witnessing, but he steeled himself to calm down and focus. Did Huber really just disappear? This was when Mike was always at his best. When the crap was about to hit the fan, whether on Tarawa or in a dark alley in Long Beach, he knew how to shift into low gear and keep his mind on the mission.

With Huber gone, Mike turned his attention to Huber’s protégé, who was furiously writing up his notes. He couldn’t quite make out the situation between the two men. Dr. Huber was clearly in charge, but what organization were they working for? Was this a continuation of the Nazi fantasy embraced by Herr Schmidt and the founders of Murphy’s Ranch? Or was this something else?

Mike knew he had to stay put until Dr. Huber got back. That is if he got back.From the future?

It was all totally nuts.

The night was getting colder, and Mike regretted not wearing an overcoat. Of course, only in Los Angeles would forty degrees on a December night be considered cold. He’d been shivering in the dark for nearly an hour when Dr. Huber reappeared.

Mike watched as Huber emerged from the Zeitportal, triumphantly holding a small rectangular thing in his hand. Mike rubbed his eyes and stared at the object that Huber proudly showed to his protégé. It looked just like the same strange black device Mike had in his pants pocket!

Huber told Horst that the people of the future call it a “smart phone” or an “eye phone.” There was no mistaking those two names as Huber apparently didn’t know a German language equivalent. Mike took the device out of his pocket and looked at the writing on the back. “iPhone 3G.”

Mike realized his “iPhone” must be the very same “eye-phone” that Huber had lost, since the message on its screen led Mike directly to this meeting. He knew he had to hold on tightly to his mystery gizmo. There was no telling how it might help him as he tried to figure out just what the hell was going on.

In a commanding tone, Dr. Huber ordered Horst to make sure the portal’s systems were fully recharged by 7:00 pm tomorrow night. That’s when he’d go back to the future and start to put their plan into action. The two men ended their meeting with a crisp Nazi salute and a hearty “Heil Hitler!”

Mike could see that, just like those fanatic Japanese soldiers still hiding in caves, unwilling to surrender six years after the war, Horst and Huber were devoted dead-enders. Only they weren’t at a dead end. They’d apparently cooked up some wild, nefarious time-traveling plan. And that made them more dangerous than those Jap holdouts, hiding from their victorious enemies.

Then again, their whole time-traveling master plan might turn out to be a lot of kooky sci-fi bullshit, like that crazy flying-saucer flick he’d seen last month, The Day the Earth Stood Still.

Mike followed Dr. Huber as the older man left his cinder block laboratory and labored up the long flight of concrete steps out of the canyon.

Huber was nimble for man his age. Mike drew on his stalking talents, which he credited to his time as a Boy Scout and improved upon as a Marine. He kept up with Huber undetected, tracking the old scientist until he got into his car and drove off. To where, Mike wondered? He didn’t try to follow. By the time he’d get to where his own car was parked, Huber would be long gone.

Besides, Mike knew exactly where Dr. Huber would be tomorrow – and when. He thought of going back down all those crazy stairs to see what young Horst was going to do next, but he was exhausted. He’d pulled off his surveillance mission so far and there was no good reason to take chances with a return visit to Murphy’s Ranch. He’s already gotten more information than he knew what to do with.

More than he could fathom.

It had been an incredible day. Did he really propose to Gloria and then watch a guy go back and forth through a time portal in the same evening? Mike had seen a lot in this world — an awful lot. But these last twenty-four hours had been like no other. He went back to his car, his thoughts swirling.

Did Dr. Huber really make a round trip to the future and back? Who was this Horst guy? What kind of plot were they cooking up? Should he alert any of his pals from the police force? And what the hell does an “iPhone” do?

At least he now had a couple of names to work with: Dr. Huber and Horst. Was Horst the guy’s first name or last?

Sleep didn’t come easy that night.

Early the next morning, as he often did, Mike went surfing at Paradise Cove before it got too crowded. As he paddled out, large swells were still being pushed onshore by yesterday’s storm. It wouldn’t be hard to catch a big wave in these conditions. Riding that wave would be the challenge.

From the time Mike was a teenager, surfing was a way to keep his body toned and his mind sharp. He surfed through high school, college, and right up to the war. Not long after his war wounds were healed, he got back on top of the waves. It was therapy. It was his religion. It was the closest thing to great sex. Conjuring the ecstasy of making love to Gloria, Mike missed his first big wave.

Despite the crazy scene Mike had witnessed at Murphy’s Ranch the night before, his proposal to Gloria was top of mind. Did he really just pop the question? Of course, he did. He was crazy about that girl. If she honored him with a “yes” he’d be the happiest jerk in the world. Lost in that thought, he missed another big wave. He wasn’t paying attention. It was Gloria. And the weird time travel thing. But it was mostly Gloria. Get your head in the game, he told himself.

These waves were too big to trifle with.

Before long Mike saw his buddy paddling out to meet him. Sergeant Andy Pafko was two years older than Mike, with over a decade of service in the LAPD. Andy tried to enlist in the Army right after the attack on Pearl, but since he was already a police officer, he was turned down by the draft board, which gave him a Class II-A deferment as he was deemed “essential.” Andy could never let that go. He wanted to be part of the big fight overseas. He hated spending his war years stateside, patrolling the seedy streets of L.A. So, of course, he drank a lot. The war took a toll even on the guys who couldn’t go.

Andy and Mike were detectives and partners a few years ago, until they both got demoted for leaning on some crooks with connections in City Hall. Mike lost his detective rank and was busted back to walk a beat. Andy got reassigned to a shitty desk job. The police chief at the time, Clemence Brooks Horrall, wound up resigning from the department a year later in ’49, when a grand jury started investigating police corruption. But Mike had quit the force before that shit went down. Meanwhile, Andy stayed as his desk doing research: looking through case files for the hot shot detectives — kept out of the main action again.

Mike understood that, for a while, Andy was wary of association with his hot-headed, hard-charging ex-partner. He knew Andy blamed him for their demotion, though they both knew the jerks they busted were mobbed up, with city officials in their pockets. But ultimately, he and Andy remained friends. And they both loved to surf. After riding a satisfying set of waves, Mike asked Andy to run down a name for him: some German-speaking guy named Dr. Huber.

Andy laughed. He didn’t have to work hard on that one.

“If we’re talking about the same Dr. Huber, then he’s on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Dr. Otto Huber. Fifty-something years old. He’s a former Nazi physicist. Some kind of uber-genius. There’s a price on his head. We want him to work for our side. The Russians want him, too.”

Andy explained that in these six years after the war, Dr. Huber managed to elude the Soviet and American governments, both hungry for his technological expertise, as they ramped up production of atomic weapons and advanced their rocket programs. “If both sides can’t get Huber to come in from the cold and join them,” said Andy, “they’d all rather see him dead.”

Andy looked Mike straight in the eyes. He knew when his old partner’s wheels were turning. “Why the interest in Huber? You hear anything about his whereabouts?”

Mike played dumb. “Nothing solid, Andy. Just heard the name and was wondering who he was. I haven’t been to the post office lately, so I didn’t see his mug on the poster.”

“You’re full of shit,” said Andy. He knew Mike wasn’t asking about some random guy just because his name came up in conversation. Mike was a UCLA college boy, but Andy still couldn’t see his surf bum pal getting into a casual chat about nuclear physics.

As they lugged their longboards off the beach, Andy warned Mike. “If you know anything about this Huber fella, you should go to the Feds. Don’t try to bust him on your own, Mike. He’s a dangerous, fanatical bastard. A real Nazi dead-ender. Taking him down is a job for the G-men.”

Mike asked, “Is there a reward?”

“Yeah,” Andy replied, his concern growing evident. “There’s a big one. Ten grand. But you can’t spend it when you’re dead.”

“Thanks, buddy,” replied Mike with a grin. “I love you, too.”

Andy slugged him in the arm. “See you next week, my friend,” he said, walking away. “That is, if you’re still alive.”

3 Comments

Filed under Art, Classic Film, History, literature, Novel, Politics, Truth

Tagged as Detective fiction, fiction, Film noir, life, love, Paul Barrosse, short-story, World War Two, writing

November 6, 2025 · 4:17 pm

My First Novel: Chapter Four

Thanks, folks. Having reached 70 “likes” — I now present Chapter Four of my serialized first novel. You can read all four chapters at once by going to “Landmarks” on the right side of the blog and clicking on “My Novel.” When we get to 90 “likes”, I’ll post Chapter Five.

Chapter Four

Mike found the nearest phone booth and called The Los Angeles Times. He tracked down the reporter who wrote the article on the Murphy’s Ranch bust. Luckily, Burt Abernathy was still on staff and thrilled to get Mike’s call. It was one of the oddest stories he’d ever covered, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone about it for nearly a decade.

“Why the sudden interest in Murphy’s Ranch?”

Mike was slow to answer. How could he tell this newspaper hack about seeing a message light up on the screen of a weird, glass and metal device straight out of science fiction?

“My dad was in the landscaping business in Malibu. He knew some guys that did gardening at this compound deep in Rustic Canyon. He said they were always tight-lipped about it.” Mike was lying, of course, but it was a plausible lie. “I was at the library today and I came across your article. I thought, maybe this could be the same Murphy’s Ranch my dad told me about.”

“Sounds like it,” said Burt. “That little Nazi cabal loved their gardening – both for raising food and for the aesthetics. They built raised gardens, planted fruit trees, and hired guys like your dad’s buddies to do the work. Winona and Norman Stephens were very wealthy. I’ve seen the blueprints for the huge mansion they were planning to build there.”

“The Stephens were convinced by a Nazi buddy named Herr Schmidt that when Hitler’s Germany conquered Europe, America would descend into anarchy. So, the Nazi true believers needed a hideout from which to plot the ultimate Nazi takeover of America. Sounds crazy, right? But so did a Japanese surprise attack on Hawaii.”

Mike thanked Burt for the info and got the site’s precise address on Sullivan Ridge Road in the Palisades. Hanging up, he glanced at his watch. He now had about seven and a half hours before 8:00 pm. It crossed his mind to ask his few remaining pals on the police force for some help. But help with what? Given how nuts this whole thing was, Mike knew he had to go it alone. At least for the time being. But first, he headed to Zack’s for lunch — and a date with his romantic destiny.

The ring he’d just bought was burning a hole in Mike’s pocket and his heart was racing as he walked into Zack’s. Gloria was right where he hoped she’d be, behind the bar, keeping things tidy. There was an open barstool right next to where she was working. Mike took it as a good omen.

“They’re finally gonna give it to Bogie!”

“They should give it to Fredric March. Bogie should’ve gotten it for Casablanca.”

Abe and Iggy were also where they belonged, their ongoing argument now focused on the Academy Award nominations.

Mike was glad Bogie might finally win Best Actor. He didn’t see many movies, but he never missed one with Humphrey Bogart. It wasn’t just a private eye thing. Bogie was great with women. He played the kind of bold, confident lover Mike wished he could be. Bogie would’ve asked Gloria out a long time ago. He’d walk right up to her, give her the ring, and pop the question without a lot of hemming and hawing.

Taking his stool, Mike felt for the small box in his pocket and found it. Finding his courage was another matter. Gloria smiled warmly as she leaned in to take his order.

“Some lunch today, Mike?”

“Yes. Anything special today?”

“Well, you’re kind of special.”

Mike’s heart leapt. Did his goddess just call him special? Was this the moment to pull out the ring? Should he wait a beat? Maybe eat first — then propose?

Gloria let him off the hook. “Take your time, honey,” she said, walking away. “By now, you know the menu better than I do.”

What followed was the longest ninety minutes of Mike’s life. He ordered a burger and ate it without tasting anything. Gloria had just flirted with him, so why couldn’t he follow up with some playful remark of his own? His mind was on the ring in his pocket, all the things he hadn’t told Gloria, and everything he wanted to say now. He ached for her. Was he moving too fast? Maybe. But is there ever a perfect time to declare your love? He was truly bad at romance. Where’s Bogie when you need him?

Mike glanced at the clock above the bar. It was getting close to 3:00. This late in the year, the sun would be setting by 5:00. It was already an orange orb hovering just above the horizon, getting ready to sink below the Pacific Ocean. It would be hard enough to find Murphy’s Ranch in the light of day, let alone in the dark. Mike had to get moving if he was gonna be there on time. On time for what? Who knew?

When Gloria came to pick up the check, Mike did the most impulsive thing he’d ever done in his life outside of a battlefield. Taking hold of Gloria’s hand, he looked her square in the eye.

“Hang on a minute, gorgeous.”

He took out the ring box and placed it on the check. “This isn’t a tip. It’s just a little something I want you to have.”

Gloria’s eyes widened. Mike wasn’t sure she fully grasped the meaning of the moment, but rather than say anything more, he waited for what she’d do or say next.

“Oh, Mike. Is that what it looks like?”

Mike blushed like a schoolboy giving his first Valentine. “Open it and see.”

Gloria opened the box, saw the ring, and – to Mike’s joy – her eyes sparkled like the gems she beheld. “Mike! It’s beautiful. I…I don’t know what to say…”

Mike hung on her next words, but they didn’t come. Was it his turn to speak? Of course it was. There was a question he needed to ask. He spoke in what he thought was a hush – but he might have been broadcasting to the entire bar.

“Gloria, darling. You must know I love you…”

“What’s going on over there?” Iggy wanted to know. Abe told him to pipe down.

“Mike’s got some business with Gloria. It doesn’t concern you.”

“I wondered when he’d grow some balls,” said Iggy. “Looks like tonight’s the night!”

Abe slugged Iggy in the arm.

It was just background noise to Mike and Gloria. They looked at each other with months of unspoken thoughts and feelings — pent up and ready to flow. Mike still hadn’t asked the big question. The Marines had been a cakewalk compared to this. Then he said it.

“Gloria. Will you marry me?”

She didn’t seem surprised by the question. She held his gaze. “Oh, Mike. You’re a darling. And I’m flattered. I truly am. But shouldn’t we go on a few dates first? My mom’s been saying you like me, but you’ve never really made a move. And now this…”

Mike’s embarrassment was growing — and Gloria must have known it. She put her hand to his face, gently brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I really like you a lot, Mike. A whole lot. But let’s do this like normal people, okay? You’re not going off to war. I’m not going anywhere, either. We have time.”

Then she leaned over the bar and kissed him. Not on the cheek, but square on the lips. Tenderly. With no hesitation. It was like an electric charge. Mike’s heart nearly sprang from his chest.

“Keep the ring, baby,” he managed to say.

“I’ll give it to my mom for safe keeping,” Gloria replied with a smile, blushing and more beautiful than ever. “Until I’m sure I’m as crazy about you as I think I am.”

With his heart in his throat, Mike managed to ask. “Want to go to a movie tomorrow night?”

“That’d be a good start,” Gloria said, beaming. “A totally normal date.”

“Is there anything you want to see?”

“Gene Kelly’s in An American in Paris at the Aero in Santa Monica. I hear it’s really good.”

“That’s a musical, right?”

“It’s Gene Kelly, silly. Of course, it’s a musical. Honestly, Mike, you’re so damned cute. You’re my mystery man. I’ve still got a lot to learn about you.”

Mike didn’t know how to respond to that. Gloria had just said a lot of stuff at once. It all sounded encouraging. Maybe. It was his turn to say something, but Gloria let him off the hook.

“I get off work at 6:00.”

“I’ll see you then, doll.”

Mike wanted to seal the deal with a kiss – but not with Abe and Iggy watching. He thought of channeling his best Bogart and saying, “Here’s looking at you, kid” — but that would’ve made a mockery of this sacred moment. Instead, he smiled at his intended like the cat that ate the canary, tipped his hat to Gloria, turned on his heel with what he hoped was the grace of Gene Kelly, and sailed out the door to Abe and Iggy’s applause.

In the parking lot, Mike struggled to focus on what he was going to do next. “Murphy’s Ranch. 8:00”. He got into his car and caught one more glimpse of Gloria, talking to her mom, showing her the ring.

Mike was on the verge of being the luckiest guy in the world. He hadn’t felt this good since before the war. But now, he was headed to a meeting that might not even happen. A meeting to which he wasn’t invited. In a place he’d never been before. A secret Nazi hideout at that.

He felt for the strange metallic object in his pocket. Should he just forget about the whole thing? Just go home and plan for his first date with Gloria?

Conflicting thoughts banged around Mike’s head as he drove out of Zack’s parking lot onto PCH — and headed up into the Palisades toward the ruins of Murphy’s Ranch.

4 Comments

Filed under Art, Beauty, Classic Film, History, literature, Novel, Politics, Truth, Uncategorized

Tagged as books, Crime novel, Detective fiction, fiction, Los Angeles, love, Malibu, Paul Barrosse, short-story, World War Two, writing

November 5, 2025 · 9:28 am

My First Novel: Chapter Three

Thanks, folks. Between my Facebook page and Blog we’re at a combined total of 50 “likes”, so here’s Chapter Three. Please note that on the right hand side of my Blog there’s a menu called “Landmarks”. There you’ll find a listing for “My Novel”. Click on that and you’ll see all three chapters in sequence. It’s easier to read that way. I’ll update “My Novel” as we go until the whole book is in there. Now, when we reach 70 likes, I’ll drop Chapter Four. Thanks for reading!

Chapter Three

Mike woke up in his parked car the next morning with a hangover from all his birthday beers. The storm had arrived just before sunrise and the rain was pounding on the roof of the car, running hard off the Spanish tile roof of his beachfront apartment building, streaming along the gutters and down the spouts, spilling over the drains, and flooding the courtyard. That’s southern California. No rain for months. Then you get clobbered.

Mike pulled his jacket over his head and ran up the steps to his apartment, getting drenched before he finally managed to open his door and collapse on the couch — soggy and sore-necked from snoozing behind the wheel. He hadn’t slept well. Drunken dreams of Gloria contended all night with nagging questions about the strange device he’d found and the meaning of “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00.”

He took the mystery object out of his pocket and examined it. It was now Thursday morning, so if today was the Thursday in the message, maybe he still had time to learn something about this mystery before 8:00 that night. Nobody was paying him to work a case at the moment, so why not look into this weird device and its cryptic message?

But first, he was determined to buy that engagement ring.

He got himself cleaned up, put on one of his better suits, and got back on the road. The storm had died down, and the light rain falling over the bay in the morning sun created a rainbow, as Mike drove down to Santa Monica where he knew a jeweler he could trust.

Mike didn’t know a damn thing about jewelry or gems. He didn’t own anything more precious than a fifty-dollar Longines wristwatch. But he’d gotten to know Albert Borroni a few years ago when his store on Wilshire and Third Street was robbed. Mike and his partner nabbed the burglars trying to fence a dozen diamond rings. An accomplice they cut out of the deal ratted them out. Albert was grateful for the swift justice – and he and Mike had been pals ever since. At least as much of a pal as antisocial Mike had.

Mike stepped out of the drizzle and into Al’s jewelry store. He caught the proprietor’s attention, they exchanged greetings, and Mike got down to business. Al was thunderstruck.

“You’re looking for an engagement ring? You? Amazing! You mean to tell me the lone wolf has formed an actual attachment to another human being?”

Albert’s surprise and sarcasm were justified. He’d never talked to Al about having so much as a date. Fact is, Mike didn’t date much at all. There was nothing wrong with his sex drive, but Mike couldn’t make small talk to save his life. He didn’t want to talk about the war, his life as a cop, or his career as a private dick. That didn’t leave much to chat about over dinner and drinks. Professional girls didn’t require conversation. But with Gloria it was different. He wanted to tell her everything.

“You got a budget for this ring, Mike?”

“A hundred fifty bucks.”

“Wow. Big spender!”

“Too cheap?”

“Don’t be an ass! I can show you some nice rings at that price.”

Albert showed him a variety of rings, some with diamonds, some with rubies and other stones. “Look at this one,” he said, “It’s one of the rings those bastards stole, and you guys got back.” Mike took the ring and examined it — not that he had any idea what to be looking for. “It was made in the early 1920’s,” Al explained. “It has a nice little diamond, flanked by two blue sapphires. And the setting is classic Art Deco. She’ll love it.”

Mike didn’t know Art Deco from Art Carney. “I’ll take it,” he said.

“An excellent choice, my gumshoe goombah.” Albert rang up the sale. “Is there a date for this wedding?”

“Tell you the truth, Al. I don’t even know if there’s gonna be a wedding. But I’ve got the ring – so that’s a start.”

Albert put the ring in a box and handed it to Mike. “She must be a special girl. You, my friend, are not for all markets.”

“I’ll let you know how it works out,” said Mike, pocketing the ring as he strode to the door. “Wish me luck.”

“My wife and I will pray a rosary. Hell – we many even sponsor a novena!”

Al Borroni was chuckling to himself as Mike hit the pavement, pleased with his purchase. If his courage didn’t fail, Mike would pop the question to Gloria tonight. He wondered how she’d react. Would she be charmed — or spooked? Maybe it was too much, too soon. He wasn’t sure where he stood with Gloria, but he just wanted to ante up. To place his bet. He’d fallen in love with her, and he wanted her to know it.

But first, he wanted to settle the other matter weighing on his mind: the mystery of “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00”.

The Santa Monica Public Library was just a couple blocks away. The rain was only a mist as Mike made his way down the street, into the library, and straight to the card catalog. He couldn’t find a listing for “Murphy’s Ranch”. The librarian sensed Mike’s frustration. An older woman in her early 50’s, maybe she knew something the card catalog didn’t.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Maybe. You have anything here about Murphy’s Ranch?”

“Murphy’s Ranch?”

“That’s right, Murphy’s Ranch. Ring a bell?”

An odd look passed across the librarian’s face. “Murphy’s Ranch. You must be a local, right?”

“I grew up in Malibu. Why?”

She walked to her desk, motioning for Mike to follow. “It was a local story, about ten years ago.” She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a stack of folders. “It happened right after Pearl Harbor.”

The librarian found the folder she was looking for, opened it, and picked through a stash of old newspaper articles. “Here it is.” She handed the article to Mike. “Crazy as it sounds,” she said, “Murphy’s Ranch was a Nazi hideout up in the Santa Monica mountains. In Pacific Palisades not far up the coast from here.”

“A Nazi hideout? No kidding.” Mike scanned the yellowing Los Angeles Times article covering the arrest of some Nazi sympathizers on December 8, 1941.

“Most people around here have forgotten all about it, but it caused quite a stir at the time. Of course, it’s not exactly a source of local pride. But I’m Jewish, so it made an impression on me and my family. You don’t forget finding out you had some secret Nazi neighbors lurking deep in a canyon, close to where you live, plotting who knows what.”

The librarian told Mike everything she knew. After Pearl Harbor, the cops arrested some American Nazis in a hidden compound they’d built in Rustic Canyon. They were members of an anti-Semitic, white supremacist group called the Silver Legion of America. They built their hideaway at Murphy’s Ranch before the war as a base for Nazi plots in America.

“They were hoping that after Hitler conquered Europe, he’d invade America – and they’d be waiting to support him. They planned their compound to be self-sustaining,” she explained, “with a water storage tank, a fuel tank, a concrete bomb shelter, cinder block storeroom — the works. Ironically, the main gate was designed by the great Negro architect Paul Williams.”

“He couldn’t have known too much about his clients,” Mike mused.

“It was known as Murphy’s Ranch because the owner of record was a guy named Murphy,” the librarian went on, “The real owners were Winona and Norman Stephens. Some say the Murphy thing was just an alias. The place is still there. Or what remains of it. You’ve got to go down hundreds of concrete stairs to get to it.”

Wow. This was far more than Mike expected. American Nazis living and plotting in a hidden compound in the Pacific Palisades? Hell, Mike was living in Malibu and attending UCLA in Westwood in ‘41 when the cops broke up this crazy fascist fantasy. He’d driven past a secret Nazi camp every day — and he had no idea. But now that he knew a little something about Murphy’s Ranch, “Thursday night 8:00” became a lot more intriguing.

It was 11:15 am. Mike had less than nine hours to learn more about Murphy’s Ranch and find out what, if anything, might be going on in that old Nazi hideout.

4 Comments

Filed under Art, Beauty, History, literature, Novel, Politics, Truth

Tagged as Crime novel, Detective fiction, family, fiction, life, mystery, Paul Barrosse, short-story, World War Two, writing

November 4, 2025 · 9:01 am

My First Novel: Chapter Two

Okay. 15 likes is more than enough to trigger Chapter Two. Thank you all very much! I hope you enjoy it. It will take a total of 30 likes to release Chapter Three. This process is a bit like one of those old-time movie serials like “Buck Rogers” or “The Perils of Pauline.” You’ve gotta wait for that next installment.

Chapter Two

Cruising north through Malibu on his way home, Mike glanced to his left at the ocean. Through the rain, the moon was bright enough to see the white caps of the storm-driven surf as it surged toward the beach. This coastline was where he was born and raised. He’d conquered an early fear of the water to become a damn good surfer. His dad owned a small landscaping business: trimming, planting, and raking the lush yards of the high rollers who lived in the low hills to his right, overlooking the ocean. His parents didn’t want their only son pushing a wheelbarrow for a living – or worse, becoming a surf bum — so they saved up to send their golden boy to college.

Mike’s thoughts went back nine years to the months after Pearl Harbor. At the time, he was in his second year at UCLA. He remembered how his parents reacted when he enlisted in the Marines. They weren’t thrilled that he was delaying his education, but his dad had survived the trenches in The Great War and was proud to see his son do his bit. Hi mother could only cry and pray. Cry and pray. So, instead of getting his diploma and moving on to grad school, he got basic training at Camp Pendleton, dog tags, an M1 rifle, and the opportunity of a lifetime to go island hopping in the Pacific. The term “island hopping” always pissed him off. It was too cute. Like it was game.

Mike remembered “island hopping” all too well: that series of savage battles waged to capture strategic islands from the desperate, dug-in Japanese. Mike was lucky enough to escape the carnage on Tarawa with no more than a gunshot wound in his right arm. The bullet missed anything vital, so the medics patched him up and threw him back into the meat grinder. Mike figured he must have done something good on Tarawa before he got wounded because the Marines gave him a Bronze Star to go along with his Purple Heart.

He healed up in time to join the bloodbaths on the Marshall Islands: shell-torn strips of coral, sand, and jungle fever with crazy names like Kwajalein and Peleliu. He was always wet, always on edge, always exhausted — always a stroke of luck away from death. While managing to stay alive, he was promoted to sergeant and command of a rifle platoon. The lieutenant who had the job before him was blown to bits by a Jap artillery shell. That’s how advancement works on the battlefield: next man up.

He was leading his platoon on Iwo Jima when a Jap grenade ended his military career. He had no memory of what happened before and after that blast, but he evidently led his platoon well during the battle because the Marines sent him stateside with a Silver Star to go with his Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts. His parents were proud to see their son come home a decorated war hero. But Mike didn’t feel heroic. He was just glad to make it out alive.

After recovering from his wounds at a San Diego military hospital, 22-year-old Mike went back to Los Angeles. On his first day home in Malibu, he got the Marine Corps logo tattooed on his strong right forearm in honor of his lost comrades — and looked ahead to the peacetime future.

All the beers he’d just downed at Zack’s made Mike woozier than he expected. Gloria had cut him off just in time. He prided himself on holding his liquor, but he wasn’t great behind the wheel right now, especially on the wet road. He sure as hell didn’t want to get stopped by the cops. That’d be a real pain in his ass. So, he pulled off PCH, parked on a bluff overlooking one of his favorite surf breaks, and continued to think about the past.

For a while, he worked with his dad in the landscaping business, but his parents urged him to go back to school, finish his education, and become a doctor. Planting some movie star’s palm trees was no job for a war hero. Mike agreed with his parents, but he couldn’t wrap his head around going back to college. Not after Tarawa. Not after Iwo Jima. Plus, he’d seen enough doctors, hospitals, awful wounds, and deadly diseases to last a lifetime. Medical school was not for him. He needed to do something else. But what?

One night, Mike was drinking at Zack’s with a Marine pal he met while convalescing in San Diego. Eddie had been an MP in the service, policing the waterfronts on hellholes in the Solomon Islands. Eddie had lost some of his hearing when an enemy shell blew up a nearby ammo dump on Guadalcanal. But Eddie’s MP experience helped land him a job as a Los Angeles cop. Eddie assured him that, given Mike’s impressive war record and his time at UCLA, he was a shoo-in for the force.

Eddie was right. Mike made it through the police academy with the ease of a veteran who’d been through basic at Pendleton and commanded men under fire. Mike went at the job of being a policeman like he was hitting some Jap-held beach. Bold and fearless. Some would say reckless. Within a few years, he rose from beat cop to detective. Very few guys rose in rank that quickly. It ruffled some feathers — but promoting a bona fide war hero made for a nice article in all the papers. It was good press for the LAPD brass.

Some guys on the force thought Mike was too aggressive, too inclined to act on his own, blind to department politics, and quarrelsome with his superiors. Mike knew they were right. But the only guys on the force he truly respected were the ones who fought and bled in the war. Guys like Eddie. To Mike, everybody else was play-acting. Hollywood cops. It wasn’t fair, maybe, but that’s how he felt. At least most days he felt that way. Most nights he drank.

And on this night, he’d guzzled down a few too many beers. Mike stuck his head out the car window and took a deep breath. The chill air and rain on his face had the right effect. His head was beginning to clear, but not enough to drive home safely. Not yet.

Beer – and before that, bourbon — helped to dull the pain in his hip, but that’s not why he boozed so much. He started drinking hard during his first year as a cop. It helped him deal with the fact that he’d traded one war for another. He was just wearing a different uniform. But this time, the killing served no higher purpose, and the end of the war was never in sight. Fighting crime in L.A. was like trying to root out the last of the Japanese dead-enders still holding out in caves on those bloody islands. Mike took another deep breath of ocean air.

God, he loved the water. The surf. The peace.

When Mike was feeling particularly unsettled, angry, or weary of seeing the worst side of postwar Los Angeles, he would head to Malibu to visit his parents and surf. But after his dad dropped dead of a heart attack while lugging a bag of peat moss up to some rich asshole’s hillside garden, Mike checked in with his mom less frequently. Her sorrow bugged him. What could he say to her? He’d seen thousands of young men in the prime of their lives die miserably on blasted specks of jungle in the middle of nowhere. He’d seen far too many innocent young people murdered on the streets of L.A. His dad was a 65-year-old man who died doing the job he loved: an Irish immigrant running his own business in America. Where was the grief in that?

Feeling like he was now just two sheets to the wind, Mike started his car and drove back out onto Pacific Coast Highway. After a few uneasy minutes driving in what was now a pelting rain, he managed to make it safely into one of the parking spaces below his apartment. Not a cop in sight. He’d gotten away with it tonight, but the last thing he wanted was to give his old colleagues on the police force the pleasure of the putting the big hotshot war hero in the drunk tank.

The rain drummed on the car roof as Mike leaned back in the driver’s seat and closed his eyes, his head swimming with beer and memories.

He’d been a cop for only four years when, after far too many run-ins with the department brass, his standing as a rising star gave way to a well-earned reputation as a hard-headed know-it-all with a stubborn streak and an unhealthy disregard for danger. When he got demoted from detective back to beat cop, he read the writing on the wall. He saw that, like his dad, it was better for him to run his own business. So, he quit the force in ‘49 and hung out his shingle as a private investigator. He swore off the bourbon and switched to beer. It was time to clean up his act. At least a little.

Young as he was for a private eye, Mike’s chest full of wartime medals and his detective experience kept him in paying customers among the Hollywood elite. But he soon found that tracking down missing rich kids, staking out cheating spouses, and fixing indelicate problems for folks with scads of money was even more soul crushing than battling domestic battery in Encino, gang warfare in Boyle Heights, and unsolved murders in Burbank.

He started taking fewer cases, avoiding the ugliest ones. He spent more time riding waves.

Two years after leaving the police force, disillusioned 29-year-old Mike was living in Malibu, more surf bum than private investigator. When he wasn’t working the occasional case that didn’t offend his increasingly prickly sensibilities, he was sitting on a stool at Zack’s Oceanside Dive, knocking back beers and mooning over a barmaid named Gloria: the one shining, unsullied light in his life.

4 Comments

Filed under Adventure, Art, Classic Film, History, literature, Novel, Truth

Tagged as books, Detective fiction, fantasy, fiction, Film noir, Malibu, Paul Barrosse, short-story, World War Two, writing

November 3, 2025 · 11:20 am

My First Novel

I’ve written in a variety of formats over the years: plays, comedy revues, poems, songs, sitcoms, documentaries, screenplays – even Bazooka Joe comics. But never a novel. Until now. I recently finished my first novel. It’s unlike anything I’ve written to date. I don’t intend to shop this novel. I’d just like folks to read it. So, I’m presenting the first chapter here. If, and when, ten people “like” this post – I’ll post Chapter Two. And so on. Enjoy.

MALIBU NOIR

A Novel by Paul Barrosse

Dedicated to my darling Victoria

And to Peter Barrosse

My Dad & Veteran of the Korean War

Chapter One

From where Mike Delaney sat on his stool at Zack’s Oceanside Dive in Malibu, the Pacific Ocean looked anything but pacific. A storm was building, howling hard across the Santa Barbara Channel.

The surf slammed into the jagged rocks and wooden pilings below Zack’s waterfront deck, yet the gal working the bar wasn’t concerned. The crashing waves shivered Zack’s timbers, but 20-year-old Gloria polished her beer and shot glasses with no hint of concern. She was cool. And she was hot.

Gloria and Mike had been flirting for a few months now. At least Mike thought she was flirting with him. He normally did pretty well with girls. He was tall and good looking. Ever since The Asphalt Jungle came out the year before, he sometimes got compared to the movie star Sterling Hayden. Guys would call him “Dix” just to needle him. Yeah, he did okay with the ladies — but Gloria wasn’t just another chick he was looking to score.

Gloria was nice to Mike, but it was hard to tell how much she liked him because she was so damn nice to everybody. Still, he sensed she was extra nice to him. Gloria was the best thing Mike had found since he got back from the war six years ago. Since he survived the war. Swiveling on his bar stool to better track Gloria’s movements, a sharp, painful twinge in his hip reminded Mike how narrowly he survived.

Gloria’s mother, Barbara, owned the joint. Her late husband Zack was an abalone diver who cashed out, sold his boat, and bought the bar from the original owner who moved back East after a Malibu wildfire swept down the hillside and nearly torched the place. Gloria planned to go to college, but when her dad suddenly died of a brain aneurysm, she began helping her mom out at the bar.

Gloria was no typical barmaid. She was special. And Mike Delaney was falling hard for her. He wished he could tell her how crazy he was about her.

He wished he felt better about himself.

Johnnie Ray was crying on the jukebox as Mike tried to get his mind off Gloria by paging through a leftover Los Angeles Times. There wasn’t much news out of Korea lately. The war had ground to a stalemate after Heartbreak Ridge. That was the Army’s show. And a bloody show it was. Mike had found out just a week ago that he knew a couple guys who bought it in that useless battle. He knocked back the rest of his second beer, then waved to Gloria for another.He turned to the sports section to get his mind off war and death.

Mike was a baseball fan, and a pretty good player himself. He started in center field for his high school team and played some ball in the Marines before he was wounded. But a makeshift diamond on a shell-blasted island in the Marshalls was nothing like well-groomed Gilmore Field, where his favorite team played. The Hollywood Stars had ended the ‘51 Pacific Coast League season with a record of 93 wins and 74 losses, but they only finished in second place. Mike soon tossed the paper aside. Winter was the worst for baseball news. There was nothing new on the Stars.

By now, Mike was into his fourth beer — with more to come. Nothing specific drove him to drink. He came out of the war better than a lot of his buddies. He was alive after all. But he didn’t feel settled. He wasn’t over it. Any of it, really. Zack’s was the one place where, gazing at Gloria, he began to feel he was in the right place at the right time. He was dealing with a lot of stuff. It was about Gloria, sure. But it was about a lot more.

By the time Patti Page was singing “The Tennessee Waltz”, Mike was two more beers into his evening. It was his birthday, December 10, 1951. When you’re born between Thanksgiving and Christmas, you learn life doesn’t revolve around you. You get lost in the holiday hubbub. From as early as Mike could remember, he tried to let things roll off his back. He tried not to sweat the small stuff. He practiced being easygoing.

It wasn’t always easy. And he didn’t always succeed.

Most private dicks were anything but easygoing — but the hardboiled thing wasn’t Mike’s bag. Not that his 29 years of life experience didn’t justify cynicism. Hell, total nihilism was an appropriate reaction to what he’d seen and done. But Mike wasn’t wired that way. He signaled Gloria for another beer. He wasn’t into the hard stuff anymore. Mike and strong booze didn’t get along.

Not very long ago, they got along too well.

Gloria handed Mike a new bottle of beer. “That’s number five,” she noted with a smile, before whisking away his empty and moving on to her other customers. Mike felt she served him with an attention she didn’t pay to anyone else. She was even counting his drinks. That proved Gloria cared about him. The goddess Gloria.

For Mike, it was just he and Gloria at the bar that night. Everyone else was a bit player — like extras in the movies being shot all over town, like some rookie on the far end of the Hollywood Stars bench. When the right time came, Mike would be up to bat, he’d knock it out of the park, and Gloria would be his!

With these thoughts in mind, Mike fumbled in his pocket.

It was still there.

He’d found a strange object earlier that day and didn’t know what to make of it.

Mike had been surfing the storm-driven swell off Point Dume and was walking back to his car when he saw something odd lying on the shoulder of Pacific Coast Highway. It was a black rectangular thing about five inches long, three inches wide, and maybe a half-inch thick — heavy for its size. One side of it was metal and the other side was glass. On the metal side it had an image that looked like an apple with a bite taken out of it and “iPhone 3G” written in small letters. On the right side was a button. There were smaller buttons on the left side. Mike tried pressing all the buttons – and must have hit the right one because the object suddenly lit up!

A message appeared on what looked like a tiny television screen. The message was written against a light blue background in German. “Murphy’s Ranch Donnerstagabend 20:00.”

Then the screen went dark.

Mike tried to turn it on again — but no luck. Maybe its battery died. Did the thing even have a battery? What the hell was it? Mike tucked the thing back into his pocket and with an instinct born of detective work, he took out his small reporter’s notebook and wrote, “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00.”

Lucky for Mike, German was basically a second language to him. His mother’s family left Hanover just before the First World War, and growing up, German was spoken quite a bit in his home. At UCLA, he majored in chemistry, but took some German classes for an easy ‘A’. When he enlisted, he played down his fluency, afraid he’d be sent to the European front as a translator. A surfer boy from Southern California, he preferred to serve with the Marines in the Pacific. Not that he ever got a chance to surf on Tarawa.

As Mike sat at the bar, mooning at Gloria, he ran over in his mind whether he should show the strange object in his pocket to her – whatever the hell it was. Would she think he was nuts? It mattered a lot to Mike what Gloria thought of him, if she ever did think of him. He decided it was best to keep the damn thing to himself and not mention it. At least not yet.

Mike was just getting to know Gloria. Weeks ago, he dared to ask how old she was — and was stunned to learn she was only nineteen. That she was so much younger than him, — and so innocent — made him nervous. She was just nine years old when the Japs hit Pearl Harbor! What could they possibly have in common? Was she too young for him? Are six bottles of beer too much? Was he too drunk to woo her? His vision of Gloria puttering behind the bar was getting blurry. It was time to go home.

Mike got up, trying not to appear drunk. He didn’t want Gloria to think he was a lightweight. As he got up off his barstool, the old pain shot through his hip, sharp and searing: a too-frequent reminder that the Marine medics didn’t get all the shrapnel out. But six years after a Jap grenade almost cost him his leg, Mike wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. The shrapnel lodged in his hip was a pain in the ass – but it was also a reminder of the injury that punched his ticket off Iwo Jima. Lots of guys didn’t make it off those eight square miles of hell. Sometimes Mike wondered if maybe some vital part of him got left on that volcanic slagheap.

“Hey, Mike!”

He turned to see Gloria advancing with a pot of coffee. “How about a cup of Joe for the road, cowboy?” She was playfully implying he’d had too much to drink — but Mike was thrilled to think she even cared. He drained the cup his goddess offered. Was she sweet on him, too?

Mike set his cup down and Gloria picked it up saying, “Happy birthday.”

“How did you know?”

She smiled. “You told me after beer number one.”

Mike was hoping she didn’t see him blushing as she pirouetted with the coffee pot and put it back on the burner. She glanced back at him for a moment. “Drive safe, Mike. See you tomorrow?”

Mike managed an unsteady, “For sure” and imagined himself blowing Gloria a gallant kiss as he floated out of the bar. The pain in his hip was dulled by the beer — and the pounding of his heart.

“Bobby Thompson got lucky!”

Abe and Iggy sat at the end of the bar, getting into it again. Abe Shatz was a Yankees fan. Ignatz Kalicky bled for the Giants. Ever since the World Series, they had the same argument at varying volumes. They were zealots. If Abe and Iggy weren’t arguing about baseball, they were arguing politics and the Korean War. Peace talks were underway in Panmunjom — but not at their end of the bar. Peace was impossible with those two. Mike was a big fan of peace. The brutal battles to liberate all those islands in the Pacific convinced him that peace was the only answer.

As he walked to his car, Mike could hear the ominous pounding of the surf. His mind wandered to the day, coming soon, when he would summon the nerve and declare his love for Gloria. He’d ask her to marry him — crazy as that might seem. In fact, he’d buy an engagement ring the very next day. He’d do the whole thing first class. She was, after all, the classiest girl he’d ever known.

But should he talk to Gloria’s mother first? Or was that old fashioned? Was he being an idiot? Did Gloria even share his affection? Wasn’t she sending all the right signals? Or did she see him as just another barfly? Should he ask her out on a date before declaring his love? A clap of distant thunder punctuated that thought.

His reverie broken, the shooting pain in his hip returned.

By the time he reached his car, he’d almost forgotten about the odd black object in his pocket. He climbed in behind the wheel and took the thing out to examine it again. The screen was still dark, but he remembered: “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00.”

He took a last look through Zack’s window and caught a glimpse of Gloria shutting the place down for the night. Tomorrow, he’d get that ring and find his courage.

Mike’s apartment was less than a mile north of Zack’s, one of three small units in a rundown beach house along Pacific Coast Highway. As he drove home in his beer-fogged state, he pondered how he’d gotten to his 29^th birthday in such an unsettled state. He wasn’t always this way. He used to be more certain of himself: certain about what he wanted and how to get it.

He felt like he was at the beginning of a turning point in his life. It wasn’t just about whether he’d ever marry his glorious Gloria. It was the mysterious thing he’d stumbled on. The strange black brick in his pocket. It was “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00.”

Drunk as he was, he was more excited about tomorrow than he’d been in years.