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December 7, 2025 · 5:58 pm

My First Novel: Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Early the next morning, Mike woke up next to Gloria, delighted to be in her bed – but worried sick about everything else. The “Rustic Canyon Shootout” had been on the news all night — and Mike had no idea what his next move should be. Gloria rolled over, stunning in the morning light, and kissed him in a way that crossed all his weary wires. “Let’s talk over breakfast, baby,” she said, soothing him amid the madness.

The television was off as Gloria cooked up French toast, eggs, and bacon while Mike scanned the Los Angeles Times. The headlines screamed that Rustic Canyon had been the scene of deadly mayhem the night before. Two cops and a dozen militiamen had been killed — but nobody was certain what the shooting was all about. Nobody but Mike and Gloria and Andy.

Mike shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth as Gloria filled his cup with coffee. Mike wished it could just stay this way: he and Gloria waking up together, having breakfast and enjoying each other’s company. It was a pipe dream, of course. Their destiny was anything but clear – and none of this would ever be normal. Normal disappeared back in ‘51. Now, the best they could do was take things one day at a time. Love each other one day at a time.

After breakfast, at 9:00 AM, Gloria drove Mike to Andy’s place.

“You really stirred up a hornets’ nest last night, pal. ‘The Rustic Canyon Shootout!’ Nice, stealthy work, my friend.”

Andy Pafko looked around to see it any of his neighbors were paying attention, then he ushered Mike and Gloria into his house. “Did you get the goods on video?”

“I got the whole meeting,” said Mike, somewhat defensively. “At least I got what they were saying. It was hard as hell to see anything without giving myself away.”

“Looks like you absolutely gave yourself away, partner,” said Andy with a pained smile. “Who shot first? You or the bad guys?”

“The bad guys. I tripped over a bush. They heard the sound and started shooting at me. Luckily, they couldn’t see me.”

“Hope you dropped ‘em all, buddy.”

“I’m not sure I hit anybody, Andy. I was firing blind. I got out of there before the bullets really started flying.”

“Gotta tell ya, pal — the shit truly hit the fan last night. In spades. Have some coffee and I’ll fill you in on what my pals on the force are telling me.”

Mike and Gloria took a seat at Andy’s small Formica kitchen table as Andy poured three cups of steaming hot coffee and launched into a description of the violent events of the night before – just as his police contacts relayed it to him.

“They found a bunch of dead bodies, Mike. Some by the side of Sullivan Ridge Road, some on and around the stairs leading down into that crazy old Nazi compound. And at least four near some cinder block building with a lot of crazy graffiti.”

“Graffiti?” Mike didn’t know the word.

“That wild spray painting the kids do nowadays.”

“That stuff that looks like Picasso?”

“If you say so, Mike. It’s just vandalism.”

Mike knew he was probably the guy responsible for the bodies near the blockhouse. They were lucky shots. He couldn’t see who he was shooting at. All he did was return fire in the direction of the muzzle flashes. Combat instinct took over.

Gloria kept silent until now. She looked at Mike, her eyes narrowing with concern. “How many guys do you think you killed, Mike? And how many were killed by the cops?” She sounded more like his lawyer than his lover.

Mike knew he likely dropped the guys near the blockhouse, and maybe he shot two or three on the concrete stairs – but nobody on Sullivan Ridge Road. The bad guys hadn’t gotten that far before Mike made his escape. The assholes gunned down on the road must’ve been courtesy of the cops.

“Relax, Gloria,” said Andy. “Your time-traveling fiancé isn’t a suspect.”

Andy turned to Mike, hard as stone.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Mike. You, my friend, don’t exist. And even if they could trace some bullets back to my TEC-9 – and odds are they can’t — how could an old guy in a wheelchair get into a gun battle, late at night, hundreds of steps down into a canyon? In that case, my gun must’ve been stolen, right? You’re home free, pal. You’re a freaking impossibility.”

Andy was right. Mike didn’t really exist. He was here — but his presence was impossible. That was his one great advantage. Horst and Huber were the only other people on Earth who could possibly understand the insanity of Mike’s situation. And they had no clue that he was on their trail.

Andy tuned in the TV to catch up on the latest updates. The “Rustic Canyon Shootout” was still big news. Reports revealed that at least ten members of various right-wing paramilitary militia groups had been killed — and that several cases of high-powered assault rifles were seized in a concrete building on the site of a ruined compound that once belonged to Nazi sympathizers in the years before Pearl Harbor.

“They’re doing their research,” grinned Andy. “Accent on ‘Nazi.’ Let that sink in.”

When Mike heard the reference to “several cases” of assault rifles, he had two thoughts. He had seen at least a dozen cases stacked in the blockhouse. One thought was that the authorities were covering up the scope of the situation. The other was that the militia boys had made off with the rest before the cops shot their way down into the canyon. Mike’s second thought was far worse than his first.

Reporters and experts were speculating that a fight between militia groups may have broken out over possession of all those assault weapons. Mike knew that was bullshit — but he kept the thought to himself. There were lots of questions about where the weapons came from. Mike knew all the answers. But who would believe him?

Andy looked Mike in the eye — serious as a heart attack. “Mike,” he said. “We’re on the verge of civil war.”

Mike was way ahead of him. He gave Gloria a look that was grim, determined, and honestly scared: the kind of look he gave to his Marine pals just before they jumped off the landing craft and waded ashore under fire. She tightened her grip on his arm.

“I hate to tell you, Mike” said Andy, “but this country is seriously FUBAR. And you know what that means. You’ve got millions of self-professed American patriots in rural pockets of this country who get hard thinking about an armed insurrection against the U.S. government. That’s coming from the FBI, the CIA, and the military. All these nuts own guns and, what’s worse, a lot of these douche bags have served in the U.S. military. They took a sacred oath to defend our country – and now they’re all jacked up about overthrowing the government.”

“I know, Andy. I’ve seen them. I’ve heard them. I watched them listening to those old Nazi bastards. They ate up every crazy, racist, fascist thing that Horst and Huber told them. It was all I could do not to open fire and mow them all down on the spot!”

Gloria squeezed Mike’s arm harder than before, grateful her man had kept his cool.

Andy went on. “These nut jobs believe in what they call ‘The Great Replacement’. They say that billionaire Jews are flooding the country with black and Hispanic immigrants who will take their jobs for less pay. They’re scared shitless that colored folk will wind up with the same rights they’ve got. They’ll burn the whole country down before they let white folks become the minority. And they’re dead serious. It’s not a game, Mike. They’re pumped up to where it’s existential for them. A lot of them are ready to go out in a blaze of glory.”

“No shit, Andy. I saw that for myself.”

“So, what did you get on video that’ll help us take these bastards down?”

Mike handed his iPhone to Gloria. She played the recorded video for Andy.

The old cop was stunned by what he saw and heard. It was insane, of course. For a start, the inexplicable presence of Dr. Otto Huber: ageless after fifty-seven years. Even if the authorities could somehow identify Huber, what would they make of his apparent visit to the fountain of youth? And how would they react to seeing a highly regarded Nobel Prize-winning Cal Tech physics professor on the scene?

But, strange as the appearance of the two German scientists was, the incendiary things that they said, the militia yahoos that were gathered, the open threats of violence — and all those automatic rifles waved around — might give Andy just what he needed to get one of his friends at the FBI to dip a cautious toe or two into all this craziness. Especially now that shots had been fired and it was now a big news story. Andy said he’d get the video to a friend in the FBI that very day. He warned Mike to be careful. Mike didn’t need to be warned.

On their way back to Gloria’s, Mike turned on the radio. Suddenly, the madness was horribly worse. The news was reporting that three mass shootings had occurred that morning in towns between Los Angeles and San Diego — Long Beach, Carlsbad, and La Jolla. High-powered automatic rifles were used in each case. The victims were in Hispanic, black, and Asian neighborhoods. The cops who responded were outgunned. Casualty counts were high among victims, responding cops, and assailants. The gunmen appeared to be targeting law enforcement as much as minority communities.

Mike’s heart sank. His clumsy stumble outside the blockhouse had prematurely set all this violence in motion. He saw right away that the militia boys weren’t waiting for Huber and Horst to call the next move. The old Nazi brain trust’s big plans were now out the window. The militia yahoos were getting their Helter-Skelter on without direction from anybody. A lot of pent-up white resentment and fury was exploding with no grand coordination.

But, Mike feared, if those two old Nazis scientists could put their time-travel plans into effect and add Hitler and his cohort to the mix, it might inspire these militia nuts to rally around the Fuhrer — and make things infinitely worse. Mike couldn’t believe he had to think about loony crap like this. Even crazier, he knew he might be the only guy in the world who could keep a lid on all this madness. That old shrapnel pain flared in his hip.

Old wounds meet new wounds.

By the time Mike and Gloria got home cable news was reporting that a black nightclub in Long Beach was attacked, killing fifty people. A security guard gunned down one of the three assailants: a thirty-something white man, dressed in full body armor and armed with an AR-15 and several clips of ammunition. “The motive for the attack is unknown,” said the reporter. But Mike knew the motive all too well.

In Carlsbad, a popular Mexican restaurant was shot up by as many as three masked men armed with semi-automatic rifles. Twenty Hispanic diners were dead. The gunmen were on the loose. Mike’s stomach was in knots.

But there was more.

In La Jolla, two heavily armed men shot up a marketplace in an Asian neighborhood. Twelve people were dead. Dozens wounded. Witnesses said the gunmen sprayed the crowd with automatic rifle fire. The shooters could not be identified — but Mike knew who they were — and it ate at him. Was this the world that he and his Marine brothers fought their bloody way through the Pacific to save?

As a cop, Mike dealt with lots of murders — nasty and brutal as they were. But those killings were mostly drunken rage, domestic violence, and gangsters fighting their deadly wars over territory. Now, he had to wrap his head around something far worse. Violence on a vast scale. Racist mass murder by white nationalists. He’d fought this kind of crap back when it was called “fascism” and “Nazism.”

His stomach churned. How could he stop the madness?

Mike knew he had to get back on Huber and Horst’s trail as soon as he could. He trusted that Andy would give his contact at the FBI the video from Murphy’s Ranch, but Mike also knew the Feds were usually slow to move, especially where politics were involved. Besides, what he recorded at Murphy’s Ranch was totally nuts. If the Feds ran down the details on Dr. Otto Huber, how could that old Nazi’s presence possibly be explained? They’d want to ask the guy behind the camera a lot of questions. And that guy was not available for questioning.

Mike’s head was spinning. He couldn’t control what the Feds would do or wouldn’t do. But he had to do something – and quick. He couldn’t wait for any official blessing to make his next move. And why should he?

After all, he didn’t exist, did he?

What stung Mike most was that LA cops had died at Murphy’s Ranch because of his stumble. And too many people had already been killed by those murderous militia nutcases. He couldn’t just sit on his hands. But where to start? He couldn’t go back to Murphy’s Ranch. It was crawling with crime scene investigators.

Where would Horst and Huber go?

Gloria sat at her kitchen table, glued to the TV. A reporter confirmed that three crates of automatic rifles had been seized at the scene of the Rustic Canyon Shootout. Mike’s ears perked up. Just three cases? Where the hell did the rest of those guns go? A lot of deadly firepower was missing.

Mike knew the shooting – and the dying – had only just begun.

Four hours after they left Andy’s house, Gloria’s phone rang. It was Andy. She handed it to Mike. Andy was blunt.

“Mike. Your Murphy’s Ranch video is already stirring up a shitstorm in official circles. They want to know who was behind the camera, but I told them the guy’s operating in deep cover to infiltrate the militias. I don’t know what the FBI’s next move is gonna be — but everybody’s hair is on fire! We’ve got dead cops, right-wing nut jobs, mass shootings across Southern California, and a cache of high-powered rifles. The Feds know there’s a lot more guns out there, and they’re trying to track them down. They’re jumping on it, Mike, but they don’t know what you know.”

Andy made it clear. “They have no clue about this whole time-travel insanity. They’ll never figure it out. How the hell could they? That’s why you’ve got to take the point.”

“Take the point.”

Mike knew what that meant. Take the lead. Walk down a deadly trail into the unknown. Walking point is how that damned shrapnel got lodged in his hip.

“Stick with Huber and Mueller,” Andy implored. “Dog their every step. I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this, but after the gunfight at Murphy’s Ranch, they’ll be stepping up their time-travel plans, right? They’ll be trying to bring their Nazi pals into the future as soon as possible: Hitler, Himmler, Goehring — the whole unholy bunch! We can’t have those Nazi shit-bags coming back. We kicked their asses back in ‘45. No way we want to fight them again on our home turf.”

Andy went on. “You’re gonna get a delivery in the next hour or so. It’s a tracking device. You don’t know shit about this kind of thing, Mike, ‘cuz you’re just a 50’s private dick – but if you can pin a tracker on one of those Nazi bastards, it’ll lead you to their time machine or whatever the fuck it is. It’s down to you now, pal. The Feds are putting out fires everywhere – but they can’t comprehend how the fires started. The video you shot is a clue, but they’ll never wrap their heads around it in time.”

Andy’s words rang in Mike’s ears. The time-travel madness was all too real. Mike was the only guy who had a chance to do something about it. He had to stay on Huber and Horst’s trail. The old Nazi scientists might be momentarily stunned by the undisciplined, random violence of the last twenty-four hours –and that might give him a slim advantage.

It was nearing 2:30 PM when Andy’s tracking gizmo arrived. There was just enough time for Gloria to drive Mike to Pasadena, where he could tag Horst or Huber with the tracker, and follow one of those Nazi bastards to their time machine. He would need more than a little luck.

But that was always the case when a guy took the point.

My First Novel: Chapter Fourteen

And now, once again, we present the further adventures of private eye Mike Delaney. Let me know who’s reading!

Chapter Fourteen

By the time Mike reached Zack’s it was almost 11:00 pm. Exhausted, he sat on the rocks below the bar’s back deck, as the swells crashed against the shore. He was nearly frozen, but he paused before going inside to see Gloria. The waves had calmed down. But Mike was anything but calm.

He’d made his escape from Murphy’s Ranch, but he’d made a hash of what was supposed to be a surveillance mission. Because of his clumsiness, it turned into a gun battle. Luckily, he wasn’t wounded. But he wondered if he’d hit anyone. If he’d killed anyone. And what happened when the cops finally arrived? Did Horst and Huber get away? And, if they did — what would be their next move?

One thing was sure. Mike had just thrown a wrench into their plans.

His uneasy thoughts somewhat eased, Mike went inside. Gina was behind the bar, serving a half dozen guys. She looked up, saw Mike, and gestured to where Gloria was waiting for him in her booth. Mike nodded and smiled at Gina. He was still struggling with the fact that she was Gloria’s granddaughter. Had Gloria told her anything about him yet? About Gloria and him? That would be some crazy conversation.

“Took you a while, Mike,” said Gloria, as Mike slid into the booth across from her. “Take your coat off and relax. You look like you need a drink or two.”

In an instant, Gina appeared with a bourbon on the rocks, set it down in front of Mike, and went back to the bar. Maybe Gloria had told her something about him. He took a long sip of his drink. He’d need several more after all he’d been through.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened? Or do we play twenty questions again?”

Mike took another sip and leaned back with a wince. He ached in more places than his hip. “Tonight, baby…” He paused to collect himself, “…was wild. Totally nuts. I’ll try to explain it when we get back to your place.”

“Back to my place? You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

Mike blushed. She was teasing him. Or was she?

“I’m sorry, baby. I just don’t think this is the best place to talk.”

Gloria smiled. Her face betrayed concern, but she knew Mike needed a break.

“Fine. So, let’s just enjoy our drinks and talk about the weather. And how cute you are in your brand-new clothes.” Mike blushed again. “Which you seem to have gotten awful dirty tonight.”

They exchanged a knowing look, then sipped their drinks in silence for a time, until that silence was broken by a loud voice at the bar.

“Holy shit! That’s just down the road! Turn up the TV, Gina!”

Mike and Gloria looked toward the bar. All the guys had put their drinks down and were staring at the three televisions over the bar. All three TV stations appeared to be covering the same story. Gina turned up the volume on one set so loud that Mike and Gloria could hear the news anchor clearly from their booth.

“Around 9:00 pm this evening, police responded to reports of gunshots heard in Rustic Canyon below Sullivan Ridge Road in the Pacific Palisades…”

Gloria reached for Mike’s hand and squeezed it. Mike gave her a quick glance, rolled his eyes, and turned back to the TV.

“We go now to our reporter on the scene, Jeff Calderone, for more details. Jeff? We know that neighbors heard gunshots and called the police. What more can you tell us?”

“LAPD is being tight-lipped at this point, but we can report that several police units responded to the scene – an area known to locals as Murphy’s Ranch. The first units to arrive were met with gunfire coming from the woods on the canyon side of the road, and at least one officer was seriously wounded…”

Mike winced. It was his worst nightmare. That some poor cop might pay for his mistake. The reporter went on.

“Police on the scene returned fire but report being seriously outgunned. SWAT teams were called in, and helicopters trained their searchlights on Rustic Canyon. The copters were fired upon, too. Once the SWAT teams arrived, the police used loudspeakers to call upon the shooters to surrender. Eventually the gunfire stopped, and an armored SWAT vehicle knocked down the fence so a SWAT team in full combat gear could move down into the canyon. Cops I’ve talked to compare it to a war zone.”

Mike wondered what kind of arrests had been made. And how many.

“Two pickup trucks were pulled over about a mile or so from here on Pacific Coast Highway, and several men were taken into custody. It appears that more shots were exchanged before the arrests were made. No word on casualties…”

Gloria was squeezing Mike’s hand so hard it hurt. He turned back to look at her. She looked scared. If she only knew how scared he was. Not for his own safety, but for the cops who came up against those gun-crazy militia nuts. And he feared for his country. It began by accident when he tripped over that stupid bush — but the first shots of a possible civil war had been fired.

The first blood had been shed.

Back at Gloria’s beach house, a half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the coffee table – and the Rustic Canyon shootout was still all over the TV news. Mike and Gloria sat side by side on the couch, stunned by the breathless reporting of what was fast becoming a national news story. Mike was amazed that every channel soon had its own custom-made “Rustic Canyon Shootout” graphics.

Mike couldn’t believe it. He expected a story in the morning papers. That is, if the writer could get it to his editor fast enough and the type could be set before the presses ran. Back in Mike’s day, which was, incredibly, only several days ago for him — there were only fifteen minutes of TV news a day. And the four TV channels went off the air at 11:00 pm. Now, television never went to sleep. And some channels appeared to be covering the news twenty-four hours a day.

All night long, more details of the mass shooting at Murphy’s Ranch emerged.

At 2:00 in the morning a reporter gave the latest update. At least three police officers were shot in the crossfire. One in critical condition. Sources said that more than a half-dozen armed gunmen were shot in the exchange of fire with SWAT team members along Sullivan Ridge Road and down in Rustic Canyon. Unofficial reports from those on the scene suggest that some of the gunmen were wearing body armor, and that at least four or five were found dead…”

Mike put his arm around Gloria and held her tight. Too tight.

“Relax, honey,” she said, “Let’s turn it off and go to bed. You’ll need your rest for whatever the hell is coming next.”

“I had to defend myself, baby. Those crazy bastards. You should’ve heard ‘em — eating up everything those sick old Nazis were saying. I wanted to kill them all right then and there. Maybe I should’ve…”

Gloria dialed Mike down. “There’s nothing more you can do about any of this tonight,” she said. “We’ll go see Andy first thing tomorrow. He might know more than the TV people do.”

After a few more drinks, Mike and Gloria went to bed. She gave her exhausted lover a kiss — and Mike responded with unexpected enthusiasm. Escaping a deadly gun battle hadn’t cooled his ardor.

“Get some sleep, baby,” Gloria advised, in a voice that made it hard for Mike to do what he was told. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

She turned out the light.

After a few more drinks, Mike and Gloria went to bed. She gave her exhausted lover a kiss — and Mike responded with unexpected enthusiasm. Escaping a deadly gun battle hadn’t cooled his ardor.

“Get some sleep, baby,” Gloria advised, in a voice that made it hard for Mike to do what he was told. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

She turned out the light.

Gloria was right. Mike needed a rest. He hugged her close. Despite the violent insanity he was dealing with, Mike was thrilled to be spending another blessed night with Gloria. The difference in years meant nothing. Being with her was wholly, soulfully satisfying — if only this time-traveling Nazi crap wasn’t part of the bargain. He ached for the years they’d lost.

Aided by the bourbon, he allowed his troubled mind to surrender to momentary oblivion.

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Tagged as books, crime fiction, Crime novel, fiction, Malibu, Novel, Paul Barrosse, Post War Los Angeles, World War Two, writing

December 2, 2025 · 11:09 am

My First Novel: Chapter Thirteen

Please enjoy the further adventures of private detective Mike Delaney. And let me know you’re reading!

Chapter Thirteen

Gloria drove Mike south down Pacific Coast Highway and turned left on Sullivan Ridge toward the rendezvous at Murphy’s Ranch. All Gloria knew is that she wanted her Mike to nail these sickos and come back safe. After that, they’d figure out the future. When the smoke cleared, and Mike was still standing, they’d sort the crazy age thing out.

Or not. It was way too early to know for sure.

Gloria dropped Mike off near the overgrown gate to Murphy’s Ranch. He was early and there was still some waning sunlight.

“I’ll phone you after the meeting, baby.” Mike took Gloria by her shoulders. Maybe his grip was too strong. “Pick me up on PCH. I’ll let you know.”

“Be careful, Mike. I couldn’t bear losing you again.”

To lighten the mood a little, Mike gave her his best Bogie.

“Here’s looking at you kid.”

Her smile betrayed her concern. “You’re a real jerk. You know that?”

Mike leaned in and kissed Gloria goodbye for the second, and perhaps, the last time. He watched as she drove off. He knew he was nuts to risk losing her again. But, just like Bogie said, this thing was bigger than the problems of two little people.

Mike made his quiet way over the gate and down the crazy concrete steps to the site where Horst and Huber’s rendezvous was set to occur. Andy’s TEC-9 felt heavy in Mike’s overcoat pocket. It wasn’t his weapon of choice. In fact, he’d never even fired it. If he had to pull the trigger, he hoped the damned thing would work. He had his trusty .45 in his jacket, which eased his mind. And his old combat knife was strapped to his shin. Still, he’d rather avoid trading bullets or a blade with these militia guys.

Mike re-traced his way toward the cinder block building where he first encountered Horst and Huber and their time portal. He wasn’t entirely sure how far he was from it, but he knew it had to be close. He wished he was as certain about his mission. Get the goods tonight on Huber and Horst and their militia pals. Sure. And then what?

He reminded himself to focus on the task at hand.

Mike’s job was to get what folks in law enforcement and the military call actionable intelligence: something that would convince the authorities to act. If he could film Horst and Huber handing out weapons to a bunch of militia crazies, it might convince Andy’s friends at the Bureau to move on these creeps.

It was another frigid night, but this time he was wearing a nice warm winter coat and a black ski mask. Gloria had dressed him perfectly. Gloria. It was too easy to let his mind wander to Gloria — and a wandering mind could get him killed tonight.

Mike was surprised to see that there was just a single armed militia guy guarding the building. He was even more shocked when, after a few minutes, that lone guard took a last look around and went inside. Now there was nobody standing guard.

These guys seemed pretty sure that their meeting was a secret. Of course, Mike was early, so maybe the security boys had yet to arrive. For the next thirty minutes, Mike watched from his hiding place as Huber and Horst waited for their conspirators to gather.

The rising moon shed just enough light on the groups as they arrived: young and middle-aged men, all but a few of them lily white. There were lots of beards and camouflage. Some wore more tactical gear and body armor than Mike had been issued in the Pacific. It was like Halloween for grown boys who never stopped playing army. He wondered how many of these dopes had actually served their country in uniform. He knew he’d be disappointed in the answer.

Mike tried to film the arrivals, but the moonlight wasn’t bright enough to see anything but silhouettes on camera. He kept his iPhone camera rolling anyway. Maybe the FBI lab could blow the footage up or something? They probably had some newfangled process he knew nothing about. There was so much that he knew nothing about.

Finally, the meeting got underway.

Mike could hear Horst and Huber greeting the men as they gathered inside. Careful not to be seen, he worked his way to the back of the building, on the opposite side from the door, and crept up close to a window. He could hear most of what was being said, though he couldn’t see who was speaking. The leaders of various militia groups introduced themselves to their Nazi hosts: Bund Boys, Oath Takers, Aryan Patriots, Boogaloo Boyz, and more.

The assembled expressed their allegiance to the sacred task of purging the country of leftists, Godless socialism, Jews, non-whites, and homosexuals. Their goal was to make the United States a white Christian nation – and to do it by force, if necessary. And now, evidently, they thought it was necessary.

While the militia guys were spouting their claptrap, Mike stole a peek through the window and saw that Horst and Huber’s time portal was no longer in the room. Horst must have rebuilt it somewhere else. Maybe at Cal Tech? Not likely. He’d need a more private, remote spot to secretly modify a large machine like that. But that was a problem for another time. Right now, Mike had to learn how the Nazis planned to advance their plot – and use these gun-loving yahoos as pawns in their game.

Horst brought up “Helter-Skelter” again. That got the guys all hot and bothered. “It’s true that Manson failed to ignite a race war in ‘69. But his followers were willing to shed blood to carry out his vision. They were just kids, drug addicts and perverts. If true, clean-living patriots like you men gathered here tonight dedicate yourselves to purging America of the communists, elite intellectuals, and ethnic scum who debase the white Christian foundations of this nation – how can we not achieve a glorious victory!”

It was a speech designed for a Munich beer hall, and more than one man, aroused with a violent passion, began to cheer. But Dr. Huber, his eyes flaring with anger, raised his arms to quiet them.

“Gentlemen!” Huber hissed, in a steely tone that silenced the room, “We must be disciplined. We must work silently. We must move in the shadows. In the great war, the Allies had a slogan, ‘Loose lips sink ships.’ They were correct. Our U-boats feasted on their shipping because of fools who talked too much.”

Dr. Huber eyeballed each man, stalking through the room like a Gestapo officer sniffing out a traitor in his midst. “We are here to help you, gentlemen. But you must maintain strict order. This is not a cowboy movie. It’s not a sporting event. This is war. We are defending our people against the destruction of all we hold dear — and the righteous anger of almighty God.”

From Mike’s point of view below the window, he could barely see as Huber, with dramatic flair, parted the crowd, revealing dozens of long wooden boxes stacked in the back of the building.

Dr. Huber opened one of the boxes, revealing a cache of weapons unlike any Mike had ever seen before. Horst piped in to say, with pride, that they were “AR-15 semi-automatic assault rifles.” The crowd murmured with excitement. Many of the militia men said they’d seen AR-15s before. Some even owned one. But nobody had seen this many in once place. Again, Huber silenced them.

“Some of you may already know of such a weapon. But I assure you, you’ll soon be armed with many more than you see here. And through the genius of my colleague, Dr. Mueller, all these guns have been rendered fully automatic.”

That brought the crowd to rapt attention. Fully automatic. A gun fetishist’s dream.

Horst beamed at Dr. Huber’s praise. Despite his arrogance, his scientific achievements, and his Nobel Prize, Horst was — on a fundamental level — still Huber’s fawning protégé.

Now, Horst took the floor.

“These fully automatic rifles will be difference makers in our battles to come. A semi-automatic AR-15, like those many of you patriots already have, can fire four hundred rounds a minute. But a fully automatic AR-15 can fire eight to nine hundred rounds per minute: more than double the firepower of the guns you currently possess.”

“These lethal weapons will help us trigger a great civil war between the white man and the racial and ethnic trash — a battle in which the thin layer of weak, feminized, liberal society in America must confront the holy power of a stout, patriotic, white Christian manhood.”

Horst held an AR-15 aloft and declared, “If only the Wehrmacht and the SS had such a killing machine, we’d have won the war!”

Mike was just a kid when machine guns were outlawed in America. But what Horst held was nothing like the old Tommy guns. A fully automatic AR-15 had firepower Mike couldn’t even imagine. He wondered how it was possible that the bad guys could get their hands on a rifle with more firepower than anything he and his platoon carried on Iwo Jima?

As Mike listened to the back and forth, he was sickened to hear this mob eat up so much Nazi insanity. They’d be happy to storm the White House, guns blazing, and overthrow the nation’s democratic government in order to install a white nationalist regime.

How could such men call themselves patriots?

Mike resisted the urge to whip out his TEC-9 – mow down dozens of these creeps — and make the rest of them hit the deck. He had the drop on all of them. But he held his fire. He was outnumbered. And there was a whole lot more that he needed to know.

Mike kept recording as Dr. Huber announced that, “very soon, the time will come when you’ll be joined by a cadre of great Nazi leaders who will summon you to rise like the brave, resolute Minutemen at Lexington and Concord – to strike a mighty blow against the forces of decadence and moral rot in your beloved nation.”

Mike couldn’t believe that anyone bought this pseudo-patriotic bullshit.

But what was the timeline for touching off this impending race war? How many militias across the country were involved? At what point did Horst and Huber intend to bring back Hitler and his inner circle? And where the hell was the time portal now? Was it ready to go?

It all felt way beyond the scope of a solitary private eye.

Mike listened in as Horst told the militiamen that their AR-15s would soon be delivered to them with lots of ammunition. They were to stand by for the call to action. At that point, Mike decided that he’d recorded enough. It was time for him to get up those hundreds of steps before the goon squad started leaving. But, as he turned to walk away, he tripped over a knee-high bush and collapsed in a heap.

The sound of snapping branches was clearly audible in the still night air – and Mike hugged the ground, laying still, hoping nobody had heard it. He reached into his pocket. Andy’s TEC-9 was ready and waiting.

Mike’s heart raced. Then, voices!

The first guys out of the door had clearly heard something and were headed in Mike’s direction. He couldn’t stay on the ground much longer or he’d soon be surrounded by paranoid gun nuts with itchy trigger fingers. Crawling into the underbrush wouldn’t help. He’d be too slow and too loud. His only option was to get up and move as fast as he could before the approaching voices reached him where he fell.

As soon as Mike got to his feet, three shots rang out. He saw the muzzle flashes. Combat instincts kicked in as Mike drew his Tec-9 and sprayed a silent burst of bullets toward those flashes, then sprinted toward the steps. More gunshots followed him, and Mike returned fire as he ran.

He could hear Horst yelling to cease firing, furious that these idiots were making such a racket. The gunfire stopped after that.

As Mike reached the base of the steps, he could hear agitated voices, perhaps twenty to thirty yards away. Going up the steps would leave him visible in the rising moonlight, so he went up the hill, parallel to the steps, moving fast through the overgrowth. It was slower, but it was safer. Plus, he had the high ground on his pursuers. And lots of ammo in his clip. “Light ‘em up if you have to,” Gloria had said, “I want you back in one piece.” Mike did not intend to let her down.

When he reached the top of the steps, Mike fired one last, sustained volley down the hill. A burst of return fire from his pursuers told him that Huber and Horst were no longer in control. It also told Mike that the enemy wasn’t even halfway up the steps. He still had a chance.

Mike got over the fence and onto Sullivan Ridge Road — and then it hit him: he didn’t have a car! He’d told Gloria to pick him up on Pacific Coast Highway. There was no way he could run down to PCH without being overtaken by the militia boys, frothing at the mouth, eager to run him down with their pickup trucks.

He had to do the opposite of what was expected. After running twenty yards or so down the road, he climbed over the chain link fence and back onto Murphy’s Ranch. He rolled a short distance down the hill and hugged the ground, eyes toward the road on the other side of the fence — his blood pounding in his ears. He watched as a series of pickup trucks raced toward PCH with flashlights scanning the sides of the road. Mike kept his head down. He was 20 feet beneath the shoulder of the road. Headlights played in the bare trees, well above where he lay hidden.

Then, Mike heard sirens in the distance coming up from the coast. Lots of them. The gunshots had aroused the neighbors and the cops had been summoned. Mike felt like he’d blown it. One little stumble over a bush — and the shit had hit the fan.

Mike slithered downhill and began walking in the direction of PCH. The police sirens were approaching — and the militia trucks making U-turns and hauling ass in the opposite direction were no longer on his trail. Nobody had even gotten a look at him. He was just a sudden noise in night. A snapping of twigs. A snapping of twigs that could fire eighteen rounds in two and a half seconds. There were advantages to being a ghost.

Mike had hiked about a mile down the canyon when he heard distant gunshots coming from the direction of the concrete steps. Was that the cops trading fire with the wackos?

Safe now from the chaos on Sullivan Ridge Road, he stopped to call Gloria.

“Are you okay, Mike. I’ve been waiting for your call. Did something go wrong?”

“Don’t worry, baby, you’ll read all about in the papers.”

“Are those police sirens? Are you in trouble?’

“No, honey, I’m perfectly safe. I just wanted to tell you not to pick me up.”

“Just tell me what happened, Mike. I’m worried about you…”

There was a tremble in her voice, as though she might cry. Mike ached. He wished he could hold her in his arms and assure her that everything was alright.

“Meet me at Zack’s, baby. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“I swear, Mike. If you’re hurt, I’ll kill you.”

“Just have a scotch on the rocks waiting for me. It’s been a busy night.”

Mike told Gloria he loved her, kissed the phone, and hung up. It was a long hike to Zack’s, and that old Jap shrapnel was shooting pain through his hip again. But he’d made tougher marches after a firefight — and under far worse conditions. The temperature was falling, but he was warm enough to make the long walk to Malibu. Gloria had dressed him better than Uncle Sam ever did.

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November 29, 2025 · 8:49 am

My First Novel: Chapter Twelve

Moving on to Chapter Twelve. As always, let me know you’re reading. Thanks!

Chapter Twelve

Mike expected Andy to be stunned by seeing a ghost in the flesh, and he was to some extent – but he was also oddly ahead of the game. “Mike Delaney, as I live and breathe,” he said. “Wild as it seems, I was half expecting you.”

Andy held the door open and ushered them in. “Got a call from an old contact on the force. A guy we both used to know. He said they ran the fingerprints on a couple of stolen cars in the past couple days. Seems there’s some 85-year-old guy named Mike Delaney with a jones for boosting vintage cars. This Delaney guy used to be an L.A. cop. Hasn’t been seen since December of ‘51. They’re looking all over for him – but they sure as hell don’t expect him to look like you.”

Andy rolled up to his dining room table and motioned Mike and Gloria to sit. Gloria went into the kitchen instead to make a pot of coffee. She knew Mike and Andy had some catching up to do.

Andy looked straight into Mike’s face. He was a dead ringer for the man he knew all those years ago. With Gloria and those fingerprints vouching for the guy — and seeing his Marine tattoo right where it should be, Andy had to yield to the wild notion that Mike Delaney was an actual, real-life time traveler.

“Okay. It shouldn’t be possible – but somehow, here you are. Mike fucking Delaney. With his old fiancé Gloria, no less. It’s completely nuts.”

“It sure is,” Mike agreed. “And it’s keeps getting crazier.”

For years after Mike went missing, Andy was frustrated with Gloria’s devotion to a ghost – and he was always curious about how and why his old partner had suddenly disappeared. He leaned in closer to Mike as though someone else might be listening. “The last time we were together, bobbing between waves, you were asking me about some Nazi fugitive named Dr. Otto Huber. Does this have anything to do with him?”

“Sure does. I know this sounds incredible, but I followed him through some crazy time portal at this place called Murphy’s Ranch, just a few miles south of here off Sullivan Ridge Road.”

“That Nazi sympathizer joint they rolled up right after Pearl Harbor?”

“That’s the place. Huber and another guy named Horst Mueller built a time portal there.”

“You keep saying ‘time portal.’ Do you mean to tell me…?”

“Andy. I’m dead serious. Look at me. How the hell do you think I got here? They built a fucking time portal. And it works! They’ve got some wild plot to bring the old Nazi regime into the future to start a race war. Hitler, too!”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Andy, I’m here, right? This is no joke. They’re serious about this shit. I tracked them to a meeting last night with some guys calling themselves The Bund Boys.”

“The Bund Boys,” Andy said, looking Mike dead in the eye. “They’re for real. A bunch of gun-loving white supremacists — and they’re not alone. I kept tabs on a lot of these right-wing whack jobs when I was at the Bureau. Eastern Oregon, Idaho, northeastern California, across the rural south and Midwest — there’s lots of paramilitary groups full of radicalized white boys who don’t get laid enough, full of rage and grievance. They hate Blacks, Jews, the government, gays, liberals – anyone who doesn’t think white men are God’s chosen. Mostly they’re a bunch of big-talking, beer-swilling good ol’ boys playing army in the woods. But sometimes they do some real damage.”

Andy sat back in his chair. “Back in ’95 two of these assholes blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City. They packed a truck with more than five thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate fertilizer and a thousand pounds of liquid nitromethane. It was like the equivalent of five thousand pounds of TNT. They parked their little gift in front of the building and set it off right as the workday was beginning. They killed at least one hundred and sixty-eight people and wounded nearly seven hundred others. Nineteen of them were just little kids in a day care center. The shitheads planned it as payback for the Feds taking down some armed messianic lunatic’s compound in Waco, Texas.

“I figured the government would start rolling up all these militia nuts after that, but they didn’t. At least not with true gusto. Too many conservative politicians wailing about gun rights and talking that “Don’t Tread on Me” anti-government bullshit. I quit the Bureau not long after that.”

Mike listened intently. A lot had happened since ‘51. There was so much more he wanted to know. So much more he needed to know. But what Andy said next was all he needed to know at that moment.

“You’re onto a dangerous situation, buddy. Don’t underestimate these freaks. The militia movement slowed down after Oklahoma City. It peaked at more than eight hundred groups in ’96 and they haven’t pulled off another big attack since then. But when Barrack Obama was elected the first black President last month, that added new fuel to their fire. Now, there’s lots of incendiary chatter on the internet.”

Mike was still trying to wrap his head around the idea of a black President – when Andy’s last word landed. “The internet?”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re from the way back machine. Today, just about everybody’s got a computer or a smartphone,” Andy explained, holding up an iPhone similar to Mike’s. “They’re all connected by a system called the internet. Gloria can show you how it works when you have a chance.”

“I learned a little bit about it from an Apple Genius the other day. I thought it was just on my iPhone.”

“You can access the internet from any computer. Thanks to the internet, what were isolated, mostly rural groups of right-wing nut jobs are now able to connect with each other easily. They can spread their propaganda, recruit new members, and share big talk about a coming race war, or a new civil war – various violent fantasies.”

“Fantasies like ‘Helter-Skelter’?”

“Bingo. That’s one of the names for it. So is ‘The Boogaloo.’ Right now, these groups aren’t well organized across the country. They’re fractious and clannish — paranoid about infiltration by the cops and federal agents. But all it would take to make their white nationalist wet dreams come true is charismatic leadership with the ability to pull them all together. Or some kind of triggering event that galvanizes them. Sounds like your Nazi friends plan to provide just the kind of catalyst they need.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Huber and Horst are thinking big. It seems far-fetched that they can time-travel the leaders of the Third Reich – but here I am, Andy. The fact that I’m here talking to you right now makes all kinds of crazy shit possible. That’s why I’ve got to stop them somehow.”

Gloria came back from the kitchen with a pot of coffee and took a seat.

“So, Andy,” she said, filling his mug, “Should Mike take this to the police?”

“Take what? A crazy story about time-traveling Nazis? They’re gonna ask a lot of questions that are damned hard to answer without sounding like a lunatic. How can our 29-year-old hero explain that he’s also an 86-year-old car thief? And what evidence does he have on these guys?”

Andy locked eyes on Mike. “I believe you, pal, but the cops won’t. Not without hard evidence. You get me something solid, something provable – and maybe I can get an old friend or two at the Bureau to dip his little toe into this thing.”

Mike told Andy that Horst and Huber were meeting with some militia guys at Murphy’s Ranch that night and that he was going to stake them out.

“What if Mike got tonight’s meeting on video?” Gloria got Andy’s attention. “He could shoot it on his iPhone.”

“I could do what?”

“You can shoot video on your phone. I can show you how.”

“What’s video?”

“It’s like television, Mike,” explained Andy, “It’s so simple even kids do it nowadays.” He turned to Gloria. “Show our boy what to do. Make sure his phone is fully charged. The trick will be getting close enough to get good audio.”

All of this was over Mike’s head, but he knew Gloria would fill him in. “Sounds good, Andy. Seeing is believing.”

“And hearing, Mike. Get as close as you can. We gotta hear what these rat bastards are saying. Get me the goods, pal. I’ll say I got it from a confidential source. Somebody who infiltrated the Bund Boys.” Andy scratched his head, a wry smile on his face. “Gotta wonder what the Feds will make of seeing Otto Huber? I mean, that guy should be 107 years old at this point.”

Then, Andy’s expression darkened. He looked at Mike, dead serious. “What’re you packing?”

Mike pulled his .45 out of his pocket. “My old standby.”

Andy took one look at Mike’s World War Two museum piece and told Gloria, “Your man can’t go to war with that old pea shooter.”

Andy went to a drawer in his living room and pulled out a more modern weapon. He handed it to Mike. “This is a TEC-9 semi-automatic pistol, fully loaded with a 50-round magazine. It’ll spray eighteen rounds in two and a half seconds. And it’s equipped with a silencer – so it won’t make much noise. Plus, it’s been scrubbed of any ID. Its serial number is filed off. It can’t be traced. It’s what we call a ghost gun.”

Mike took the TEC-9 in his hand. It was lighter than he thought. He wished he’d had something like it in the Pacific.

“I’ve got some explosives, too, if you need them,” added Andy, like a corner grocer peddling his wares. “Dynamite, C-4…”

“C-4?”

“Yeah. A plastic explosive. It was called Composition C-2 when the U.S. military got it from the Brits around ‘43. C-3 came out in ‘44. Now, we’ve got C-4. Each version gave a bigger bang for the buck. Easy to carry. Easy to conceal.”

“Don’t think I’ll need it, Andy. This is a surveillance mission, right? I want to get in and out quietly.”

“Sure, you do. I’d just love to blow up a big bunch of these assholes, Mike. Get some real revenge for Oklahoma City.”

“I understand, buddy. But let’s take it one step at a time.”

“Okay, Mike, but if any of those militia dirtbags take a shot at you,” Andy said with a devious smile, “open up with that TEC-9 and take ‘em all out.”

Gloria smiled at Andy, then fixed her beautiful, haunting eyes on Mike. She stared at him hard, then whispered in his ear.

“Light ‘em up if you have to, Mike. I want you back in one piece.”

“One loving, fucking piece.”

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November 25, 2025 · 6:08 pm

My First Novel: Chapter Eleven

Okay, Chapter 11. No, it’s not about a bankruptcy. It’s the latest installment in the adventures of 50’s detective Mike Delaney. I’m not counting “likes” anymore — but I appreciate it when you let me know you’re reading. Enjoy!

Chapter Eleven

Gloria lit a burner on the stove and poured Mike a bourbon on the rocks. She knew he had to be hungry, so she fried him two hamburgers. He sat in her beach house kitchen, dumbstruck and smitten, barely able to put two coherent words together.

“You know, your old apartment building on PCH got torn down years ago,” Gloria said, doing her best to make casual conversation in an insane situation. “That whole stretch is now a bunch of luxury beach houses for the Hollywood high rollers. This whole area, from Sunset and PCH all the way up through Malibu, is now a high-rent district. The working folks like your parents and my parents have been priced out. The good thing is, I can charge more at Zack’s. We’re getting a more upscale clientele. Not just beach bums and seedy private eyes who kiss girls and run off on some crazy adventure.”

Mike knew Gloria was trying to lighten the mood, but he felt the pain beneath the casual banter. He’d only been gone for a couple days — for Gloria it had been a lifetime.

“When I saw you chatting with Gina yesterday,” she said as his burger sizzled, “I could’ve sworn you looked just like my long-lost fiancé. But I couldn’t believe it. It was impossible. Yet here you are. My old boyfriend, Mike Delaney. The man who vanished.”

Gloria slid one of the burgers onto a bun and put ketchup on it, not mustard. She hadn’t forgotten how Mike liked his burgers. She remembered everything. Gloria set the burger down in front of Mike and leaned in close. “Give me a kiss,” she said, “and then let’s figure out just what the hell we’re gonna do.”

Their lips came together in a kiss that bridged nearly six decades. Mike loved this woman and she loved him. All those lost years didn’t matter. Soul mates were soul mates. That fervent kiss sealed the deal.

Besotted by Gloria, Mike wolfed down both burgers without tasting them. He knocked back a last shot of bourbon and followed a beckoning Gloria into her bedroom.

After fifty-seven years, as she stripped down to her underwear, she was still a vision of loveliness. Mike yearned for her touch — her everything. He took off his dirty clothes. Was this really happening?

Thirty indescribable minutes later, Mike and Gloria lay spent and satisfied, studying each other’s eyes. They’d just made love for the first time. They were still in love. It was inconceivable — but it was true. They were time-travelling lovers on a mad voyage no one else had ever known. Gloria’s naked body was bathed in moonlight as she sat up and lit a cigarette. She lit another for him. If this was all a dream, Mike didn’t want to wake up. She laid back alongside him.

It was heaven.

Gloria told Mike the sad story of her daughter, Gina’s mom. Camille was a good girl who married a bad man. Angelo was a handsome, charming scoundrel. A talented trumpet player — and a lousy drunk. He left his pregnant wife and ran off to New Orleans a few weeks before Gina was born. Camille died in childbirth and Angelo was never seen again. Months later, Gloria heard he’d died of a heroin overdose in the French Quarter. She raised Gina as her own daughter until the girl was old enough to know the truth.

The truth, Mike thought. The truth was elusive. He’d spent so much of his life trying to discover the truth: figuring out who killed who, who stole what and how – and now, what the hell were Horst and Huber going to do next?

With those thoughts, and Gloria’s warm body nuzzled alongside him, he fell asleep feeling as good as he could possibly feel.

By morning, the surf had calmed, rolling sluggishly to shore after a turbulent night. It was 7:00 am, and Gloria was up frying bacon and eggs while Mike was still in bed. The smell of breakfast on the stove roused him, his mind still fogged by the booze and passion of the night before. What, he wondered, after all he’d seen and done in the past forty-eight hours, could today possibly hold?

Mike was accustomed to danger — but he knew he had to cling to Gloria now. He stood no chance without her. And he didn’t want one. For her part, Gloria didn’t intend to be a bystander. Her long-lost fiancé had shown up at her bar fifty-seven years after he proposed marriage and disappeared. She wanted a measure of control over what happened next.

Gloria had been up all night thinking about the situation while Mike was sawing logs. Last night was thrilling, but as gratifying as it was, her happiness was now tied to a fugitive from the 50’s. Mike tried to explain everything, but there were only two things Gloria knew for sure. Mike was truly her long-lost love. And he needed a lot of help. As they ate breakfast, Gloria began taking charge. She told Mike that she would do the driving from now on — and they’d use her car.

“You can’t keep stealing cars,” she said.

“Why not?” Mike countered. “They can dust those cars for prints – but even if they manage to make a match, they’ll be looking to track down an 85-year-old man with a taste for classic cars. A guy who disappeared in 1951.”

“True,” said Gloria, dead serious. “But what kind of ID do you have, lover boy? A driver’s license from the Truman administration? You can’t afford to make a single mistake, Mike. You’re a freaking curiosity. If you run a red light or get in a fender-bender, they’ll hold you for days just to figure out who the hell you are and what to do with you.”

“You’re right, honey,” Mike said, acknowledging the obvious. “But I don’t want you in the middle of this thing. It’s dangerous. It’s insane. These folks are violent as hell – and crazier than you can possibly imagine.”

“Please, Mike. I’m a 76-year-old woman who just fucked my 29-year-old time-traveling fiancé. So, tell me again what I can’t possibly imagine.”

Game. Set. Match.

How could Mike argue with her? Stung by the knowledge he’d lost so many years with this brilliant, sexy, and courageous woman, he regretted the great life he’d missed. But if he and Gloria could work together now, what kind of life might they salvage? Mike recalled a song he’d heard toward the end of the war.

“You’ve got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with Mister In-Between”

Against all odds, he and Gloria were still in love. Everything else was a question mark. He needed to start finding answers.

Mike told Gloria he had to be at Murphy’s Ranch in Pacific Palisades that night at 8:00 pm. The Nazi scientists were going to meet with some racist militia guys, and he’d learn more about their plot. Gloria’s response was entirely practical. “Shower up and shave, Mike. Then, we’ll get you some new clothes. You look like hell, baby — and you certainly aren’t dressed for winter.”

An hour later, Mike and Gloria walked out of her Malibu beach house. Gloria’s was the kind of place that Mike dreamed of back in the ‘50s — a hip, expensive pad close to the waves. She must be in the chips. Zack’s had been a lucrative enterprise over the years, and Gloria was clearly doing okay. Now, he was complicating her life – possibly putting everything she’d worked for in jeopardy. The last thing he wanted was for her to get hurt in this whole mad enterprise.

Gloria led Mike to the parking lot, and they climbed into her 2007 Toyota Prius. She explained it was a hybrid: one of the first readily available cars that was part gas-powered and part electric. Mike was floored. A semi-electric automobile? What other leaps of science and technology would he confront? Did she have to plug her Prius in? How far could she drive without a charge? Mike felt like an ancient relic. A time portal was one thing. But electric cars?

Gloria drove Mike down to Santa Monica and bought him some new clothes at a boutique on Wilshire Boulevard. “You can’t go around looking like Sterling Hayden on a week-long bender,” she said. She paid the bill with what she called a “credit card.” No cash was exchanged. She gave them a card about the size of a driver’s license – and they accepted it. What the hell was a credit card? He knew a guy back in ‘51 who had a Diner’s Club card. But that was it. In Mike’s world, cash was king. Clearly, he had to play catch up. The best he could do was take things moment to moment.

Mike changed into his new duds, no longer looking like a fugitive from the past. Thank heavens Mike had Gloria now. She was an absolute miracle — with no real idea what she was getting herself into.

Then she brought up a name Mike knew well.

“You should talk to Andy Pafko,” she said. “Believe it or not, your old surfing buddy’s still alive and kicking in Malibu.”

“No shit? Pafko’s still around?”

“Comes into Zack’s now and then. Used to be your best friend, right? A pal from the force?”

“Yeah. I didn’t have too many friends. I was a suspect character.”

“Maybe he can help. He might freak out a bit — but if I can handle it, so can that old bird.”

Andy was the guy who put Mike on Dr. Huber’s trail more than half a century ago. But, after all these years, was there still a connection between them? Andy was already leery of getting too involved with Mike back in the day. How would he react to Mike’s fantastical story about tracking a time-traveling Nazi scientist into the future?

Andy didn’t respond to Gloria’s call at first – but when he finally got back to her, he agreed to meet with her and her unnamed “old friend.”

Andy was now 83 years-old, still sharp, but troubled. He left the FBI after the Oklahoma City bombing in ‘95, depressed by the rise of right-wing, home-grown terrorism and frustrated by the lack of bipartisan political resistance to that threat. Thirteen years later, he was getting sloshed on the sidelines, in no mood to right the wrongs of the world. Gloria knew these things and more about Andy, but she didn’t tell Mike. She figured Andy could fill him in if he felt like it.

Gloria drove Mike to Andy’s place — another Malibu beach house, but not as classy as hers. Andy’s police and FBI pensions helped pay the mortgage on a dowdy, surf-friendly beachfront pad. Andy had always been crazy about Gloria, and not long after Mike disappeared, he made his move. She let him down easy.

Gloria walked Mike up to Andy’s door and rang the bell. As weird as the situation was, she was cool — while Mike’s heart was racing. Was this the right move? Would Andy think they were both crazy? He had to trust Gloria. She was all he had.

A few tense minutes later, Andy Pafko came to the door. Mike was shocked to see his old pal rolling up in a wheelchair. For Mike, it had only been a few days since he and Andy were riding the waves on this very beach. Now, Andy was an 88-year-old guy in a wheelchair.

Mike tried hard to focus on the here and now.

The overall situation was way too unbelievable.

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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.”

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November 14, 2025 · 10:44 am

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?

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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.

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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.

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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.