Joe Berk

Pu’ukohola Heiau National Historic Site

I was in Hawaii when I wrote this blog, and we were on the Big Island (the actual island of Hawaii). It’s much less densely populated than Oahu and quite a bit less touristy. My daughter found a cool spot where the unification of the Hawaiian Islands originated, and that’s the Pu’ukohola Heiau National Historic Site.

King Kamehameha, the guy who was in charge of the island of Hawaii (which is one of eight Hawaiian islands) consulted with a Hawaiian priest about how to unify all eight islands. The priest was called a kahuna, and because King Kamehameha was the guy was asking the questions, I suppose the priest would have been the Big Kahuna. The Big Kahuna advised King Kamehameha to build a temple and sacrifice an ally there.

The Pu’ukohola Heiau temple is what you see in the photo at the top of this blog. It kind of looks like a whale, and you can see whales occasionally when you are in Hawaii. The temple was built in just one year with stones mined 27 miles away (and this occurred on an island where there were no horses or mules). King Kamehameha picked an ally for the sacrificial offering; it was his cousin Keōua, except they weren’t really allies. As the story was told to us, Keōua realized it was his destiny to be sacrified, so even though he knew the invitation was for a party that would not end well, he went. There are other aspects to the story that are more disturbing. Cousin Keōua mutilated himself before he arrived (he thought that would make him an imperfect sacrifice), but it didn’t work. Yep, King Kamehameha killed the guy. But evidently the Big Kahuna had been right. King Kamehameha succeeded in unifying the Hawaiian Islands.

Pu’ukohola Heiau is where all this happened, at the edge of the Pacific, and the area and the temple King Kamehameha built are now a National Historic Site.

The Pu’ukohola Heiau temple is what you see in the large photo at the top of this blog. It is impressive. There’s a sort of a tower in front of it, and that’s what you see below.

This Pacific Ocean inlet is at the base of the temple. There are contemporary signs warning that the waters are shark infested, and they advise people not to swim or even wade there. The sharks will attack, the signs warn.

In the old days, or so the story goes, the Hawaiians used to make human sacrifices in this bay. The rock you see below is where the chief would sit to watch the sharks attack whoever was being sacrificed.

Surprisingly, there’s a public beach less than a quarter mile away along the same shoreline. Needless to say, I stayed out of the water.

Another thing we saw there (and all over the Big Island) were mongooses. Mongooses are an invasive species in Hawaii (they came from India), and they have become an apex predator as they have no natural enemies on the Big Island. We didn’t know they were mongooses initially. We thought they were rats, but the tails were way too big and thick for rats. They behaved liked squirrels and they are about the same size. The mongooses scurried about and would come right up to you (they were not afraid to beg for food). I gave a mongoose something to eat, even though youi’re not supposed to. I didn’t want to disappoint an animal unafraid to go head-to-head with a cobra. I suppose you could introduce cobras to Hawaii to counter the mongoose invasion, but that would create other problems.

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Poppy’s Watch

You probably didn’t know I was almost Italian. I’ll get to that in a second, and a little further along in this blog, I’ll get to that over-100-year-old beautiful Waltham pocket watch you see above.

Samuel Berkowitz, my father’s father, came to the United States through Ellis Island around 1911. Over two-thirds of the people in the US can trace their origins to an ancestor who entered the US through Ellis Island. That’s going to change at some point in the near future, I think, as the number of folks who come here across our southern border continues to grow, and that’s okay in my book. I’m a staunch conservative and I lean right, but I go against the grain of my Fox News compadres on immigration. I’m all for immigration and welcoming more people into the US (that’s a topic for another time). The message in this paragraph is Poppy (and I’ll get to that name in a second) processed in through Ellis Island. If you’ve never visited Ellis Island, you need to. It is a national treasure. The Ellis Island tour is something I will never forget.

Ellis Island. Two thirds of the US population can trace their ancestry to this one patch of real estate.

When Poppy came to the US, the person who processed him into America was a recent Italian immigrant. They did that at Ellis…they couldn’t find enough people to do all the work that needed doing (sound familiar?) and they used immigrants to fill the gaps. Grandpa Berk came from Rumania to escape the pogroms there and for the opportunity here. The Italian-now-American administrator asked his name and Grandpa told him: Samuel Berkowitz. “Berkowitz?” the man said. “I don’t know from Berkowitz…from now on, you Bercovici. Sam Bercovici.” And that’s how his name was entered into the logbook as he entered America. I know. I’ve seen it. Like I said, I was almost an Italian.

Bercovici, Berkowitz…it was all too confusing and it was all too European. Poppy changed it, probably informally, to just plain old Sam Berk. And that’s how we became Berks. People sometimes ask me what Berk is short for. I always tell them, “Berque…my grandfather changed it because he didn’t want people thinking we were French.”

Now, about the “Poppy” business. My Dad always called his father Pop. When we were little kids, for us he was Poppy. Grandma was always Grandma, but Grandpa was always Poppy. At least until I was 6. That’s when Poppy died. I was a wee one then, but I remember Poppy well. He was a good guy.

Last week, I was back in New Jersey on a secret mission, and while I was there I visited with my sister. We were chatting it up at her place and I was expounding on wristwatch accuracy when she suddenly asked: “Would you like Grandpa’s watch?”

The question caught me off guard. I didn’t even know Poppy had a watch. I for sure didn’t know he had one and it somehow ended up in my sister’s possession. But I didn’t need to think about it. “Yes,” I said. I was shocked when I saw it. It’s beautiful, it’s engraved, and it has my grandfather’s initials on the back. I think it’s white gold (if it was silver, it would be tarnished). I wound it just a little and it started right up. Tik tik tik tik tik tik tik…it was cool. I listened to the same ticking Poppy heard a hundred years ago.

Poppy’s initials (SB) on the flip side of this centenarian Waltham.

Looking at the dial and its patina, my first thought was that the little black erratic lines I saw on it were mold. I had a polarizer go south on me on the motorcycle ride across China and the marks on it were eerily similar; the camera store guy told me the lines on that polarizer were mold. But in researching who to send the watch to for servicing, I found the place I am going to use up in Portland. It is WatchRepair.cc. The man there is Terry Nelson, who responded quickly when I sent an email and a photo (and this was on a Sunday). I asked if I was dealing with a mold problem, and Terry’s prompt reply was:

Its dial shows normal blemishing from a century of use and exposure to the environment and ultra-violet light. It was originally painted with a mixture of paint and finely powered silver and then coated with an early “clear coat.” The clear coat has slowly flaked away in certain areas allowing the underlying silver to tarnish, which may appear like mold. My in-house dial cleaning will assist in making the dial more uniform yet – be ready for only a moderate improvement.

I was impressed and pleased. No mold, a quick response from a craftsman who obviously knows his business, and no extravagant claims. Terry told me if I wanted a full restoration he could bring the dial back to its original condition, but I don’t. I want a little patina. Maybe I’ve been watching American Pickers too long. Like Mike Wolf always says, it’s only going to be original once. My watch is headed to Portland for Terry to work his magic next month, and it will be back the following month. I can’t wait.

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The Janus Halcyon 450 and Motorcycle Classics Magazine

Joe Gresh’s recent blog on the Vintage Japanese Motorcycle Club and their magazine is, like all of Gresh’s writing, outstanding. So much so that, as he suggested, I became a VJMC magazine subscriber.

I’d like to suggest another magazine, and as you have no doubt guessed from the title of this blog, it’s Motorcycle Classics. I think it’s one of the best motorcycle magazines in existence. Part of that is due to MC‘s quality…glossy paper, a great page count, great photos, and great writing. And part of it is I get to see my work in MC‘s pages on a regular basis. Most recently, it’s my story on the new Janus Halcyon 450. Sue and I had a great time visiting with the Janus team in Goshen, Indiana, and the Halcyon 450 motorcycle is a winner. Pick up a copy of Motorcycle Classics magazine and read the Halcyon 450 article. Better yet, subscribe to Motorcycle Classics.

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Want to read more about Janus motorcycles in action? Check out the Baja ride we did with Janus!

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Ruger’s .357 Magnum Blackhawk

If I had to select one handgun above all others, my choice would be easy. It’s Ruger’s .357 Magnum Blackhawk. I don’t have one, but that’s something I aim to fix in the near term. I’m watching two .357 Blackhawks on the auction block right now. One is that drop dead gorgeous brass frame Old Model you see in the big photo above. That one is not just any Blackhawk, either. It was previously owned by Hank Williams, Junior.

The Hank Williams Blackhawk has a lot going for it. It’s the Old Model Blackhawk, which has a feel when cocked similar to a Colt Single Action Army. There’s the provenance (this one has a letter attesting to its prior ownership and its factory brass grip frame). And, there’s that rare (and highly desirable) brass grip frame. Ruger only made a few of those.

Winning the auction for the Hank Williams Blackhawk is a long shot. My backup is to buy a new Blackhawk, and I have my eye on the one shown in the photo below.

A new New Model Ruger .357 Blackhawk with a 6 1/2-inch barrel.

I guess I need to go tangential for a minute and explain this business about Old Model and New Model Blackhawks. The basic difference between the Old Model and the New Model is that the Old Model can fire if you drop it on a hard surface. The New Model incorporates a transfer bar to prevent that from happening. You should carry an Old Model with the hammer resting on an empty chamber; you can safely carry a New Model with all six chambers loaded. Naturally, geezers like me prefer the look and feel of the Old Model (and we tend not to drop our guns), but the new Model Model is every bit as good and every bit as accurate. Geezers just like old stuff.

I found a used 200th year stainless steel one on Gunbroker about a dozen years ago, I won the auction for it, and I ran the equivalent of a lead mine’s annual output down the bore (including some ultra-heavy 200-grain loads). I am the only guy I know who wore out a .357 Blackhawk. The loading latch wouldn’t stay open, and when I returned it for repair to Ruger, they were as amazed as I was that I wore it out. It was beyond repair, they told me, but as a good will gesture they paid me what I paid for it. Nobody, but nobody, has better customer service than Ruger.

A 25-yard group with the .357 Blackhawk. The Blackhawk will do this all day long.

Part of the reason the .357 Blackhawk I describe above went south, I think, is that it was stainless steel. I have it in my mind that stainless steel is softer than blued carbon steel, and I think they just don’t hold up as well under a steady diet of heavy loads. That’s why my next .357 Blackhawk will be blue steel.

To me, the Blackhawk is a “do anything” .357 Magnum. It’s a good buy in today’s inflated world, it’s a solid defense round, you can hunt with it, and it is accurate. I like the longer barrel for the sight radius. You can believe this or not, but I can easily hit targets at 100 yards with a .357 Blackhawk and the right load.

It’s been at least a couple of years now that I’ve been without a .357 Blackhawk, and like I said, I aim to fix that problem. I’ll let you know which of the above two guns (a brand new blue steel Blackhawk, or the Hank Williams Old Model) I pick up. Most likely it won’t be the Hank Williams revolver (competition and bidding will be intense on that one and it will probably be too rich for my blood), but the New Model will make me just as happy. Good times lie ahead. Stay tuned.

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A Harley Submarine?

Everybody who’s ever thrown a leg over a motorcycle has a story about when they crashed. This guy (who’s name I do not know) has us all beat. Last Thursday night, our unnamed hero was riding his Harley-Davidson across the Oakland Bay Bridge (the other big bridge connecting San Francisco to the mainland) when some dweeb in a Mini Cooper merged into his lane. A crash ensued, the rider came off the bike and suffered minor injuries, but the Harley kept going. And going. And going. Until it hit the rail and (you guessed it) went over the side.

The Oakland Bay Bridge is 190 feet above the Bay.

This fellow sounds like one tough (and lucky) dude. According to the news reports, he transported himself to the hospital, where he was treated and released. Also according to the news reports, no citations were issued to either our would-be U-boat commander or the Mini pilot.

The CHP and the Fire Department say they know exactly where the bike is. (So do I. It’s in San Francisco Bay.) The emergency responders will attempt to recover the motorcycle at a later date (the water under the bridge is about 100 feet deep). They are worried about it leaking gas and oil into the Bay. There’s a joke in there somewhere. Harleys are known to leak both, you know. I know Harley is moving to liquid cooling, but this is ridiculous. There’s got to be more. Let’s hear ’em.

As motorcycle crash stories go, this has to be one for the ages. I’m glad our hero (whoever he is) came through it with only minor injuries. Ah, the stories he’ll be able to tell.

So, here’s an invitation. Recognizing it’s not likely any of us will ever be able to top this story, what’s yours? Got a good crash story? We’d love to hear it.

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A Tale of Two Old Army Black Powder Rugers

Good buddy Paul is a black powder enthusiast. I am, too, except I’m completely inexperienced as a shooter in the blackpowder world. I owned an 1858 Remington reproduction (it was a Pietta, I think, and it was beautiful). Good buddy Duane wanted one and I sold mine, new in the box, to him without ever firing it. I’ve seen it fired, as Duane is a range regular and he’s had it out a few times. And I have a beautiful reproduction Colt Walker (made by Uberti; you can read that story here), but I haven’t fired that yet, either.

But I digress; this story is about the Ruger Old Army. Two of them, in fact. The name notwithstanding, the Ruger Old Army is a completely modern gun, with the exception of it’s being a cap and ball revolver. Ruger made a few variations of this fine weapon, with the variations being barrel length (the ones Paul owns are both 7 1/2-inch barreled guns; Ruger also made 5 1/2-inch barreled versions), blue steel or stainless steel construction (the ones you see here are samples of each), satin or highly-polished stainless steel, and fixed or adjustable sights. Ruger also offered a brass grip frame on the blue steel version (those are beautiful handguns). Ruger also offered the Old Army with simulated ivory grips for a while.

Paul added custom grips to his Old Army revolvers, and in both cases, the grips add considerably to the revolvers’ appearance.

Big bore percussion revolvers have simultaneously been called either .44 caliber or .45 caliber. They are not a .44, though. They are all .45s, and you can fire either a .457 lead ball, or a .454 conical lead bullet.

Ruger introduced the Old Army in 1972 and discontinued it in 2008 as sales slowed. From what I’ve read, Ruger Old Army revolvers can be extremely accurate. I can’t tell you that from personal experience, however. As I said above I have absolutely zero range time with the Old Army or any other black powder firearm. Caps are difficult-to-impossible to find these days with the pandemic-induced components shortages (I haven’t fired my Walker yet for that reason).

Paul’s two Old Army Rugers are beautiful. One of these days, when components are flowing freely again, we’ll have to get them and my yet-to-be fired Colt Walker on the range.

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A Colt Visit

The city of Hartford in Connecticut is Mecca if you are a Colt fan (as in Colt firearms), and I sure am a Colt fan. I grew up seeing Colt .45 sixguns in western movies when I was a kid and I got my first Colt (a .45 ACP 1911 Government Model) when I finished college (and I’ve never not owned at least one Colt since then). I have no tattoos, but if I were going to get one it would be the Colt logo.

My Colt 1911 has been sending lead downrange for 50 years.

I made a friend in the Colt company when reviving the MacManus award. I had to be in Hartford recently for a symposium and I told my Colt buddy I’d buy him a beer. He suggested a tour of the Colt factory. That was an opportunity I could not let pass.

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The original Colt plant (the one built by Sam Colt) is a National Historic Site. Time did not permit visiting it, but I could see the blue dome above the old plant from my hotel window.

The original Colt manufacturing facility on the banks of the Connecticut River. I didn’t get to it, but the next time I’m in Hartford I will.

The modern Colt factory is a few miles from downtown Hartford. It’s what you see in the big photo up top, and it’s where I had the plant tour described in this blog. The bad news is that photography is prohibited inside the plant (as a manufacturer of military rifles for the US and other countries, Colt can’t have photos of their production processes finding their way to the bad guys). The good news is that I entered the inner sanctum. I saw how the M4s, the M16s , the 1911s, the Single Action Armys, the Pythons, and all the other cool stuff are made. As a manufacturing guy and gun guy with a defense industry background, it was one of the best days of my life.

More good news is that I could take pictures inside the famed Colt Custom Shop. The Custom Shop is a small group of world class artists who assemble what are arguably the most desirable guns in the world. Think engraved, gold inlaid, extremely expensive works of the gunmaker’s art. Guns that are delivered to US presidents, wealthy collectors, and…well, you get the idea. There’s a two-year waiting list for a Custom Shop Colt firearm, and when delivered, the ticket can exceed the cost of a new car. On the secondary market, some have been known to exceed the cost of a new home.

Colt Custom Shop handguns, the stuff of dreams.

You can still purchase a brand new Colt 1903 through the Custom Shop. This one is exquisite. I owned one in the 1970s I bought it for $75 and sold for $200 a few months later, thinking I had done well. Ah, the mistakes we make.

A Custom Shop Anaconda with an inlaid gold bear and extensive engraving.

A closeup of the above Anaconda’s engraving and gold inlay. It’s all done by hand with small hammers and tiny chisels.

An exquisite Single Action Army. The grips are giraffe bone.

Colt’s Custom Shop is producing a series of Single Action Army revolvers for the legendary Texas Rangers. The Texas Rangers are the oldest law enforcement organization in America.

Colt has a process for making a new gun look aged. It’s been applied to this Custom Shop Single Action Army.

This was my second visit to Hartford. When I wrote The Gatling Gun nearly 30 years ago, I contacted Colt to ask if I could visit their archives (the original Gatling guns were built by Colt). Colt referred me to the Connecticut State Library and Museum. I went there and I was met by a Connecticut State Trooper who asked me a few questions, took my fingerprints, and ran a background check. Satisfied I wasn’t a terrorist or a KGB agent, he issued a laminated permit designating me an official Connecticut state historian. That gave me access to the archives in a secure area of the Museum. Poking around in there made for a fun day, and I used materials from those archives when I wrote The Gatling Gun.

My visit to the Colt archives three decades ago was impressive. I handled hand-written documents signed by Dr. Gatling and Samuel Colt. It was a great day and a lifelong memory. My recent visit to Colt factory and the Custom Shop (as described in this blog) made for an even better day. A Colt tattoo….maybe that’s not a bad idea.

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The last Betty…

Some days at the range I don’t feel like punishing myself with heavy recoil or trying to shoot the tightest possible groups with loads that have been tuned to perfection. Nope, shooting is fun, and sometimes blasting through a box of ammo is just what the doctor ordered.

A few years ago when we were organizing military surplus rifle fun matches, good buddy Paul showed up with a bunch of zombie targets. Paul called the zombie Boris and the hostage Betty, and the names stuck. We had targets left after the match, and yesterday I shot the very last one.

I had my trusty Model 60 Smith and Wesson and a box of 100 .38 Specials I had loaded on my Star progressive reloader. They were Gardner Cache powder-coated 148-grain wadcutters with 2.7 grains of Bullseye (the go to accuracy load in .38 Special). I set ol’ Boris and Betty up on the 7-yard line and proceeded to double-action my way through 20 cylinders’ worth of ammo (the cylinder in a Model 60 holds 5 rounds). There was not a single misfire in the entire 100 rounds, and more importantly, not a single one of them hit Betty. Boris…he didn’t fare so well.

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Glendora Ridge Road

Glendora Ridge Road is one of the best kept secrets in southern California, offering 12 miles of well-maintained, low-traffic twisties nestled in the San Gabriel Mountains. And it’s not just 12 miles…it’s 12 miles with 234 curves (I counted them) through some of the most beautiful country imaginable. The striking thing about this road is its simultaneous desolation and nearness to civilization. Glendora Ridge Road is only 45 minutes from downtown Los Angeles. It’s only 10 minutes from my front door. Given its magnificence and nearby location, you’d think I’d ride it every day. I don’t, but I should.

Glendora Ridge Road is a glorious ride, and it’s been a favorite ride for me ever since I arrived in California. It’s hard to believe just how good it is and just how much of a change it offers between what most folks think southern California is and pure wilderness. Like I said above, it starts just 10 minutes away from my home. Ride it and you enter a different world. When I rode it last week, I saw two other vehicles on the entire ride. One was a single-cylinder dual sport; the other was a red Ducati. That’s it: Just two vehicles, and both were motorcycles.

As is the case with many mountain paths, Glendora Ridge Road began life as a dirt road many decades ago. Situated high up in the Angeles National Forest, asphalt came to Glendora Ridge Road in the 1970s. There’s no centerline for most of its length, which requires extra care in navigating its many tight blind corners. Glendora Ridge Road attracts motorcyclists, bicyclists, and the odd sports car or two. We also get some ricky racers in modified Honda Civics and the like up in the San Gabriels, so caution is in order.

Yikes! In the spring, you’ll see these guys looking for lady spiders at dusk. They say they’re harmless. I’ll take their word for it.

Glendora Ridge Road runs directly through one of the premier wildflower spots in America (the colors are surreal during April and May when the flowers are blooming…purples, reds, yellows, oranges, and more). Glendora Ridge Road also borders the San Dimas Experimental Forest, a 32-square mile research area. I’ve seen deer, fox, bobcat, bear, tarantulas, and snakes up there. I grabbed the tarantula shot above one evening in the pre-digital days with a 35mm Minolta and a 28mm lens. I had to get right on top of the spider to get that shot. I held the camera maybe six inches or so above it, only to later learn those things can jump 10 inches straight up!

I’ve ridden Glendora Ridge Road on virtually every motorcycle I’ve owned in the last 40 years. We used to do a lot of company rides with CSC Motorcycles, and everyone loved it. The RX3 is a perfect motorcycle for this ride. We once did a winter ride when the road was iced over. We rode it anyway.

The photo opportunities along Glendora Ridge Road are awesome. These days, I’m down to one motorcycle, and that’s my 650 Enfield. There are a lot of good spots for getting advertising quality photos on Glendora Ridge Road, and I took advantage of a few. Glendora Ridge Road has several areas where the cliffs and overhangs provide shade, so even on a bright day you can get great shots without harsh shadows

I pick a motorcycle based on how I know its colors will photograph. I chose wisely, I think.

On Glendora Ridge Road, looking north. It really is this scenic. I had the road and the San Gabriels to myself. The great Mojave Desert lies on the other side of those mountains.

Glendora Ridge Road runs roughly east to west (or west to east, depending on which way you travel). I like riding this road in the early morning or at dusk, as it makes for a more interesting ride (fewer folks, and the wildlife is more active.) In the morning, it’s best to ride in a westerly direction to keep the sun out of your eyes, and vice versa at dusk. The road’s curves make it tempting to go faster than you should, but my advice is to keep a relaxed pace. Many of the corners are blind, and you never know if there’s a squid pushing too hard coming the other way.

Just as you enter Mt. Baldy Village, the sign for Glendora Ridge Road appears on the left (if you’re not looking for it, you may miss it). You’ll only climb about a half-mile before you hit Cow Canyon Saddle. It’s a neat place to get a feel for the length and breadth of the valley skirted by Glendora Ridge Road. There’s a dirt road on the other side of that valley, but it’s not open to the public (the dirt road runs about eight miles to an abandoned tungsten mine). After running west for exactly 12 miles (and as mentioned above, no fewer than 234 curves), you arrive at the intersection of Glendora Ridge Road, Glendora Mountain Road, and East Fork Road. Glendora Mountain Road meanders down into Glendora. If you turn right to take East Fork Road, it continues on to Highway 39 above Azusa. The intersection of these three roads is a popular meeting spot where riders stop to talk and take in the view. On clear days in the winter, you can see the Pacific Ocean and Catalina Island.

Always a good idea. This photo shows Glendora Mountain Road heading up into the San Gabriels.

My choice for the return home on this most recent Enfield ride was Glendora Mountain Road. It’s equally scenic and a little shorter ride back. My arthritis was bothering me a bit and even though I was having a great time, my shoulder was reminding me I’m not 17 years old anymore. It was a good ride down out of the mountains. There are places on Glendora Mountain Road where you can see Highway 39 and the reservoir above Azusa, as shown in the photo below.

This is a photo stitched together from four photos in PhotoShop. The road at the base of the mountains on the other side of the reservoir is Highway 39, which runs south to Azusa. CSC Motorcycles is located not too far from the notch in the mountains on the left side of this photo.

So there you have it: Glendora Ridge Road, one of So Cal’s best kept secrets. If you’re looking for a great ride, this is it. If you’re up there and you see an old guy on an Enfield nursing his left shoulder, give a wave.

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Book Review: Disappearing Act

On a recent trip to Hawaii, the girls wanted shave ice (a local treat) and we stopped at the Waikoloa mall. It was a warm afternoon, the line was long, and I wasn’t about to stand in line and wait. The girls did, and I set off to wander the mall. Malls all pretty much look the same to me, but I wanted to get my daily steps in and it was an opportunity to do so.

I hadn’t gone very far when I was surprised to see a local authors exhibit. I stopped to see what was there. There were several writers, and one was a nice fellow about my age named Ray Pace. We had a pleasant conversation, I enjoyed his east coast accent, and before I knew it, I bought a signed copy of Ray’s book.

Disappearing Act was a wise choice. It’s a crime novel that mixes science fiction, Vegas, Chicago, the mob, a private investigator, and assorted characters in an interesting tale. It was refreshing to read a story with no technical mistakes in the firearms descriptions. Pace is a good writer (he has the experience for it; before turning to fiction he was a crime reporter for big city newspapers). Disappearing Act is 150 pages long and I read it on the flight home from Hawaii. It’s a light read, a good story, well written, and I enjoyed it. You will, too.