Story by Bruce Harris
Illustration by Cesar Valtierra
J.C. Denton balanced phone between cheek and shoulder as he dropped ice cubes into a glass. Like a shot, his divided attention turned undivided at the mention of Mel Lewis. “Shit!” as several ice cubes missed their mark, crashed to the floor, shattered. “Mel Lewis?”
“Yup. He said some friend sent him my way because I’d be able to hook him up to promote fights. Asshole looked familiar.” Simon Baines smiled as his receptionist, Marilyn, kneaded fingers deeper into his tight neck muscles.
“You alone?” Denton asked.
Short hesitation. “Sure.”
“I’ll wait until you are.”
Baines placed his hand on Marilyn’s, rested the phone on his desk. He hated to do it. “Thanks. That’s enough. Take the rest of the day.” He felt as if a branding iron of her hourglass figure, black skirt, red sweater, legs and black pumps burned his brain cells like a side of beef.
Denton’s, “You still there?” shout brought Baines back. Denton continued, “Son of a bitch! He knows.”
Like an old tattoo, Marilyn was now forgotten. “Knows what? Who the hell is he? How do you know he knows? Just because he shows up here asking…”
A large fist pounded the desk. Ice cubes danced. “Listen to me, Simon. We’ve got to stop him and fast.
Now Baines was focused. “What could he possibly know? Maybe he lucked out by coming here, you know, shooting craps?”
“I doubt he knows what’s really going on at this point, but he’s no dummy. Just the fact that he went up to see you is proof. Shit! I can’t believe it was that spineless son of a bitch. But, it makes no sense. The note said ‘Andrea Brown.’ This is really getting fucked up.”
Baines’ head spun. “Slow down, will you? What the hell are you talking about? You’re not making any sense at all. Something happened. What happened?”
Denton finally grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured. He drained the glass, poured another before speaking. “Okay, it’s like this…”
Denton told Baines the entire story, how he was sort of ambushed from behind while buying his morning newspaper. He explained how the bastard had carefully planned the whole thing out, never spoke a word, took his wallet and his briefcase before shooting and killing Joe Reardon and getting away.
“Holy shit!” interjected Baines, “That was you? I read about it in the papers but the robbery victim was unnamed. Shit! You?”
Liquor burned its way through Denton’s stomach. “The note. The note Reardon stuck in the newspaper for me to see. He told me the robber’s identity. Had to be. Why the hell else would he have done it? Plus, the way he read the instructions during the holdup, it was clear he purposefully didn’t specify the sex of the person. This is a mess. Was it Brown? Lewis?”
Baines rubbed his bald dome. “Maybe they were in on it together? Anyway, if it were Lewis, how and why would he suddenly show up and see me? Where’s that coming from?”
“What about it?”
It was not the kind of thing Denton was accustomed to, rationalizing a mistake. “I fucked up, Simon. Among some legal briefs and such, which I don’t give a damn about, there were copies of emails between you and me. I never should have printed them and certainly never should have let them remain in my briefcase. I fucked up.” Denton could hear Baines curse under his breath.
“What emails? What was in them?”
“That’s the really messed up part. There was really no reason to print them in the first place and why the hell I kept them is beyond lunacy.”
“Okay, okay. What was on the emails?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Some shit about the fights and fighters and it wouldn’t take an Einstein to figure things out. Trouble is, I’m not sure myself what was in there.”
“Okay, so what’s the big deal other than they are emails between us? Maybe it was nothing?”
“Regardless, the emails connect us and the fights. There’s only one reason why Lewis came to see you. He’s phishing for information. He had to have seen the emails, but how? Either he stole my briefcase or as you said was in on it with Brown. That’s possible.”
“Maybe it was just coincidence that he came to see me?”
“No way. The papers are stolen, and then this snake in the grass shows up asking a lot of inane questions? It wasn’t a coincidence. He has or seen the emails. I’m thinking more and more he has them. I hoped against hope that the fucker who took my stuff and murdered Joe was just in it for the money and tossed everything else. Obviously, that’s not the case.”
“So, now what?”
“This asshole’s too dangerous. Leave it to me. I screwed up big time once, maybe twice, but that’s another story. I’m not going to do it again.”
“Lewis.” Sheridan turned toward Horowitz. ”Isn’t he the reporter who called and asked everyone questions for some kind of story about cops a couple of months back? His name sounds so damned familiar.”
Horowitz had other things on his mind. “What?”
They found him easily enough. Mel Lewis’ apartment door was no match for Officer Sheridan’s boot. The wood splintered every which way and sounded like 4th of July fireworks. From the bedroom, Mel Lewis’ scream jumped out from under the covers. No one slept next to him. “What the fuck was that? Who’s there?”
He’d barely gotten the words out of his mouth. This time, it was Horowitz. “Police! Don’t move and keep your hands where we can see them!”
Lewis didn’t know whether to push the cover off and get out of bed or to stay put and raise his hands. He decided on the former. “What the hell’s the meaning of….”
Sheridan spoke. His and Horowitz’s guns were pointed in the direction of the bedroom. “Don’t take another step. Get your hands up where we can see them.” The two officers entered the bedroom. Lewis appeared a bit disoriented but had the wherewithal to follow directions. “Good,” said Sheridan. Horowitz approached Mel Lewis, grabbed the suspect’s hands and maneuvered them behind him and applied handcuffs. Sheridan, “Mel Lewis, you’re under arrest for the murder of Bobby Tanner.”
Lewis tried to remember the name Tanner. “Who? What? Tanner! What the hell are you talking about?”
Sheridan looked at Horowitz, who nodded. “This man’s resisting arrest, Officer Horowitz,” said Sheridan.
Patrolman Horowitz approached Lewis. “Resisting arrest, especially an arrest for murder, will not sit well in the court of law.”
Lewis was indignant. “I have a right to speak to my lawyer. This is America. You can’t do this to me. I don’t know what the hell you two are talking about.”
The men scuffled a bit. “We’re talking about charging you with murder. And, if you resist arrest, that will only be to your detriment.”
With indignation, Lewis screamed out, “And whom am I supposed to have murdered? Let me ask you that?” Apparently, it hadn’t sunk in.
Horowitz looked at Sheridan and the later returned his glance. Enough was enough. “I’m done with him. Let’s just do this and then get on to the next plan. Why fuck around?’
Sheridan nodded. “Agreed.” He pointed toward Lewis. “You, come with me. Now!”
Mel Lewis licked his lips and looked from one policeman to the other. “What are you two talking about? This is ridiculous. I’m a taxpayer. You work for me! I demand answers and I demand to speak to my attorney.”
“Here, speak to this,” Officer Sheridan pointed his police special at Lewis and fired twice. Lewis went down in a heap, now vulture food.
“Self-defense,” said Sheridan, “Did you see him charge at me?” he asked Horowitz.
“I’d swear to it on a stack of bibles. Old Testaments” lied a laughing Martin Horowitz. The two cops shook hands. “I thought we were going to take him out for a drive, show him the country, and then be rid of him.”
Sheridan looked down at the body. “I guess I just got carried away. Why put off what you can do now my daddy always said.”
What about the other scumbag?”
Both policemen dealt with Lewis’ dead body. They dragged him down, outside, and through the deserted parking lot. At one corner stood a dark green dumpster. Horowitz grabbed the stiff, one arm around the dead man’s neck, the other under limp knees. Sheridan raised one of the overhead doors and with a hoist like that of an Olympic shot putter; Horowitz dumped Lewis into the bin. “I wonder what day they collect garbage here?” Sheridan shrugged. “Hey, we’re on a role, might as well deal with The Honorable Mr. Judge himself. No time like the present,” said Horowitz as he wiped his hands clean in an exaggerated manner.
“Agreed,” said Sheridan, “but no bullets. They’re really are messy. Look at you. You’ve got blood all over yourself. You look like Henry Cooper after one round against a second-rate pug.”
Depending on one’s perspective, it was an argument or a discussion. Sheridan viewed it as the former, Horowitz the latter. Detective Burgess listened, but didn’t give a shit.
“He’s mine,” implored Sheridan, “the son of a bitch disrespected me. It only makes sense for me to be the one to take him out.” He looked at Burgess. “Agree?”
“Wait! Why should he take care of Denton? That isn’t right. The guy insulted me by thinking he was more important, that his shit don’t stink, that I’d follow along like a brainless sheep to whatever the hell he commanded. It’s bullshit.”
The corners of Burgess’ mouth rose. “Girls, please. Listen to the two of you. I feel like a nursemaid here.”
“Well, who is going to take out Denton?” asked Sheridan. “And, don’t say him,” pointing in Horowitz’s direction.
Burgess rubbed his chin as if pondering an earth-shattering decision. “Tell you what…you’re both off the case. I’ll take care of Denton myself! How’s that grab you?”
Horowitz broke the few seconds silence. “Wait, hold on. With all due respect, you’re barely involved in this. Sheridan and I are up to our asses in this mess. Really, it’s only right that one of us deal with him.”
The jaded detective didn’t hesitate. “Tell you what. Why don’t you both do it? I’ll bow out. I’ve been on the sidelines anyway. I’ll manage Schofield. He won’t be a problem. Case closed on Denton.” The three took turns shaking hands.
Judge J.C. Denton sat down midday at the downtown Palisades Grille. He was entertaining a group of community leaders interested in the city’s urban renewal plans. His charm, resembling that of a seasoned beauty pageant contestant, was on display at the power-lunch crowd’s favorite eatery. With a spread-open menu in front of him, he declared to the entire table, “Order what you please. Don’t hold back. Food, drinks,
everything’s on me, a small token of my appreciation for all of your hard work and dedication to this great city.” Denton looked around for one of the wait staff. Instead, he saw Patrolman Horowitz. The policeman had a concerned look on his face. The two made eye contact. Horowitz motioned that he needed to speak with Denton. J.C. wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, excused himself from the table, and approached Horowitz. “What the hell’s the meaning of this?” he whispered within earshot of the cop. “Is something wrong? This better be good, Horowitz. You’re interrupting a very important meeting.”
Officer Horowitz wanted to punch the bastard’s lights out right then and there, but knew better. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but it’s something of importance. It can certainly wait until after your lunch meeting.” Horowitz was proud of his self-control. “Tell you what, once you’re finished here, if you wouldn’t mind, I think it will benefit us if you could stop in at Frankie’s Barber Shop around the corner. You look like you could use a trim.” Horowitz touched the hair over Denton’s ear, smiled, and walked away. Denton, steamed, hoped no one noticed.
Following the meeting, a perplexed and annoyed Judge Denton looked through the glass door at Frankie’s, saw no one. He tried the door and it opened. He took a few tentative steps inside. “Hello? Anyone here? Horowitz? You here?” The first punch hit him flush in the jaw. The crooked official never saw it coming. He was down on the tiled floor among freshly cut hairballs of various colors, cleanliness, and length. Blood trickled from the corner of this mouth. He focused on the two uniformed officers standing over him. “What’s the meaning…”
Horowitz grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked. Denton screamed. Sheridan gripped shears, ignored the little-curved tip on the scissors’ handle, the one used to rest a fatigued pinky, and cut wide, uneven swath of the judge’s hair. “Like Samson, huh Denton?” sneered Sheridan. “Suddenly, you’re weak as a kitten.” Sheridan wanted nothing more than to plunge the pointed shears into Denton’s eye sockets. Horowitz must have felt the vibe, screamed, “Stop! No!” Reflexively, Sheridan dropped the cutters, picked up the judge by his shirtfront, only to drop him again with a straight right hand that met Denton’s nose with the impact of a wrecking ball on a condemned crack house. The so-called pillar of the community was still conscious, barely. Blood oozed from his smashed nose, dripped profusely from his mouth onto the barbershop floor. “Old Frankie is going to have a hell of a time cleaning the place up in the morning,” laughed Sheridan.
“Look what you did, judge,” mocked Horowitz, “You’ve made a mess of this place. I get my haircuts here. My kids come here, too. What do you have to say for yourself?”
There was still a flicker of fight in Denton’s bruised eyes, but they uncontrollably rose up toward the ancient ceiling fans. Sheridan slapped him, spit. “Answer the officer when he asks you a question.”
Denton looked perplexed. He tried to speak, couldn’t. His tongue felt as thick as the last T-bone he imbibed at one of the city’s high-end steak houses. His demeanor was anything but the arrogant, powerful, corrupt, influential judge. Till the end, he tried to cut a deal. Barely audible, “Maybe we can talk things over. I thought you two were on my side. What went wrong? There’s still time to make things right.” He began babbling. The two cops stood, listened to his ramble. “Andrea Brown. She was so pretty. I don’t know why she did what she did. You know, I gave her everything a woman can want. It hurts me to think you two don’t understand the situation…”
Before the evening ended, Judge J.C. Denton’s body, still but beginning to swell, rose and dropped rhythmically with that of the nighttime tide in the murky city river waters. A number of fish would have their way with Denton before His Honor washed up near the city’s waterfront shops and newsstands days later. The morning editions were already on the streets.
The two officers looked around in amazement. Their jobs had taken them from the most decrepit, dilapidated, urine-stinking drug dens to some pretty exclusive homes, but neither had seen anything like Denton’s crib. “Check this out,” Horowitz called over to Sheridan, “Fucker has…I mean had, some serious watches. Look at this shit. There’s one for every day of the month!”
Sheridan whistled as if checking out a pretty woman on a street corner. “Holy damn! Each one looks like it’s worth more than my fucking car.” He held an ostentatious gold piece in his hand, guessing its weight with an upward and downward motion of his hand. “Freaking heavy. It’s got so many dials and numbers and shit, I can’t even tell the time on it.”
“You’re not supposed to,” lectured Horowitz, “it’s for show.” Both helped themselves to their favorite time machines.
The two cops continued searching, turned up nothing. They weren’t sure what they were looking for, but were confident there wasn’t anything that could help tie the late judge with anybody that could be considered in a position to do the two officers harm. “What’s next?” it was Sheridan. The two continued on plush carpet in silence, looked behind pillows, under couches, and behind expensive pieces of modern furniture.
“Nothing else here. Let’s take a ride to Lewis’ place. We’ve got nothing to lose.”
It was a 25-minute drive from the palatial confines to the very middle-class digs formerly occupied by Mel Lewis. Ordinarily, the average Joe would have found Lewis’ home perfectly comfortable, nothing exceptional, but clean, livable, and a satisfactory reward as one pursued the American dream. But after visiting Denton’s place, the Lewis apartment felt like a postage stamp, nothing more than a dump. Still, the cramped quarters provided Officers Horowitz and Sheridan with the information they coveted. They found the briefcase.
Sheridan spoke, “Do you know this guy Simon Baines?”
A sweet and sour smile spread on Horowitz’s face. “Not yet.”
It was lunchtime when the two cops pulled their cruiser into the parking lot. The line at the Clam and Chowder Hut snaked around the building’s small trapezoidal-shaped structure. A large, weather-beaten sign featuring a smiling clam proclaiming, “I’m tasty,” coerced drivers off the streets. Simon Baldy Baines stood in the proximity of the snake’s imaginary head. He moved closer to the ordering window. His thoughts were not on food. First, the disappearance of Judge J.C. Denton dominated newsprint. A day after the coverage of his story began shrinking and moving closer to the sports section, his body was found by a couple of high school kids playing ball. Wham! Page one news again and again and it had shaken Baines badly. “
Baines shuffled his feet. He glanced up at the poorly illuminated menu board, as had hungry thousands before him. It was only a matter of time before they came looking for him. He needed to get away, preferably to another country. The sun wasn’t the only heat source.
“What’ll it be?” asked the toothpick chewing, white t-shirt wearing order taker. The raised veins on his tattooed stained arms looked like meandering ant tunnels. “Don’t have all day.”
“Fried shrimp and fries.”
“Plate or sandwich?”
Baines detected nervous shuffling behind him. The snake grew. “Oh, um, doesn’t matter. Um, make it a sandwich.”
Baines reached for his wallet. “Um, no. Nothing.”
Baines stepped aside, paid at the cashier’s window, and waited for his food. He tried to think who might have had it in for the judge. Actually, the problem was the reverse. Who didn’t have it in for Denton? J.C. Denton and enemies were akin to Hollywood starlets and casting couches. This made it worse. Baines suspected everyone, but number one on the hit parade was Mel Lewis, the nosy ex-reporter who always stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.
“Fried shrimp and fries! Pick up!”
Baines grabbed the bag by its crumpled top. Grease stained the lower third of the bag as he turned and headed toward the parking lot.
Horowitz, his ass against the “To Protect and Serve” decal on the squad car, said to his partner, “The clams are really good here. Ever have them?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It’s the whole belly of the clams, not those shitty strips. Delicious.”
Sheridan’s eyes were laser fixated on Simon Baines. He watched as the importer-exporter’s shoes crunched gravel mixed with old chipped seashells on the way to his car. “I don’t eat that shit.”
“Really?” said Horowitz. “I’m surprised. What, you prefer tofu and bean sprouts? You one of those types?”
“He’s about to get into his car. What do you say we have our little chat with him?”
The two cops walked in Baines’ direction. He was too focused on his own problems to even notice them. Baines clicked the key fob. Headlights briefly flashed and door locks pop opened. Sheridan gently touched Baines’ shoulder and it surprised him. He gasped, then the men in blue came into focus. “Yes, officers? Can I help you?”
Horowitz stared at the paper bag. He hoped Baines ordered the clams. “What’s in the bag?”
Sheridan looked at his partner. Baines looked down at the bag, said, “Shrimp and French fries and I paid for them. If you don’t believe me…”
A look of dissatisfaction crossed Horowitz’s face. “That’s not why we’re here. I’m Officer Horowitz. This is Officer Sheridan. Our names mean anything to you?”
Simon Baines looked closely at both men. “No. Should it?”
It was Sheridan’s turn. “What my partner is trying to say here is that he and I were very close friends to the Honorable Judge J.C. Denton, the late Judge Denton.” Both cops tried to get a read on Baines’ reaction. It was stoic. “Very sad what happened to the judge, very sad. I mean, if a judge isn’t safe, who is?” Baines was a statue, Sheridan continued, “Now, when a judge gets it, there are so many possibilities. Like anyone else, it could have been something domestic. Possible. Of course, his death could have been purely accidental. Again possible, but unlike most people, judges, and cops for that matter make a lot of enemies over the years, you know, sending off to prison the self-proclaimed innocent bystanders who always happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Judge must have locked up hundreds of bad people. What are the odds one of them didn’t take it upon his, or her, to be politically correct, self, to even the score? See what I’m getting at? Who knows? Then again, maybe one of the judge’s friends did the judge in. The possibilities are limitless. Let me ask you this, Mr. Baines. Did you consider yourself a friend of Judge Denton?”
Baines quickly calculated the odds. Did he have a chance slugging both cops and getting away? He was bigger than Sheridan, but Horowitz was solidly built. He promptly ended his little fantasy. “I knew Judge Denton, yes.”
“That wasn’t my question. Did you consider yourself a friend of Judge Denton?”
“Okay, what are you getting at?” The words spilled out. “I mean, yes, I guess so. I mean, we weren’t, you know, friends or anything like that. Why? What are you getting at?” The bag of shrimp and potatoes felt ten pounds heavier.
A few of the more curious customers occasionally glanced back toward the two policemen and Baines but from all outward appearances, it was nothing more than three men engaged in conversation. The really hungry in line focused completely on their next meal. “We don’t want a scene here, Mr. Baines, so please put down the bag and place your hands behind you.”
The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. Baines figured that the cops would eventually link him and the judge and pump him with questions about others Denton knew or had contact with. With a decent lawyer, he’d get a slap on the wrist for the gambling operation. They’d shut it down, but so what? Without Denton, what was the point? He had a legitimate business in which to support his lifestyle. So, what’s with the handcuffs? Maybe these two were just jumpy and under pressure from the top because of the high profile death. “Are you arresting me for something? Why am I putting my hands behind my back?”
Sheridan, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Judge J.C. Denton.” Sheridan read Baines his rights.
“What? Are you guys crazy?” the last five words spoken by Simon Baldy Baines. The two officers placed him in the backseat of the patrol car and drove away, but not before Horowitz grabbed the bag of shrimp and fries, still wishing Baines had ordered the clams instead. “Damn, you have shit taste, Baines.”
The gum-smacking redhead receptionist Marilyn was going to need a new boss and new job.
The Sunday edition of THE DAILY SCOOP carried an article entitled, “Blue Blood – Thicker than Sludge.” Copies, ironically purchased at the newsstand once run by someone named Joe Reardon, lay strewn across locker-room benches, floor, and toilets. “Good reading material for when you take a shit,” said one of the veteran cops. “What I want to know is how Horowitz’s and Sheridan’s ugly mugs wind up in the article! How about that? I guess it’s true, hey Horowitz? You guys really control the media!” Laughter erupted among those working the unpopular Sunday shift.
Horowitz raised his middle finger. “I’m surprised you’re even able to read, Rizzo. Or, are you just looking at the pictures?” That got the group going again as Horowitz and Sheridan high-fived each other. “At least the two of us know how to clean up the city’s trash.”
The piece, written several months prior, was complimentary to the police force’s dedication, teamwork, and devotion to their public service. It detailed examples of how on numerous occasions, the men in blue covered for each other, always having each other’s backs, and through the toughest and most stressful unimaginable horrors, the officers’ commitment to each other was unequaled in any other field. The respect and bond among the rank and file was akin to that of close-knit siblings. The words “extended family” appeared in the article several times. The photo of Horowitz and Sheridan showed the two assisting a senior citizen in distress. Both officers, the story went on to say, had received the city’s highly regarded “James B. Turpin Memorial Award,” established two years prior, for those police officers who have demonstrated courage, valor, and an unselfishness in helping their communities come together and thrive.
Officer Turpin died in the line of duty, jumping into a fiery automobile to help rescue a trapped senior citizen. He saved a life at the cost of his own. In a cruel twist of fate, the accident victim passed away from old age a week later. Officer Turpin, in his late twenties, left a wife and two young children. No one in the precinct ever had a bad word to say about him. Winning the award named in his honor was highly coveted by the officers. Horowitz and Sheridan were the first two to be honored.
It was as if a no-nonsense librarian had just shouted, “Quiet!” when Detective Burgess and Captain Schofield walked in. The younger man had a copy of the newspaper in hand. He looked around, spotted Horowitz and Sheridan, and pointed the paper in their direction. “You two deserve this. We should all be proud of the work these two exemplary police officers have demonstrated. Let them be a role model to all you guys!” He looked around the room, trying not to breathe through his nose. He fixated on Rizzo. “And that goes double for you, Rizzo! Say, this is Sunday. Shouldn’t you be in church asking forgiveness for all of your sins?”
Rizzo smiled. “It’s discrimination. I told anyone who would listen that I didn’t want to work any more Sundays, but like everything else around here, I got fucked.”
From the back of the room came a voice. “Hell, I know your old lady ain’t giving you any, so it’s good that the department is taking care of you in that regard.”
Rizzo spun around. “Who said that? Was it you, Phillips?”
Office Phillips was combing his hair. “Was it me, what? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t worry, Phillips. I get enough from your Mrs. to last me a lifetime. That reminds me, did I leave my handcuffs in your bedroom the other night?”
Phillips didn’t miss a beat. “I didn’t see any handcuffs, but I found a pair of size 48 ladies’ underwear that would fit a fat slob like you. Were you just getting in touch with your feminine side?”
A couple of the guys laughed and playfully shoved Rizzo. Captain Schofield finally put an end to it. “All right girls, you’ve had your fun. Knock it off, okay? That’s not a question. I’m telling you to knock it off.”
“He started it,” Rizzo said.
“Bullshit,” came the response.
“Jeez. Are we in kindergarten here? Seriously men, how many of you Rhodes scholars actually took the time to read the article. It is, after all, about us, and it isn’t negative. We need all the positive press we can get. And, it features two of our own.” Schofield nodded toward Horowitz and Sheridan.
Horowitz seized the moment. “The Captain is right. What we have here is a fine piece of literature. Some of the words may be too long for some of you to pronounce or understand. Don’t be shy. You are among friends here. Sheridan and I will be happy to help out any of our language challenged partners.”
“Eat shit, Horowitz,” it was Rizzo.
The oldest one in the room, a veteran patrolman who went by the nickname Paper Boy, placed reading glasses on the tip of his nose. “Let me see, who wrote this worthless
piece of garbage? Hmmm, Mel Lewis byline. I wonder where this Mel Lewis is right now. I’d like to have a little talk with him.”
— ♦♦♦ —
For Parts 1-4 of In the Newspaper please visit
In the Newspaper (Part 1 of 5)
In The Newspaper (Part 2 of 5)
In the Newspaper (Part 3 of 5)
In the Newspaper (Part 4 of 5)
The Curse of the Flying Skull. By Tim Frayser, Art by Chlo’e Camonayan
Be sure to tune in on New Year’s Eve when we offer “The Curse of the Flying Skull” by Tim Frayser. Native-Americans hold many beliefs based on mysticism. One such belief proves deadly for some men who had committed an unthinkable act. Will gunfighter Bat Masterson be able to stop the entity intent on deadly retribution? You can only find out by reading about the Curse of the Flying Skull next week!