Organized
Crime Queens:
The
Secret World of Female Gangsters
by
Jerry Bader
Genre:
Biography
From
the bizarre world of female Japanese motorcycle gangs to the historic
rise and fall of London’s Forty Elephants, the history of female
organized crime is both fascinating and strange. These are the
stories, both true and legendary of the female crime bosses that
broke the mould of feminine gentility. This is The Secret World of
Female Gangsters.
Most
of society thinks of women as the gentler sex, the sex with more
compassion and empathy, not prone to violence. The truth is history,
and current events, are littered with stories of violent women who do
whatever it takes to get what they want; women who either revel in,
or accept as needed, whatever acts of torture, murder and depravity
that are required to achieve their goals. We’re not talking about
mundane psychopaths that kill their children and their husbands; or
homicidal maniacs that kill randomly without purpose, other than for
some sexual or psychological gratification. We’re talking about
female organized crime bosses, leaders of highly structured, often
successful criminal organizations.
Most
everyone knows about the high profile male mobsters; people like
Lucky Luciano, Myer Lansky, Bugsy Segal, Arnold Rothstein, and Al
Capone: men who became legends, rightly or wrongly, due to the
public’s insatiable appetite for literature, movies, and television
stories based on their lives. But what about their female
counterparts, they definitely existed and still exist. Their stories
are both fascinating and cautionary. Their histories provide an
alternative perspective on the equality of the sexes; everything has
a price. We are talking about smart, capable, talented, ruthless
women who under other circumstances might have become leaders in
either business or politics; women who demanded respect, loyalty and
a big payday; or else.
Organized Crime Queens
The Secret World of Female Gangsters
WRITTEN BY JERRY BADER
From the bizarre world of female Japanese motorcycle gangs to the historic rise and fall of London’s Forty Elephants, the history of female organized crime is both fascinating and strange. These are the stories, both true and legendary of the female crime bosses that broke the mould of feminine gentility. This is The Secret World of Female Gangsters.
The Secret World of Female Gangsters
Most of society thinks of women as the gentler sex, the sex with more compassion and empathy, not prone to violence. The truth is history and current events are littered with stories of violent women who do whatever it takes to get what they want; women who either revel in, or accept as needed, whatever acts of torture, murder and depravity that are required to achieve their goals. We’re not talking about mundane psychopaths that kill their children and their husbands, or homicidal maniacs that kill randomly without purpose other than for some sexual or psychological gratification. We’re talking about female organized crime bosses, leaders of highly structured, often successful criminal organizations.
Most everyone knows about the high profile male mobsters; people like Lucky Luciano, Myer Lansky, Bugsy Segal, Arnold Rothstein, and Al Capone: men who became legends, rightly or wrongly, due to the public’s insatiable appetite for literature, movies, and television stories based on their lives. But what about their female counterparts, they definitely existed and still exist. Their stories are both fascinating and cautionary. Their histories provide an alternative perspective on the equality of the sexes; everything has a price. We are talking about smart, capable, talented, ruthless women who under other circumstances might have become leaders in either business or politics; women who demanded respect, loyalty and a big payday; or else.
Forty Elephants
The Female Gang That Terrorized London
The idea of a gang of highly intelligent, dangerous, wild living, independent criminal women led by an extraordinary individual who thought she was the reincarnation of some Amazon Queen is unusual, if not unique. In today’s society Alice Diamond might have become the CEO of a major multinational corporation, or perhaps the Prime Minister of England, but in the early twentieth century, ruthless women of ambition, strength, and intellect were not given access to the educational and leadership avenues available to men.
If there’s a lesson to be learned from the tale of the Forty Elephants it’s that denying access to opportunity based on bias, prejudice, or preconception will ultimately bite society in the ass, extracting a larger price than if opportunity was provided to all. On the other hand, there are individuals and groups of males and females who refuse to work within the confines of society to create change and prefer a self-indulgent, nihilistic pursuit of self-gratification and interest.
The Forty Elephants, also known as the Forty Thieves, were an all-female gang of criminals that operated in London from the 1700s up until the 1950s. They reached their heyday in the years between WWI and WWII under the leadership of twenty-year old Alice Diamond, also known as Diamond Annie, due to her penchant for wearing diamond rings that she often used as a weapon. More than one assailant lost an eye or suffered severe physical injury from one of her namesake fashion statements.
Alice Diamond
Queen of Thieves
At five feet, eight inches tall, Diamond was physically imposing with a hair-trigger temper, not afraid to use violence against anyone who got in her way, including the police, or even members of her own gang that didn’t follow her rules. Alice and her girls dressed in the latest fashions presenting an attractive sophisticated facade to the world while at the same time enjoying wild parties and high living. Diamond had highly developed organizational skills and an understanding of how to take advantage of unfortunate women that suffered poor treatment by domineering male family members. She organized her gang in cells and developed a command structure that took advantage of her associates’ particular talents. She herself was known as the Queen of Thieves handling the muscle, the overall organization, and what could be best described as the cultural and strategic vision of the group. She left much of the tactical planning to her second-in-command, Margaret Hughes, also known as Baby Face Maggie Hill, a woman who was particularly skilled at developing and implementing blackmail schemes.
The gang specialized in shoplifting, robbery, blackmail, and extortion. Although they had no official male members they often used men as getaway drivers using the new-fangled automobile to make their speedy getaways. They were also associated with the Elephant and Castle Gang, a male group that controlled much of the crime in West End London. Maggie Hill was the sister of well-known criminal Billy Hill who was responsible for planning the infamous 1952 Eastcastle Street postal van robbery and a significant 1954 bullion heist. All in all these women were well tapped into London’s criminal underworld.
The members of the Forty Elephants were attractive, disenfranchised women prone to aggression, drinking, and wild parties. They dressed stylishly in specially made clothes designed to hide the merchandise they stole from department stores. During the years between the wars women were regarded as the weaker sex and thus were not considered threats, something Diamond and her girls took every advantage of during their well-planned robbery assaults. In some cases, different groups of women would enter a department store like Selfridges from different entrances and create utter confusion by grabbing everything of value they could lay their hands on; they would then quickly exit through different doors to waiting getaway cars driven by their male accomplices.
Some of the women would get jobs in the homes of wealthy individuals in order to case the residence for valuables. The information would be passed on to Maggie Hill who would then plan a break-in. Other members of the gang targeted wealthy aristocrats for seduction and blackmail.
Diamond Annie’s Downfall
In the end Diamond Annie was done-in by one of her own girls falling in love with an outsider, something that was forbidden. Marie Britten came from a good family and fell in love with a fellow called Jackson. Marie knew this was forbidden, so she went to Diamond with her father as protection, but Diamond flew into a rage and attacked Marie while Maggie Hill went after her father with a razor. Marie and her father managed to escape but that wasn’t the end of it. Marie married Jackson the next day.
Several days later, a group from the Forty Elephants led by Diamond and Hill surrounded the Britten home. The women threw rocks and bottles through the windows; they entered the home determined to punish the wayward Britten and her family. The women found Mrs. Britten and her new baby in her bedroom. Mrs. Britten and the baby were forcefully thrown out of bed so their attackers could turn it over to see if Mr. Britten was hiding underneath. They eventually caught up with Britten and his son on the basement stairs and attacked them. The police finally showed up arresting several of the women that failed to escape. Mr. Britten and his son were taken to the hospital where Britten was patched up with twenty stitches. The police ultimately rounded up all the attackers.
Another account of the story goes slightly differently and perhaps more credibly. In this variation of events Maria Jackson, née Britten, attacked another woman, Bertha Tappenden, with a broken wine glass during a wild drinking party in 1925 at The Canterbury Arms Club in Waterloo, South London. Maria Britten must have already been married and she wasn’t the sweet young thing made out in the alternative tale. During the drunken brawl Maria’s father Bill Britten took a poke at Tappenden in an attempt to back up his daughter, causing an even bigger brouhaha. It was after Britten left that Alice Diamond and friends decided that Britten must be confronted. When Diamond knocked on Britten’s door, she was greeted with a pail of water in the face, and that’s when the full on attack on the Britten’s house took place.
A trial was held but authorities were afraid that Diamond and Hill would release information on important members of the community that they’d acquired from the gang’s seduction and extortion operations. As a result, the trial centered only on the house attack, rather than on the organization’s broader criminal activities.
Diamond Alice and Baby-faced Maggie were both found guilty of the attack on the Britten’s residence. They were sentenced to long prison terms of hard labor. With the leadership of the Forty Elephants in jail, the gang‘s fortunes declined. It remained in operation in one form or another up until the 1950s but never again did it reach the level of success it had under the ruthless guidance of Diamond Annie and Baby Face Maggie Hill. Alice Diamond survived her prison term and lived out her life in obscurity. She died sometime in the 1950s.
Maggie Hill fared even worse. In 1938 she was arrested for stabbing a policeman in the eye with a hatpin. On her release from jail the only work she could get was as a prostitute’s maid and police informant, reporting on abusive pimps that the working girls feared. She evidently committed suicide sometime in the seventies but by that time the Forty Elephants had long since been relegated to history.
What's
Your Poison?:
How
Cocktails Got Their Names
by
Jerry Bader
Why
do we call mixed alcohol drinks “cocktails”? How do they get
their exotic names: names like the Singapore Sling, Screw Driver, the
Alamagoozlum, the Angel’s Kiss, the Hanky Panky, the Harvey
Wallbanger, Sex On The Beach, the Monkey Gland, the Brass Monkey, the
Margarita, the Japalac, the Lion’s Tail, and many, many more? Who
makes up these names, where are they invented, why, and how do you
make them? These questions will be answered in “What’s Your
Poison?” by exploring the incidents, people, and places that
prompted the creation of these exotic concoctions.
WHAT’S YOUR POISON?
HOW COCKTAILS GOT THEIR NAMES
WRITTEN BY JERRY BADER
Why do we call mixed alcohol drinks “cocktails”? How do they get their exotic names: names like the Singapore Sling, Screw Driver, the Alamagoozlum, the Angel’s Kiss, the Hanky Panky, the Harvey Wallbanger, Sex On The Beach, the Monkey Gland, the Brass Monkey, the Margarita, the Japalac, the Lion’s Tail, and many, many more? Who makes up these names, where are they invented, why, and how do you make them? These questions will be answered in “What’s Your Poison?” by exploring the incidents, people, and places that prompted the creation of these exotic concoctions.
The Jack Rose
A Bald Gambler, A Corrupt Police Detective, A Murdered Casino Owner, And A Dash of Applejack
New York City, July 16, 1912, it’s a hot steamy afternoon. Four men wait under the awning of the Hotel Metropole located at 147 West 43rd Street. The hotel is a five story brick building on the corner close to Times Square. A sign above and to the side of the canopy over the entrance tells visitors they’ve arrived at the famous Metropole, the first hotel in New York City with running water in every room, home to gambler Nicky Arnstein, Fanny Brice’s lover and ultimate second husband, Bat Masterson, ex-western lawman, now New York City sports’ writer, and Herman Rosenthal, bookmaker and illegal casino owner.
The four men milling about outside the hotel are not out of place on the busy street. They’re wearing summer weight suits suitable for the weather. Jacob, Whitey Lewis, Seidenschner wears his usual cloth flat-cap, while Francisco Cirofici, aka Dago Frank, Harry Horowitz, aka Gyp the Blood, and Lefty Louie Rosenberg, all wear straw boater’s, a popular male fashion statement of the time.
These men are all members of the Lennox Avenue Gang led by Harry Horowitz and controlled by Zelig Harry Lefkowitz, aka Jack Zelig, head of the Eastman Gang. The Lennox Avenue group could be considered the prototype of the more famous criminal gang known as Murder Incorporated.
As Herman Rosenthal exits the front door of the Metropole the four men surround him, draw their guns and fire. Gambler Herman Rosenthal is shot dead in broad daylight on a crowded New York street. As Rosenthal lies bleeding on the pavement the four men scramble to the waiting car provided by Baldy Jack Rose, the man who hired them to murder Rosenthal on orders from crooked NYPD Lieutenant Charles Becker.
Baldy Jack Rose was born Jacob Rosenzweig in Poland in 1876. His family immigrated to America and at the age of four Rosenzweig was stricken with typhoid leaving him with alopecia universalis, a condition causing all his hair to fall out. Cruel classmates teased Jacob giving him the nickname Baldy, an apparent prerequisite for a life of crime as all the gangsters in this tale seem to have colourful monikers, and Baldy Jack Rose seemed appropriately fitting for a hairless young criminal.
Baldy spent his early years in Connecticut where he grew up to be a gambler, boxing promoter, and founder of a minor league baseball team, The Rosebuds, not the toughest sounding name for a sports team owned by the man that became embroiled in one of America’s most infamous murders. If not for being overshadowed by Lucky Luciano’s bloody rise to power, the Rosenthal murder might be regarded as New York City’s most infamous gangland murder.
After moving to New York City, Rose opened an illegal casino called The Rosebud. It wasn’t long before it became an underworld hangout, especially favored by the Eastman Gang headed by Selig Harry Lefkowitz, and its offshoot the Lennox Avenue Gang led by Harry, Gyp The Blood, Horowitz.
Unfortunately for Baldy, NYPD Lieutenant Charles Becker and his Gambling Squad eventually raided The Rosebud. Becker used the opportunity to extort a weekly twenty-five percent protection levy from Baldy, amounting to a substantial ten thousand dollar a month payout; a payment that Baldy Jack Rose chalked up to the cost of doing business in New York City.
If that wasn’t bad enough Becker demanded Baldy collect payments from the other illegal gambling casinos he was shaking down. One of these casinos was run by Herman Rosenthal, a man less inclined to pay Becker what he demanded. Rosenthal went so far as to complain to District Attorney Charles S. Whitman, an odd thing to do for a man that ran an illegal gambling club, but never the less that is what he did, in writing, signing an affidavit that was published in the New York World newspaper. A couple of days after Rosenthal’s meeting with Whitman, Rosenthal was gunned down in front of the Hotel Metropole.
The hit was messy, witnessed by numerous passersby. Baldy figured it was only a matter of time before he would be caught so instead he went to the police and admitted his involvement in hiring Selig’s Lenox Avenue boys as well as arranging for the get-away car on orders from NYPD Lieutenant Charles Becker. Jacob Seidenschner, Francisco Cirofici, Harry Horowitz, Lefty Louie Rosenberg, and Charles Becker were all arrested, convicted, and ultimately electrocuted at Sing Sing Correctional Facility based on the testimony of Baldy Jack Rose. Zelig Harry Lefkowitz, aka, Jack Zelig, The Big Yid, leader of the Eastman Gang and the Lenox Avenue boys also cut a deal but was gunned down on October 5th, 1912 the day before he was supposed to testify in court.
Baldy Jack Rose managed to escape gangland retribution and went on to earn a thousand dollars a week lecturing about the evils of gambling on vaudeville stages and in church basements. He even appeared in a few motion pictures. He retired to Connecticut where he farmed for a while, eventually moving back to New York City where he died October 4th, 1947.
Thus ends the tale of Baldy Jack Rose – well almost – this is a book about cocktails after all, and so it is said the Jack Rose Cocktail is named after the infamous Baldy Jack Rose. Now you may never have heard of the Jack Rose cocktail as it has fallen out of favor in recent years, but there was a time when it was considered one of the six basic cocktails as cited in David Embury’s The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks (1948). Like most cocktail names the legend behind the name is disputed. Some say the Jack Rose is really named after the rose color provided by the Applejack used in making the drink, but that is hardly as interesting as the tale of the alopecia plagued gambler. And who’s to say that both explanations aren’t true.
One final word on Baldy Jack Rose: there are those that suggest Charles Becker was innocent of involvement in the Rosenthal murder and that he was setup by Rose and his associates, probably payback for Becker’s extortion racket. The truth as is often the case is lost to history.
The Jack Rose Cocktail
According to drinkstraightup.com, The Straight Up, Pre-Prohibition Cocktails and Modern Twists On Classics, the Jack Rose is a ‘light and fruity cocktail’ with a surprising ‘tart’ edge held in check by the sweetness of the grenadine used.
How To Make A Jack Rose Cocktail
- Pour 2 oz of Applejack into a shaker.
- Add .75 oz of Lime Juice.
3. Add .5 oz of Grenadine.
4. Add ice.
5. Shake well.
6. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass and serve.
The Rosebud Cocktail
I can’t say the Rosebud cocktail was named after Baldy Jack Rose, maybe it’s a reference to the movie Citizen Kane, but whatever the truth, it’s a good excuse to start telling the story of the infamous criminal. This is the simplest version of the Rosebud that I came across.
How To Make A Rosebud Cocktail
1. Half-fill a shaker with ice.
2. Add 2 oz of Citrus Vodka.
3. Add .5 oz of Triple Sec.
4. Add 1 oz of Lemon Juice.
5. Add 2 oz of Grapefruit Juice into an ice-filled Collins Glass.
6. Shake and Strain shaker ingredients into the Collins Glass and serve.
Beating
the System
by
Jerry Bader
It’s
been said that gambling is a tax on the dumb; that may be overly
harsh, but the fact is, most gambling venues are designed to
guarantee you lose. It doesn’t matter if it’s horseracing,
lotteries, casinos, or the annual state fair. As soon as you plunk
down your dollar you’re a loser. Those milk bottles at the bottom
of the pyramid you’re trying to knock down are filled with lead,
and that basketball net that looks so close you can’t miss, is
actually oval not round, and barely big enough for a ball to pass
through.
Most
people like to take a chance every once in a while; maybe they’ll
get lucky. It’s a kick, a lark: an afternoon’s entertainment.
They know when to walk away… others don’t… some can’t. For
them it’s a drug, a search for an unattainable high. Deep down they
don’t even want to win. It’s sad. It’s pathetic is what it
is.
You
see these sorry souls at the track, at the casinos, or anywhere
there’s a game of chance. They’ll bet on horses, dogs, camels’…
even killer roosters. It’s nuts I know, but their addicts, they’ll
bet on people, and that’s the worst bet of all. Gambling is for
suckers; that’s why gamblers don’t gamble, they fix the game, and
even then, it doesn’t always work.
Horse
racing is advertised as the sport of kings. Sure, if that’s what
you want to believe. I was a jockey, it was my job, but I made my
living as a fixer. You want to know what really goes on behind the
scenes. You want to know what horse racing is really all about. Then
come a little closer, cause I got a story for you.
The true story of a horseracing legend
By Jerry Bader
(EXCERPT)
MRPwebmedia.com/books
Amazon.com/author/jerrybader
Prologue
Life is messy. It’s neither a journey nor a path, instead people plod, meander, or lurch from one defining incident to another. The fact that our lives are superficially remembered with glib Kodak moments only hides the ugly truth. Life is chaotic, and no one’s life was more chaotic than Ronny Kleinberg’s. It would be unfair to try and cram Ronny’s wide-ranging experiences into a nice neat package with a clear-cut beginning, middle, and end. And so I start in the middle, because that’s as good a place to start as any.
Be Careful Who You Screw
Joey Pines kneels on the bathroom floor of the Juanita Bar on the outskirts of Detroit. Pee is trickling down Pines’ soiled jeans pooling on the floor around his knees. Blood runs down his face from where Ronny introduced his nose to the Mexican’s Smith and Wesson. The guy is scared, scared to death, scared because in the next few seconds a decision had to be made. Does Joey Pines end his days on the bathroom floor of Juanita’s third-rate bar, or does he live another day so he can screw somebody else? Whatever happens, he’s never going to screw Ronny again.
It all started three days earlier when Ronny fixed the fifth race at Motor City Downs. Fellow jockey, Angel Morales, came to him with a deal. Juan Carlos Perez, a local drug dealer wanted to expand his operation. He was already supplying jockeys with various illegal pharmaceuticals for weight loss and entertainment purposes, so why not expand into the gambling business. Perez supplied the money, and Morales supplied Ronny. It was an arrangement made in hell.
The fifth race at Motor City Downs seemed like the perfect initial foray for Perez. All the jockeys in the race were paid their five hundred bucks and given the order of finish for the first three horses. Other than the first three places, jockeys could do what they wanted but those first three horses had to finish in the correct order for Morales, Perez, and Ronny to collect on the trifecta. This wasn’t rocket science.
Everyone was on board but Ronny had his doubts about Pines, who was a known shithead and drug addict. Someone had seen Pines slip the valet what looked like cash, probably for a bet. If Pines was betting on the race, was he betting the trifecta, or was he betting on himself? Nobody knew for sure. Before the race Ronny warns him.
“You understand what you have to do? Your number can’t be on the board. You fuck us over and finish in the top three… you’ll be in the ground before the sun comes up.”
“Don’t worry, I got it.”
As the horses were being loaded into the starting gate Ronny turns to Pines one more time. “We good?”
Pines nods, “I got this.”
The starter rings the bell and the gates fly open. Coming around the first turn Ronny is on the outside of Pines, they’re in sixth and seventh places respectively. Ronny looks over at Pines and sees him pull up his sleeve. The prick has a machine. Before Ronny can do anything about it he hears the buzz, and Pine’s horse takes off leaving Ronny and everyone else in the dust. They get to the finish line and Pines finishes second. The horses that needed to finish one, two, three, finish first, third, and fourth. The bet is busted. The son-of-a-bitch screws Ronny and friends. He doesn’t even collect on his own bet because he came in second instead of first. Pines is laughing and making fun of the other jockeys who all had bets on the race, figuring it was a sure thing.
Morales approaches Ronny, “My friend… what are we going to do? Carlos will be pissed, he’s out a lot of money because of that little prick.”
“Call Perez and tell him to wait for my call.” Morales leaves to call Perez while Ronny continues changing into his street clothes, all the while keeping an eye on Pines as he continues ribbing the jockeys who lost money. Ronny waits for Pines to leave and follows him out into the parking lot. Ronny gets into his car and watches. Pines gets into his car; he reaches across to the passenger side and opens the glove box. He takes out a small plastic prescription bottle and dumps a small amount of powder onto the back of his hand. He takes a rolled-up bill from his pocket and shoves it up his nose snorting what is obviously cocaine. He starts his car and leaves. Ronny follows.
They drive for about fifteen minutes until Pines pulls off the road into the parking lot of Juanita’s Bar, a third rate dive on the outskirts of town with cheap drinks and hookers to match. Ronny pulls in and parks on the opposite side of the parking lot. He waits in his car for about fifteen minutes allowing enough time for Pines to get a snoot full. Ronny enters Juanita’s and spots Pines at the bar drinking, laughing, and having a jolly old time. Ronny goes directly to the payphone and calls Morales.
“Angel… you with Perez… Good… He’s at Juanita’s. Get over here fast. I’ll keep an eye on him.” Ronny finds a seat in the corner and orders a beer while waiting for the Mexicans. About ten minutes later they show up and spot Ronny sitting in the corner. They join him at his table.
Ronny looks at Perez and asks, “Did you bring your piece?” The Mexican nods affirmative. “We’re going to take this little prick out. You just follow my lead.” The three men sit and wait. After about five minutes Pines gets up to go to the bathroom. Ronny and the Mexicans get up to follow.
“Perfect,” says Ronny. “Angel you watch the door and make sure nobody comes in. Perez and I will take care of this cabrón.” Ronny and Perez follow Pines into the bathroom while Angel guards the door. As Pines gets ready to use the urinal Ronny grabs him by the shoulder with his left hand spinning him around, while his right hand crosses over connecting squarely on Pines’ jaw. Pines goes down. He’s on his knees shaking. Ronny slaps him hard across the face. Pines begins to cry, pee is running down his leg pooling under his knees.
“You’re not laughing now, are you, asshole? Look at this prick… crying like a baby.” Ronny slaps him hard again. He looks over at Perez who’s standing to his right slightly behind him holding his Smith and Wesson Model 39 Automatic. “Shoot the asshole!” But Morales just stands there transfixed.
“Please don’t shoot, I’ve got a wife and kids…”
“You should have thought of that before you screwed us. I saw you plug-in your horse. You think I don’t know a machine when I see one?”
“Please… I’ll make it up to you… please don’t kill me… please!”
Ronny slaps Pines again just to shut him up. He looks at Perez who’s standing there with the gun pointed at Pines, seemingly paralyzed.
“Jesus Christ… are you going to shoot this asshole or not?” Perez opens his mouth but no sound comes out. “What a chicken-shit. Give me the fucking gun!” Ronny grabs the gun out of Perez’s hand. He shoves the gun in Pines’ face, “Say your prayers asshole, and say’em fast!”
Pines is blubbering something about mercy and he’ll never do it again or some such shit, but it’s mostly incoherent. Between the tears, the pee, and the snot running down from his nose into his mouth nobody could understand what he was saying. Ronny is disgusted. He takes the gun and in a big sweeping motion smashes Pines across the head. Blood starts pouring from Pines broken nose. He’s a mess but alive. Ronny takes the gun and slaps it into Perez’s chest.
“Some fucking gangster you turned out to be. Don’t call me again. We’re done.” Ronny walks out of Juanita’s bathroom, through the bar and out to his car.
Jerry
Bader is author, publisher, and Senior Partner in MRPwebmedia.com. He
has written twelve hybrid graphic novels (including “The Method,”
“The Comeuppance,” “The Coffin Corner,” and “Grist For The
Mill”), thirteen children’s books (including “Two Dragons Named
Shoe,” “The Town That Didn’t Speak,” “The Bad Puppeteer,”
“The Criminal McBride,” and “Mr. Bumbershoot, The Umbrella
Man”), three marketing books, and several novels and biographies
including “The Fixer” and “Organized Crime Queens.”
The
graphic novels are unique in that they are designed as screenplays
with accompanying storyboard panels to give the reader an enhanced
experience akin to reading like a movie producer. Watch for new
releases as they come available!
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the tour HERE
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