The conversation turned, as it did every Saturday morning, to another argument about comic books. This
being Randy Comics Empire, it was expected. Near any opinion was fair game, as long as it didn’t lead
to fisticuffs. (The one exception being that one brawl over Wolverine’s secret origin; some things are a
matter of principle.)
Charlie Pasch was making one of his twice-a-week visits to the store. On the clock, he was "Detective
Pasch, Kansas City Police Force, Kansas City, MO." But this morning, right now, he was just Charlie.
The argument today was not about which issue of Common Grounds was coolest, or whether the
character of Green Lantern should have stayed dead, or whether the character of Gwen Stacy should have
stayed alive. No, it was something that should have been cut and dried.
"When is the Golden Age for comic books?" The asker, a snarky guy in an underfitting t-shirt, needed to push his glasses
back up his nose. Smug, like he was hiding some crucial fact, like he knew the secret reason Bruce Banner got zapped
with gamma rays.
Charlie, on one knee by the new comics, had been picking through the titles on the bottom shelf. "That’s easy -- 1938." His
leg going numb, he stood quickly to free up circulation. "The year Superman debuted in Action Comics."
Randy Olson, the owner himself behind the counter, nodded. "Yeah," he said, folding arms. "Followed in quick succession
by Batman, Wonder Woman, and near everyone else. Everything today has its roots in what happened then."
Snarky guy grinned, showed bad teeth. "Nope."
Heads all over the store turned front, the guys shopping for trading cards, the guys perusing collectible statues, the guy in
the back corner ogling the Sarah Michelle Gellar poster. Charlie casually switched weight from one foot to the next, hoping
to avoid pins and needles.
Snarky Guy had his audience now. "It was the 1800s."
Charlie frowned. "How you figure that?"
"Yellow Kid."
As one, the room rolled its collective eyes and went back to its trading cards and its collectible statues and its Sarah
Michelle Gellar poster. But Charlie was stuck. "You mean the character from Hogan’s Alley?"
"Yeah," Snarky Guy answered, grinning. "It’s the ‘Golden Age’ because he had that yellow shirt."
Charlie suppressed a snort. Didn’t want to sound too geek, not even here. "Yellow Kid was in a comic strip," he said,
mouth going dry. "He did not launch the Golden Age of comic books -- that’s like saying the Golden Age of television started
with radio."
"Sure he did."
Charlie blinked violently, trapped. You can’t win an argument when the other guy keeps grinning like that.
"Fine," Charlie answered in a flat tone. He turned and occupied himself with the rows of back issues boxes, the "F" section,
letting Snarky Guy buy his stash and go on his smug way. Later, Charlie headed to the register with his own purchases of
the morning, several new comics as well as a found copy of Flash #246, from 1977. And for less than 5 bucks.
He set his stack on the counter and gave Randy a sheepish smile. "Hey."
Randy started sorting through Charlie’s selections. Then he stopped and looked up. "Hey, you’re a cop or something,
right?"
"Detective," Charlie answered. "Yeah."
"Know anything about Eddie Drake?"
Charlie held his breath a second. "Why do you ask?"
"Some guy came in and said Eddie Drake wants to buy the store."
"What, the comics store?" Charlie furrowed his brow. "Weird."
"Anyways, I remembered his name from that big story in the papers last year. When his old man was arrested? Sounded
like Drake is into business that ain’t exactly legal." Randy shrugged, turned back to the comics, sorting by prices. "Thought
maybe you could shed some light."
"I can’t really comment regarding an ongoing investigation," Charlie answered, sideways smile. "Big Ed was sent up for
racketeering, that’s public knowledge. There wasn’t much to convict Eddie. Which left little Drake behind to run the family
business."
Randy leaned in, lowered his voice. "What I was thinking was he probably don’t want to sell comics. He prob’ly has other
plans for this place, you know?"
"Could be." Charlie nodded slowly, thinking.
"Anyways, I told him it wasn’t for sale. The guy shrugged and took off." Randy nodded again, let the subject drop and turned
his attention to Charlie’s stack, punching numbers into the register.
But Charlie was thinking about Eddie Drake.
On Wednesday, Charlie was back in the store -- the week’s new comics always came on Wednesday, placed along the
front shelves in alphabetical order, an assortment of four-color slabs of pop culture, The Darkness and Iron Man and
Queen & Country. He glanced through a thick Craig Thompson paperback, put it on his "next time" list.
Charlie was stopping in on his lunch hour; the geek traffic wouldn’t pick up until later. He checked the back issues again,
the "F" section, came up empty. He took his latest purchases to the register and placed them gingerly on the counter,
careful to make sure it was clean.
Behind the register stood one of the employees, Jeevan Kapoor, a guy with a goatee. Chomping gum, he nodded a
greeting. "How are ya?"
Charlie, hands in pockets, returned the greeting with a nod of his own. "Where’s Randy?"
Jeevan checked cover prices and began punching them into the register. "Hadda see a doctor or something."
"I wondered if he was expecting any more back issues. Particularly Irv Novick on The Flash."
Jeevan, without looking up, said, "Who was that?"
"Irv Novick penciled The Flash in the ’70s," Charlie answered, slipping into his lecture tone. "Some of the first comics I ever
read. My uncle left a stash in a trunk at my grandma’s house." Charlie grinned. "Those issues of Flash were awesome!
They had this dynamic, kinetic art matched to these great clockwork scripts by Cary Bates."
When the other man didn’t answer, Charlie’s eyes started to drift around the store. What would Eddie Drake want with this
place?
Jeevan finished ringing up the comics and pointed awkwardly at the digital readout. "Here’s your total."
Charlie flinched and pulled out his wallet. "Sorry."
As Charlie handed a ten to Jeevan, he heard the ring of the front door. Randy entered, collar pulled up, dark glasses. As the
owner rushed behind the counter, Jeevan said, "Hey, this guy here was looking for -- "
"Not now," Randy snapped, disappearing into the back. The glasses and collar covered most of the damage, but Charlie
saw bruises. Someone had paid Randy a visit.
At the station, Charlie could not concentrate on his caseload. He kept thinking about the owner of the comic book store.
Kept thinking about the news that Eddie Drake wanted the store. Kept thinking about the bruises.
There had to be a connection, but Randy wasn’t talking.
Charlie finally went to the office of his mentor, Detective Tom Griggs. He was lead detective in the joint task force, the
KCPD/FBI operation whittling away at organized crime in modern Kansas City.
Charlie caught the older detective at his desk eating lunch. "I have a problem, Detective Griggs."
Griggs wiped his face with a paper napkin. "Yeah?"
Charlie told the story, especially the Eddie Drake connection. Griggs dismissed it. Drake was small-time, Griggs said; the
joint-task force already had its hands full.
Actually, his exact words were, "I don’t care." Griggs waved the sandwich to emphasize his point. "I already got Big Ed, and
that turned out to be a disappointment. We thought the family was more plugged in than that."
"But if Eddie Drake is causing trouble -- "
"If you catch him in a crime, pick him up."
"I thought assault was a crime."
"Did your friend tell you Drake roughed him up?"
"No."
"Did your friend file a complaint?"
"No."
"Without testimony, all you can talk about is targeting Drake for an investigation. But building a case -- that takes money,
takes equipment, takes man-hours." Griggs spread his hands apologetically. "We’re already spread too thin. We got to be
choosy about our targets, Charlie. That’s the way it is."
Saturday, the mood in the store was low, dread hanging in the air. Instead of game tables full of geeks and chatter, only a
couple of guys sat in today, one shuffling the deck over and over.
In the back corner, a kid, 13 at the most, fidgeted by the rack of posters. The black frames flipped past, Pokemon, Bride of
Frankenstein, some basketball player. Somebody must have bought the Sarah Michelle Gellar poster.
Charlie checked the back issues, "Fs" again, came up empty. Headed for the register to chat. Jeevan stood behind the
counter, arms folded. Grim.
Charlie nodded a greeting. "What’s up?"
Instead of answering, Jeevan jumped from behind the register. "Hey! Get out of there!"
Before Charlie knew what was happening, Jeevan crossed the store in three great strides, pulling the curtain for the adult
section, grabbing the kid by the arm, yanking him out to the middle of the store.
Jeevan wagged a finger in the kid’s face. "Either you have a gland problem, or you’re too young to be back here!"
The kid, red-faced, nodded quickly. Ran for the door.
Jeevan returned to the register. "I always hate to see that."
"Get much trouble like that?"
"Not if you watch for it," Jeevan replied. "Like working at any book or video store, I guess."
Charlie motioned around the room with his head. "Why’s it so quiet today?"
"Randy is in the hospital."
Charlie got the details. Swung by the hospital for a visit. Randy still not in the mood to explain. He and Charlie made small
talk, Star Trek and Jonny Quest and Stan Lee, anything to circle around why Randy was broken and in a hospital bed.
Charlie should have pressed the matter. Chickened out. Changed the subject. "I keep thinking about that guy with his
whole ‘Golden Age’ theory, you know?"
"Yeah." Randy’s mind on something else.
"I mean, there are whole books on this stuff," Charlie prattled. "I did a speech in junior high and everything."
"Uh-huh."
Charlie stayed a few more minutes, looking for some opening to do his job. It never came.
Sunday. Back at the apartment after church. Charlie went to the kitchen, tossing his jacket and tie over the chair. Pushed
aside his growing pile of comics, threw a bag of drive-thru on the table.
Unwrapping the burrito, he went to the bookshelf, grabbed a volume on comic book history. Charlie set it on the table,
leafing through while eating. No mention of the Yellow Kid; if you were going to point to earlier art forms, you might as well
bring up narrative woodcuts from the 15th Century.
Charlie sat, eating and reading. Thinking about comics printed and sold and thrown out decades before he was born.
Trying not to think about Randy in the hospital bed.
Monday. Charlie at his desk, stewing again. Trying to focus on the folder in front of him. He sipped from his mug and
grimaced; still tasted like coffee. Needed to add more milk and Fruit Loops.
A uniformed officer, Rich Farley, stopped at Charlie’s desk with a small paper bag. "Hey, Detective Pasch, you like comics."
He handed the sack to Charlie. "These worth anything?"
Charlie went through the selections, random comics from the early ’90s. Nothing remarkable, nothing in great condition. A
few #1 issues, but that was no guarantee of value. Most comics from the last 20 years were so easy to find, anyone who
wanted a #1 issue probably had one.
As Charlie flipped through, he thought of the two main factors that affect collectibles: rarity and condition. None of these
scored high in either column.
Charlie didn’t have the heart to be that blunt with Officer Farley. He promised to take them to the comics store, have a
professional take a look. Pass the blame off on them.
He figured he could take the bag by Randy’s Comics after work. While he was at it, maybe pick up that big Craig Thompson
book, do his part to support the store and indie comics.
After work, he took off in his car, the sack of comics nestled comfortably on the passenger seat. He hit the drive-thru on the
way.
Nearing the turn-off for the store, Charlie thought again about Randy, laid up in the hospital. Battered, threatened, too
scared to talk.
He was fumbling with the radio when he saw telltale yellow tape stretched across the store. Charlie switched off the radio
as he pulled into the empty parking lot. A big sign slapped on the door, CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE COURT.
Next morning, Charlie ascertained two things: 1) Randy Olson, owner of Randy’s Comics Empire, had been released from
the hospital, was now home, would not take visitors; 2) employee Jeevan Kapoor was sitting in a jail cell, arrested for
selling adult materials to a minor.
This did not sound right. He saw how diligently Jeevan kept children out of the back section.
Discreetly getting a copy of the arrest report, Charlie found the official story: An undercover vice cop went into Randy’s
Comics Empire on Monday.
Had entered, as an adult, into the curtained "adult section" of the store. Had purchased, as an adult, one comic book,
entitled Angel McCoy, labeled "For Mature Readers, due to graphic violence and sexual themes." Had arrested one
employee, Jeevan Kapoor, no priors, for selling adult materials to a minor.
Charlie couldn’t believe what he was reading. He had read Angel McCoy. A little rough for his personal taste, but certainly
not pornographic.
The arrest report did not even pretend to include evidence to support the charge. It was entirely based on the lie that
comics was an art form exclusively for children. Therefore, the loopy logic ran, their very existence somehow proved that the
store was selling mature titles to kids.
Charlie returned to Griggs’ office. He found the older detective eating a portable breakfast and poring over an assortment of
mobster photos.
"Vice made a bust a couple days ago," Charlie said, almost stammering. "I think there’s something fishy to it."
"Why would you say that?"
"They arrested a guy at a comic book store for selling adult materials -- "
"Wait right there." Griggs put the breakfast bar down, pushing aside the photos to keep them from getting greasy. "If this is
geek-related, you are already way too close to this."
Charlie fought the urge to sulk. "I’ll work this on my own time."
Griggs exhaled a good-natured sigh, leaning back in the wooden chair. It creaked with authority. "When I was a kid, I
worked as a stock boy." He locked fingers behind his head, elbows out. "You know what my boss would always say? ‘If you
have time to lean, you have time to clean.’"
Charlie nodded. "And what does that mean?"
"If the chief finds out you’re devoting time to yet one more case," Griggs leaned forward again, "he’ll say that means you
have more time for the cases you already have."
Charlie frowned, returned to his desk. For the rest of the week, focused on the job. A stack of reports to write, files to sift
through, interviews to conduct. Anything to keep himself from obsessing over Randy’s Comics Empire or questionable
arrests made by the vice squad.
He played a Hank Williams CD all Friday afternoon, had it set on repeat, barely registered how many times it must have
played through before he felt the pencil projectile hit his
ear. A detective at another desk asked, "Charlie, do you mind?"
Charlie jumped. "Hmm?"
The other detective sighed, rolled eyes. "Play something else?"
Charlie clicked open iTunes on his laptop. He started 25 hours’ worth of songs rotating now, showtunes and Christian
rock and Americana. Something to annoy everyone.
He returned to his thoughts.
What was going on at Randy’s Comics Empire?
Saturday. Charlie avoided the store. Had to remind himself it was a crime scene.
Sunday. Charlie went to church. Did not hear a word the preacher said.
Monday. Charlie went back to Griggs.
"Stay out of it," Griggs counseled. "I know cartoons are important to you -- but you have to understand they are not important
to everyone else."
Charlie sighed drama. "Not cartoons. Comic books."
"Whatever. Comic strips." Griggs grunted, rubbing his eyes. "We’re going to have to circle back around to ‘I don’t care.’"
Griggs stopped. Smiled sympathetic. "C’mon, Charlie, this is simple. A guy was selling a comic to some kid -- "
"Why would you assume that?"
"Assume what?"
"You said it was ‘some kid.’"
"Comics are for kids. No offense."
Charlie sat on the edge of the desk, awkwardly, in the middle of it now. "Comic books achieved their widest circulation
during World War II, when troops looked forward to care packages of cigarettes and copies of Superman."
Charlie stood. Puppy dog face. "Detective Griggs, the comic book is just another art form. A vehicle for narrative."
"Your words are starting to get big again."
Charlie nodded a couple of seconds, thinking. Then his eyes went wide. "When you were a kid, did you watch TV?"
"Sure."
"Does that mean ‘TV is for kids’?"
"Of course."
"No, I mean, is TV just for kids, and nobody else?"
"Oh. Then, no. I’m not an idiot."
"So we’re not going to arrest NBC for giving a grown man the right to watch material targeted for your age group?"
"Of course not." Griggs shrugged. Then his eyes widened. He pointed cautiously at Charlie. "You can’t mean the guy
buying the comic was a grown-up?"
"Yeah." Charlie smiled. Yahtzee.
"Surely they had some kind of evidence -- "
"Nope. In five years, there has only been one complaint." Charlie flipped open his file. "That was two years ago. Some
woman dismissed as a crank."
Charlie looked up. "A few days ago, the owner refuses to sell to Eddie Drake -- and vice suddenly decides to follow up on a
two-year-old complaint?"
Griggs was silent now, elbows on desk. Finally looked up. "Okay, Charlie, maybe you have something."
That evening, Detective Charlie Pasch visited the comic book employee, Jeevan Kapoor, at his home. He argued with
himself in the hall, still debating his actions even as he reached the man’s apartment door.
Then he knocked and the debate was over. Jeevan kept the door almost closed, just cracked it open as far as the chain
would allow. "What do you want?"
"Hi, Jeevan, it’s Charlie Pasch." Not sure how to play this. "I buy comics from you." Nothing. "I just wanted to see how you
were doing."
"Okay. I guess." Jeevan looked past Charlie into the hall. Made eye contact again. "How do you know where I live?"
"Oh -- it was in the police report."
"What, are those public now?"
Charlie hesitated, coughing into his fist. "No." Wasn’t sure how to break this, finally just came out and said, "I’m a cop." He
reached for his wallet, flashed his badge. "See?"
Jeevan’s eyes narrowed, dead. "Oh." Paused. "Haven’t you guys done enough?"
"I’m here to help." Charlie pocketed the badge, held out empty hands. "May I speak with you?"
Jeevan hesitated, closed the door. There was the sound of the chain, then the door opened again, wider. Jeevan not
saying a word, just waving Charlie in.
Charlie, nervous, made small talk at the kitchen table. "Hear about that guy at the store the other day?" Nonchalant. "Jawing
about ‘when was the Golden Age of comics books’?"
Jeevan leaned one elbow on the table. Smiled polite. "Why, what’d he say?"
"He claimed it started with the Yellow Kid. Can you imagine that?"
Jeevan nodded, thoughtful. "I don’t know what that is."
"You work in a comic book store and don’t know the history?"
"I just know what I like." Jeevan went to the cabinet, pulling out a couple of drinking glasses. "Water?" Charlie nodded and
Jeevan filled both glasses from a pitcher in the fridge. "So he was the first comic strip?" Jeevan set the frosted glass in
front of Charlie.
"No, but he was a major star. He was so popular that Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst fought over him."
Charlie took a sip. "Apparently, his presence in Hearst’s papers is why their tactics were called yellow journalism."
"Huh." Jeevan sipped his water, set it down. "You have a lot of stuff in your head, don’t you?"
Charlie felt his cheeks redden. "I read a lot as a kid. It gave me a sense of empowerment."
"I see." Jeevan sat back, shrugged. "So when do you say the Golden Age was?"
Charlie tried not to snort. "The late ’30s. That was a great time for discovery, for new ideas -- "
"I don’t know." Jeevan took another sip. "Seems to me the Golden Age for comics is 10."
"What do you mean?"
"You know, whatever you connect with as a 10-year-old, that’s your personal ‘golden age.’ It’s the benchmark you carry in
your head for the rest of your life."
Charlie didn’t know how to answer that. Changed the subject. "You want to tell me what happened the other night?"
The sudden shift catching Jeevan off guard. "Oh." Dead eyes again. Like Jeevan was shutting a part of himself down to
deal with the humiliation.
Charlie tried to encourage. "It would really help to hear your side of it."
Jeevan sighed, sat back in the chair. "There’s not much to tell." He started sliding his glass in a little circular rhythm,
pushing around condensation on the plastic tablecloth. "I was minding my own business. Next thing I know, I’m
handcuffed and hauled off to jail."
"I know it must be painful to think about, but -- "
"Do you? Do you know what it’s like to be handcuffed in front of your customers and shoved out the door in front of your
neighbors? Shoved in the back of a car like a robber or a murderer or something?"
Jeevan stared at his glass a second, stopping his circular rhythm. "I came to this country to get away from this kind of thing."
"Please, Jeevan, let me help."
Jeevan stared off into some private space for long moments. Eyes closed, breathing through his nose several times.
Finally, he softened. Turned to Charlie with kinder eyes. "What do you need, officer?"
"Call me Charlie. I need you to walk me through what happened. Step by step."
"I already had to do this down at the -- "
"I know, Jeevan." Charlie kept saying his name, a way to control the course of the conversation, a way to keep his interview
subject focused. "But … please."
Jeevan sighed again, more relaxed this time. "I was just working alone in the store. I was behind the counter."
"What were you doing?"
"I was updating our inventory records in the computer."
"Okay. Then what happened?"
"This … man came in. The cop."
"Did he identify himself as such when he came in?"
"No." Jeevan shrugged. "He just looked like a regular guy."
"What did he look like?"
"Tall, I guess, football player shoulders. Had this tan jacket. Big red moustache."
"What did he do when he came into the store?"
"Sort of milled around, I guess. Like he was just browsing."
"Did he seem suspicious to you?"
"I was just working on the inventory. So I just said hi and he went to browsing and I went back to the computer."
"That’s all you said to him?"
"Well, a few minutes later he came up and asked me where the pornography was."
"And you said … ?"
"I told him we don’t have any. Randy doesn’t carry that stuff. So he asked if we had any adult stuff -- that’s what he called it,
‘adult stuff’ -- and I told him we kept the restricted stuff in the back, so that kids can’t get to it."
"You told him that?"
"Yeah."
"That kids can’t get to it?"
"Yeah."
"Then what?"
"I don’t know, he went back there for a while. Then he came back out and he bought a comic. And he arrested me."
"Arrested you for selling a comic?"
"Yeah."
Unbelievable. "What was the comic?" Charlie knew the answer from the police report, but wanted to help Jeevan focus on
the moment.
Jeevan furrowed his brow, closed his eyes. He opened them again. "I think it was Angel McCoy."
Charlie reached for his glass of water, took a sip, sat back in the chair. He realized he had been subconsciously moving
closer and closer to Jeevan during the recount, infringing more and more on his personal space.
Relax, Charlie, relax.
Charlie smiled. Playing it cool. Everything is cool. "Okay, so he came out of the restricted area there and started to talk to
you about Angel McCoy."
"No, he just bought it."
Charlie frowned. "He must have commented on it or something."
"No." Jeevan shook his head. "He just bought it. I rung it up, he gave me the money, I gave him the receipt and he arrested
me."
Charlie leaned forward again. "Jeevan, think very carefully." Put a hand on the man’s arm. "When the undercover officer
came to the register, did he make any effort to engage you in a conversation before he purchased it?"
"No." Jeevan sipped some water. Shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"It might." Charlie did not want to pursue the thought any further right now. Grabbed his glass of water and sipped.
Charlie made small talk a little while longer. Told Jeevan his great idea for a new Quicksilver book he wanted to pitch to
Marvel Comics. Eventually realized he was just imposing.
Left Jeevan’s apartment feeling a failure.
Next morning, Charlie met the vice cop. In fact, the man was waiting at his desk, jumped to his feet as soon as he saw
Charlie arrive. "Are you Pasch?"
Charlie nodded, sipping from his mug of coffee and Fruit Loops. "And you are … ?"
"I’m Barnes." That would be Leo Barnes, vice. The name from the report. "When vice pulls a piece of scum off the street, it’s
not your job to get involved."
Charlie sipped again, frowned as he set the cup down. "Actually, it’s normal for departments to cooperate when their cases
intersect. Aren’t we all after the same thing?"
"If you wanted to co-operate," Barnes said it just like that, co-operate, like it was two words, "you would have asked." He
grabbed the file off Charlie’s desk, waved it in Charlie’s face. "Keep your nose out, detective," he growled in a low voice. "Or
it gets bit off."
Charlie nodded, said nothing as the vice cop walked away. Charlie sat in his desk chair, grabbed his mug and sipped. The
vice cop was playing belligerent, covering something. Otherwise, he would have complained through normal channels.
Charlie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the address of the crackpot.
The visit did not go well. The crackpot, Maddie Gill, was smug, she was righteous, she had a big Jesus statue in the living
room. The house was dingy, a wreck, dust everywhere.
Barely a few minutes passed before Charlie lost his temper, got off track explaining that comics were like any expressive
medium.
She wouldn’t hear any of it. "I know what a comic book looks like, Officer," she preached in a special voice.
"Detective," he corrected, but she didn’t seem to care.
"I read them to my little boy."
Fighting to level his voice, he asked, "Did you read books with your little boy?"
"That’s what I just -- "
"No, books," he snapped. "Regular, normal books. Did you read books to your little boy?"
"Of course."
"So, did you pick books that were age appropriate, or did you read Brave New World?"
"I don’t -- "
"Perhaps Slaughterhouse Five? Or maybe The Last Temptation of Christ?"
"I would never read that to my child."
"I see. So you exercised discernment." His words came out in clipped, flat tones. At least he wasn’t yelling. "And when did
you picket the bookstore?"
"What?"
"Every bookstore in town carries those books." He was pacing the living room now. "Do you picket them like you picketed
the comic book store?"
"I don‘t really -- "
"Did you picket Blockbuster for carrying R-rated movies?"
"No, I -- "
"Because if you’re going to say a parent has the right to be too lazy to distinguish what is age appropriate, only a hypocrite
stops with the comic book store."
"I don’t understand."
"No, ma’am." He shut his eyes tightly, then opened them again and glared. "You don’t."
Charlie, clenching and unclenching his fists, looked on the mantle and noticed the framed picture of a smiling boy. A whole
collection, dusted recently. The rest of the house layered with dust, yet these frames were clean.
Charlie softened, pointed. "Is this your son?" In one picture, the boy was smiling, holding a trophy. In another, he was
racing in a track meet. At the instant the picture was snapped, he seemed to be doing pretty well.
She spoke softly, a different voice. "My little boy." Her whisper trembled. "He would have been 22 come October."
"He was 10," Charlie said. "Wasn’t he?"
"Going on 11."
"What happened?"
"He got sick and the Lord took him home."
Charlie held his tongue. This was not the time to get into a theological debate.
Then something occurred to him. "Can I see his room?"
Puzzled, she nodded, led Charlie to the stairs. As they went up, Charlie rubbed his finger on the banister. Dust.
They reached the top of the stairs, third door on the left. Inside, his suspicions confirmed. The room was immaculate. The
rest of the house a sty, but this room clean.
On the nightstand by the bed were knickknacks and action figures. On the dresser a trophy, the one Charlie saw in the
photo downstairs.
A shoebox peeked from under the bed. Charlie inched over, turned to Mrs. Gill. "May I?"
She folded her arms, shivering. She nodded.
Charlie, on his knees, pulled the box gently, opened to a stack of old comics. Classics Illustrated. Batman. Fantastic Four.
Nice condition. Not perfect -- shoeboxes weren’t the best way to store comics -- but still nice. They also looked well-read.
Suddenly, he knew. Even now, she still pulled out the comics, read them to the empty room. Pretended she still had her 10-
year-old.
Two years ago, she went to Randy’s to buy some comics, a way to stay connected with the memory of her son. A way to
remember what it was like reading to him. She had been confused by all the modern options.
Charlie didn’t ask. He just knew.
He politely excused himself, left with the promise not to bother her anymore.
About 8 P.M., Charlie went to the store to regroup. It was dark, police tape flapping in the breeze. Empty parking lot a
graveyard. Strip mall closed for the night.
Charlie walked a big circle, getting a feel for the neighborhood. Past the flower shop, past the salon, past the dry cleaner.
Under flickering streetlight, you could see the big gas station two blocks down, shining against the night. The other
direction, the middle school was a boxy shadow huddled in moonlight. At the end of the block, turn right and you have a row
of family restaurants and churches.
Charlie thought again about Eddie Drake. This was not an ideal location for his sort of business.
Turning the corner, stepping in shadows, Charlie reached the back door. He had a key from the time he helped with Free
Comic Book Day, his annual day to pretend he worked at a comic book store.
Fumbling with the key in moonlight, he discovered the lock was broken. Pried with a crowbar, by the looks of it.
Charlie held his breath, listening. Hearing nothing but the rustle of dead leaves, he pushed in.
A stale smell enveloped him as he shut the door. He stabbed the blackness with the flashlight before venturing further into
the store.
Two open windows faced an empty field. Maybe Drake got a tip about some developer headed this way, planning a new
mall. Expected property values would soon shoot for the sky.
Then Charlie saw the mess. Some thugs had torn the place apart. Posters ripped from the walls, display cases smashed,
tables overturned, comics strewn across concrete floor.
Charlie headed for the corner door, which lead to the basement. He stepped carefully over shiny, flat slabs of culture.
Horrified to leave them on the floor, but he didn’t dare tamper with a crime scene.
Downstairs, his flashlight found the stockroom in a similar shambles. Stranger still, there were several holes in the dirt
floor, buckets and shovels pushed to the side. Someone
had been digging.
He looked again at the tools and came to a conclusion. Someone was coming back.
A hunch, of course, but all he had at this point. Off the clock, he parked in the darkness across the street. Checked his
reasoning. During the day, there were open businesses nearby, witnesses up and down the short sidewalk. Whatever was
going on, the miners did their whistling after store hours.
Charlie spent two hours in his car, waiting. Clinging to the belief that some crime was still in progress.
Around midnight, Charlie’s stakeout paid off. A beatup Dodge Plymouth pulled into the gravel lot, drove around back. In
fractured moonlight, Charlie saw maybe two guys go in.
When it appeared safe, he snuck from across the street on foot. He did not risk going in, could not exactly call for backup.
He didn’t see much from outside the window, but caught snatches of dialogue, as the men stumbled toward the basement
door.
One said: "We done everything but bust up the cement bricks in the walls."
The other replied: "Then we bust up the walls! As long as Eddie says it’s here, we keep looking."
"What if it ain’t here?"
"As long as Eddie says it’s here, we keep looking."
Charlie went back to his car, watched the Dodge from across the street. Fought fatigue until about 3 A.M., when the Dodge
emerged from the darkness. Charlie trailed them, unseen, until the driver dropped the passenger off in front of an
apartment building.
Charlie parked across the street and went in. Hearing noises up the stairwell, he took the stairs two at a time. Heard
someone tromping down the hall on the fifth floor. He peeked around the corner, saw the man entering an apartment.
A lead.
Detective Charlie Pasch, in the hall, outside the man’s apartment. The man who had broken into the comic book store,
Randy’s Comics Empire. Had left all those precious slabs of culture all spilled out on the floor.
Charlie had his badge in one hand, weapon in the other. He knocked, stood away from the door. There was a stirring
inside. He knocked again, stood away.
Finally, the guy came to the door. He cracked it open, croaked in a weary voice. "Hello?"
Charlie jumped hard against the door, slamming it against the guy, knocking him to the floor. "Police! Stay down!" The guy,
whose name turned out to be Harry Cage, folded pretty quickly. At 4 in the morning, after a night of manual labor, the guy
was just too exhausted and disoriented.
As the man slumped in a chair, Charlie glanced around the room. Saw all sorts of toys and ceramic collectibles. On the
coffee table, on the kitchen counter, on the TV. A framed
movie poster over by the hall, Wizard of Oz.
Charlie played hard with the suspect, careful not to cross the line. This needed to stay off the record. "Why is Eddie so
desperate for that store?"
"He needs money."
"For what?" Charlie kept his hand close to his gun. Kept checking to make sure they were alone.
"When the Feds grabbed Big Ed, there were legal costs. Eddie got into hock with some other family."
"How did you get Barnes to co-operate?" Charlie realized he had split it into two words. Realized the ceramic figurines
close by were munchkins and a scarecrow.
"Who?"
"Barnes, the vice cop."
"Oh -- Eddie got the guy on film," Cage croaked, throat full of dust. "He showed up one night and tried to shut down a porno
shoot." He tried to chuckle, but it turned into a cough. "It got complicated."
Charlie wasn’t sure how to process that. "I don’t get it. What’s the comic book store got to do with anything?"
"We been looking for Johnny Brown’s stash."
Charlie knew about Johnny Brown. Longtime resident of the gray bar hotel. Died last month. His last big haul, a million
bucks, never recovered. "Where does that fit in?"
"Big Ed met him in the stir. Johnny knew he was dying, told Big Ed where he unloaded his fortune."
"In the comic book store?"
Cage nodded, coughing.
Charlie drove back to his apartment in the wee hours, hoping to catch a few minutes sleep before heading in for work.
Spent the whole drive, spent the remainder of his fevered, sleepless night, sorting through the facts.
1) Johnny Brown told Big Ed he had unloaded his fortune in that comic book store.
2) Eddie Drake tried to muscle into the store himself. Denied.
3) Eddie had dirt on a cop, called in a favor. Got the place closed down, giving free access to rip and dig.
4) The treasure wasn’t in the wallpaper, wasn’t in the floor.
Charlie was awake when the alarm went off. Was brushing his teeth when the tumblers in his head finally clicked into
place.
Of course.
Charlie slapped his forehead. It hurt.
Griggs was impressed. Charlie laid the whole story out for him on the way to the suburbs, Griggs driving, Charlie filling in
the blanks. "So, this mob guy in prison has hidden all this stolen money, admits on his death bed he ‘unloaded a fortune in
that comic book store.’"
Griggs nodded. "And the bad guys assumed he meant somewhere on the physical premises."
"Right." Charlie grinned. "They must have missed Charade."
"What?" Griggs turned the corner. "Oh, right -- Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn."
"Right," Charlie said, nodding. "Anyways, what they were looking for wasn’t under the floor."
Griggs drove a bit further in silence. Eyes on the road, he said, "Hitchcock, right?"
Charlie frowned. "What?"
"Charade. That was directed by Hitchcock, right?"
"I don’t think so."
Griggs laughed. "I think it was."
"No, it was directed by Stanley Donen." Charlie trying not to slip into his lecture tone. He had been told that people hated
that. "The same guy who directed Singing in the Rain."
They reached the house in 20 minutes. Griggs shifted into park. Turned to Charlie. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, this is the house."
"No, about the movie."
"Pretty sure."
They walked up to the front door and knocked. Johnny Brown’s sis, Amanda Payne, opened for them. Charlie and Griggs
showed their badges, explained the events that led them to her door, how they had determined that Johnny’s personal
effects would be in her possession.
"Come on inside." The woman, shriveled and brown from a lifetime of smoking, did not ask for a warrant, simply allowed
them in.
They passed yellowed wallpaper as they headed to the hall. She pointed to the ceiling, to the square door leading to the
attic. "If it’s Johnny’s, it’s probably up there."
Charlie and Griggs looked at each other. Griggs, hands in his overcoat, said, "This is your show, Charlie-boy."
Charlie sighed and grinned stupid, jumped and grabbed the knob on the end of the short rope. Pulled with his weight,
opened the door and the ladder slid out. He climbed and Griggs followed, Mrs. Payne staying below.
Based on shouted directions, they went to the far corner of the attic, balancing carefully on wooden beams. They reached
the pile, opened the trunk. Found an old camel hair overcoat. A beaten, moth-eaten hat. Assorted junk, paperclips and
twine and electrical adapters, a collection only a bachelor would throw in a trunk for safekeeping.
Charlie dug, pulled, searched. Sat back on his heels. Looked at Griggs, pained face. "I don’t see them."
"It’s just that it seems so much like a Hitchcock film, you know?"
Charlie made a face. Threw out his hands. "Do you mind?"
Griggs shrugged. "Are the comics stuck somewhere in the lining? A false bottom, maybe?"
Charlie wrapped knuckles all through the inside, checking every surface. "No," he grumped.
The two climbed down from the attic. Charlie held tightly to patience, used as calm a voice as possible. "Mrs. Payne, I don’t
think what we’re looking for is up there." He made gestures as he spoke, more than usual. "Did your brother leave anything
else? A suitcase, maybe?"
Amanda Payne pursed her lips in thought, shook her head. "No, sir, I can’t think of anything else."
Charlie deflated. "He didn’t maybe have comic books?"
Amanda lit up. "Oh!" She grinned, baring crooked teeth. "I had those out for the grandchildren."
"All that trouble, and the comic books turned out to be worthless." Charlie back at Randy’s Comics Empire, open again for
business.
Randy in a wheelchair behind the counter, black eye less swollen now. "What did he have? Reprints or something? Some
speculators don’t know the difference."
Actually, Charlie explained, the haul turned out to have once been worth almost $900,000: Looney Tunes And Merrie
Melodies #1 (1941), less than 200 copies of which are thought to exist, purchased for $15,000; Amazing Fantasy #15
(1962), introducing Spider-Man, $42,500; More Fun Comics #52 (1940), the first full appearance of the Spectre, $78,000;
Detective Comics #27 (1939), the first appearance of Batman, $350,000. Topped off with the most valuable comic book in
existence, Action Comics #1 (1938), $400,000, which launched Superman into the world. And started a Golden Age.
Randy whistled. "He bought all those?"
Charlie frowned. "Didn’t you know?"
Randy shook his head. "He didn’t buy them from me." As he spoke, the chatter grew around them, kids and geeks alike
thrilled to resume their Saturday routine. "Some grandpa came in here, looking for rare comic books," the retailer
continued. "I turned him onto one of the big auctions, where a lot of the Golden Age stuff turns up."
"Johnny must have been the hit of the ball."
"Yep." Randy chuckled. "So how could a stack like that be worthless?"
"What do you always say are the two main factors that determine the value of a comic book?" "Easy. Condition and rarity."
"There you go."
Randy made a face. "Wait -- don’t tell me she let the grandkids damage those comics."
"Yep." Charlie nodded, pained mirth crinkling his eyes. "One of ’em took a magic marker and made alterations to the
artwork. I guess another one glued all the ad pages together so the stories would flow better."
Randy swallowed dramatic. "I gotta sit down."
Charlie laughed. "You are sitting down." He glanced at the bustle around them. Tables active with one of those trading card
games Charlie never could make sense of. On the walls, ripped posters taped back together, broken shelves nailed into
rough shape. Charlie grinned. "You got everything up in record time."
"Still a work in progress," Randy said. "And I had help from the kids." He smiled. Even with his healing lip, it looked painful.
"Thanks for calling some of the moms and telling them I was innocent."
Charlie shrugged. "Just wanted to help straighten things out." He clapped his hands together. "Well, I gotta go, Randy.
Glad to see you back in business."
"Hold on a minute." Randy carefully wheeled around to a box against the wall. He pulled a single flat item out, wheeled
back to the broken glass counter, set the item on top of the wooden sheet. "I found something for you."
Charlie gasped: A pristine copy of Flash #268, four-color magic, in a slick, shiny plastic bag and kept flat by a thin white
sheet of cardboard. "I can’t believe it!" He held the find gingerly, gawking at bright colors shooting off the cover.
Randy laughed. "What’s with you, detective man?"
"What do you mean?"
"You had all those rare books in your hand before, and you go gaga over this? It’s not even a landmark issue."
"Sure, it’s a landmark." Charlie speaking in a hushed tone. "This was the first comic book I ever saw."
"Ah." Randy nodded. "That explains it."
Charlie looked at the comic again, transported to his tenth summer, transformed into that little boy with the wide eyes. The
comic, printed in 1978, discovered years later in that trunk at his grandma’s.
It had opened up a whole new world for Charlie. One from which he never recovered.
Then Charlie suddenly understood. Jeevan was right.
The Golden Age of comic books is 10.
being Randy Comics Empire, it was expected. Near any opinion was fair game, as long as it didn’t lead
to fisticuffs. (The one exception being that one brawl over Wolverine’s secret origin; some things are a
matter of principle.)
Charlie Pasch was making one of his twice-a-week visits to the store. On the clock, he was "Detective
Pasch, Kansas City Police Force, Kansas City, MO." But this morning, right now, he was just Charlie.
The argument today was not about which issue of Common Grounds was coolest, or whether the
character of Green Lantern should have stayed dead, or whether the character of Gwen Stacy should have
stayed alive. No, it was something that should have been cut and dried.
"When is the Golden Age for comic books?" The asker, a snarky guy in an underfitting t-shirt, needed to push his glasses
back up his nose. Smug, like he was hiding some crucial fact, like he knew the secret reason Bruce Banner got zapped
with gamma rays.
Charlie, on one knee by the new comics, had been picking through the titles on the bottom shelf. "That’s easy -- 1938." His
leg going numb, he stood quickly to free up circulation. "The year Superman debuted in Action Comics."
Randy Olson, the owner himself behind the counter, nodded. "Yeah," he said, folding arms. "Followed in quick succession
by Batman, Wonder Woman, and near everyone else. Everything today has its roots in what happened then."
Snarky guy grinned, showed bad teeth. "Nope."
Heads all over the store turned front, the guys shopping for trading cards, the guys perusing collectible statues, the guy in
the back corner ogling the Sarah Michelle Gellar poster. Charlie casually switched weight from one foot to the next, hoping
to avoid pins and needles.
Snarky Guy had his audience now. "It was the 1800s."
Charlie frowned. "How you figure that?"
"Yellow Kid."
As one, the room rolled its collective eyes and went back to its trading cards and its collectible statues and its Sarah
Michelle Gellar poster. But Charlie was stuck. "You mean the character from Hogan’s Alley?"
"Yeah," Snarky Guy answered, grinning. "It’s the ‘Golden Age’ because he had that yellow shirt."
Charlie suppressed a snort. Didn’t want to sound too geek, not even here. "Yellow Kid was in a comic strip," he said,
mouth going dry. "He did not launch the Golden Age of comic books -- that’s like saying the Golden Age of television started
with radio."
"Sure he did."
Charlie blinked violently, trapped. You can’t win an argument when the other guy keeps grinning like that.
"Fine," Charlie answered in a flat tone. He turned and occupied himself with the rows of back issues boxes, the "F" section,
letting Snarky Guy buy his stash and go on his smug way. Later, Charlie headed to the register with his own purchases of
the morning, several new comics as well as a found copy of Flash #246, from 1977. And for less than 5 bucks.
He set his stack on the counter and gave Randy a sheepish smile. "Hey."
Randy started sorting through Charlie’s selections. Then he stopped and looked up. "Hey, you’re a cop or something,
right?"
"Detective," Charlie answered. "Yeah."
"Know anything about Eddie Drake?"
Charlie held his breath a second. "Why do you ask?"
"Some guy came in and said Eddie Drake wants to buy the store."
"What, the comics store?" Charlie furrowed his brow. "Weird."
"Anyways, I remembered his name from that big story in the papers last year. When his old man was arrested? Sounded
like Drake is into business that ain’t exactly legal." Randy shrugged, turned back to the comics, sorting by prices. "Thought
maybe you could shed some light."
"I can’t really comment regarding an ongoing investigation," Charlie answered, sideways smile. "Big Ed was sent up for
racketeering, that’s public knowledge. There wasn’t much to convict Eddie. Which left little Drake behind to run the family
business."
Randy leaned in, lowered his voice. "What I was thinking was he probably don’t want to sell comics. He prob’ly has other
plans for this place, you know?"
"Could be." Charlie nodded slowly, thinking.
"Anyways, I told him it wasn’t for sale. The guy shrugged and took off." Randy nodded again, let the subject drop and turned
his attention to Charlie’s stack, punching numbers into the register.
But Charlie was thinking about Eddie Drake.
On Wednesday, Charlie was back in the store -- the week’s new comics always came on Wednesday, placed along the
front shelves in alphabetical order, an assortment of four-color slabs of pop culture, The Darkness and Iron Man and
Queen & Country. He glanced through a thick Craig Thompson paperback, put it on his "next time" list.
Charlie was stopping in on his lunch hour; the geek traffic wouldn’t pick up until later. He checked the back issues again,
the "F" section, came up empty. He took his latest purchases to the register and placed them gingerly on the counter,
careful to make sure it was clean.
Behind the register stood one of the employees, Jeevan Kapoor, a guy with a goatee. Chomping gum, he nodded a
greeting. "How are ya?"
Charlie, hands in pockets, returned the greeting with a nod of his own. "Where’s Randy?"
Jeevan checked cover prices and began punching them into the register. "Hadda see a doctor or something."
"I wondered if he was expecting any more back issues. Particularly Irv Novick on The Flash."
Jeevan, without looking up, said, "Who was that?"
"Irv Novick penciled The Flash in the ’70s," Charlie answered, slipping into his lecture tone. "Some of the first comics I ever
read. My uncle left a stash in a trunk at my grandma’s house." Charlie grinned. "Those issues of Flash were awesome!
They had this dynamic, kinetic art matched to these great clockwork scripts by Cary Bates."
When the other man didn’t answer, Charlie’s eyes started to drift around the store. What would Eddie Drake want with this
place?
Jeevan finished ringing up the comics and pointed awkwardly at the digital readout. "Here’s your total."
Charlie flinched and pulled out his wallet. "Sorry."
As Charlie handed a ten to Jeevan, he heard the ring of the front door. Randy entered, collar pulled up, dark glasses. As the
owner rushed behind the counter, Jeevan said, "Hey, this guy here was looking for -- "
"Not now," Randy snapped, disappearing into the back. The glasses and collar covered most of the damage, but Charlie
saw bruises. Someone had paid Randy a visit.
At the station, Charlie could not concentrate on his caseload. He kept thinking about the owner of the comic book store.
Kept thinking about the news that Eddie Drake wanted the store. Kept thinking about the bruises.
There had to be a connection, but Randy wasn’t talking.
Charlie finally went to the office of his mentor, Detective Tom Griggs. He was lead detective in the joint task force, the
KCPD/FBI operation whittling away at organized crime in modern Kansas City.
Charlie caught the older detective at his desk eating lunch. "I have a problem, Detective Griggs."
Griggs wiped his face with a paper napkin. "Yeah?"
Charlie told the story, especially the Eddie Drake connection. Griggs dismissed it. Drake was small-time, Griggs said; the
joint-task force already had its hands full.
Actually, his exact words were, "I don’t care." Griggs waved the sandwich to emphasize his point. "I already got Big Ed, and
that turned out to be a disappointment. We thought the family was more plugged in than that."
"But if Eddie Drake is causing trouble -- "
"If you catch him in a crime, pick him up."
"I thought assault was a crime."
"Did your friend tell you Drake roughed him up?"
"No."
"Did your friend file a complaint?"
"No."
"Without testimony, all you can talk about is targeting Drake for an investigation. But building a case -- that takes money,
takes equipment, takes man-hours." Griggs spread his hands apologetically. "We’re already spread too thin. We got to be
choosy about our targets, Charlie. That’s the way it is."
Saturday, the mood in the store was low, dread hanging in the air. Instead of game tables full of geeks and chatter, only a
couple of guys sat in today, one shuffling the deck over and over.
In the back corner, a kid, 13 at the most, fidgeted by the rack of posters. The black frames flipped past, Pokemon, Bride of
Frankenstein, some basketball player. Somebody must have bought the Sarah Michelle Gellar poster.
Charlie checked the back issues, "Fs" again, came up empty. Headed for the register to chat. Jeevan stood behind the
counter, arms folded. Grim.
Charlie nodded a greeting. "What’s up?"
Instead of answering, Jeevan jumped from behind the register. "Hey! Get out of there!"
Before Charlie knew what was happening, Jeevan crossed the store in three great strides, pulling the curtain for the adult
section, grabbing the kid by the arm, yanking him out to the middle of the store.
Jeevan wagged a finger in the kid’s face. "Either you have a gland problem, or you’re too young to be back here!"
The kid, red-faced, nodded quickly. Ran for the door.
Jeevan returned to the register. "I always hate to see that."
"Get much trouble like that?"
"Not if you watch for it," Jeevan replied. "Like working at any book or video store, I guess."
Charlie motioned around the room with his head. "Why’s it so quiet today?"
"Randy is in the hospital."
Charlie got the details. Swung by the hospital for a visit. Randy still not in the mood to explain. He and Charlie made small
talk, Star Trek and Jonny Quest and Stan Lee, anything to circle around why Randy was broken and in a hospital bed.
Charlie should have pressed the matter. Chickened out. Changed the subject. "I keep thinking about that guy with his
whole ‘Golden Age’ theory, you know?"
"Yeah." Randy’s mind on something else.
"I mean, there are whole books on this stuff," Charlie prattled. "I did a speech in junior high and everything."
"Uh-huh."
Charlie stayed a few more minutes, looking for some opening to do his job. It never came.
Sunday. Back at the apartment after church. Charlie went to the kitchen, tossing his jacket and tie over the chair. Pushed
aside his growing pile of comics, threw a bag of drive-thru on the table.
Unwrapping the burrito, he went to the bookshelf, grabbed a volume on comic book history. Charlie set it on the table,
leafing through while eating. No mention of the Yellow Kid; if you were going to point to earlier art forms, you might as well
bring up narrative woodcuts from the 15th Century.
Charlie sat, eating and reading. Thinking about comics printed and sold and thrown out decades before he was born.
Trying not to think about Randy in the hospital bed.
Monday. Charlie at his desk, stewing again. Trying to focus on the folder in front of him. He sipped from his mug and
grimaced; still tasted like coffee. Needed to add more milk and Fruit Loops.
A uniformed officer, Rich Farley, stopped at Charlie’s desk with a small paper bag. "Hey, Detective Pasch, you like comics."
He handed the sack to Charlie. "These worth anything?"
Charlie went through the selections, random comics from the early ’90s. Nothing remarkable, nothing in great condition. A
few #1 issues, but that was no guarantee of value. Most comics from the last 20 years were so easy to find, anyone who
wanted a #1 issue probably had one.
As Charlie flipped through, he thought of the two main factors that affect collectibles: rarity and condition. None of these
scored high in either column.
Charlie didn’t have the heart to be that blunt with Officer Farley. He promised to take them to the comics store, have a
professional take a look. Pass the blame off on them.
He figured he could take the bag by Randy’s Comics after work. While he was at it, maybe pick up that big Craig Thompson
book, do his part to support the store and indie comics.
After work, he took off in his car, the sack of comics nestled comfortably on the passenger seat. He hit the drive-thru on the
way.
Nearing the turn-off for the store, Charlie thought again about Randy, laid up in the hospital. Battered, threatened, too
scared to talk.
He was fumbling with the radio when he saw telltale yellow tape stretched across the store. Charlie switched off the radio
as he pulled into the empty parking lot. A big sign slapped on the door, CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE COURT.
Next morning, Charlie ascertained two things: 1) Randy Olson, owner of Randy’s Comics Empire, had been released from
the hospital, was now home, would not take visitors; 2) employee Jeevan Kapoor was sitting in a jail cell, arrested for
selling adult materials to a minor.
This did not sound right. He saw how diligently Jeevan kept children out of the back section.
Discreetly getting a copy of the arrest report, Charlie found the official story: An undercover vice cop went into Randy’s
Comics Empire on Monday.
Had entered, as an adult, into the curtained "adult section" of the store. Had purchased, as an adult, one comic book,
entitled Angel McCoy, labeled "For Mature Readers, due to graphic violence and sexual themes." Had arrested one
employee, Jeevan Kapoor, no priors, for selling adult materials to a minor.
Charlie couldn’t believe what he was reading. He had read Angel McCoy. A little rough for his personal taste, but certainly
not pornographic.
The arrest report did not even pretend to include evidence to support the charge. It was entirely based on the lie that
comics was an art form exclusively for children. Therefore, the loopy logic ran, their very existence somehow proved that the
store was selling mature titles to kids.
Charlie returned to Griggs’ office. He found the older detective eating a portable breakfast and poring over an assortment of
mobster photos.
"Vice made a bust a couple days ago," Charlie said, almost stammering. "I think there’s something fishy to it."
"Why would you say that?"
"They arrested a guy at a comic book store for selling adult materials -- "
"Wait right there." Griggs put the breakfast bar down, pushing aside the photos to keep them from getting greasy. "If this is
geek-related, you are already way too close to this."
Charlie fought the urge to sulk. "I’ll work this on my own time."
Griggs exhaled a good-natured sigh, leaning back in the wooden chair. It creaked with authority. "When I was a kid, I
worked as a stock boy." He locked fingers behind his head, elbows out. "You know what my boss would always say? ‘If you
have time to lean, you have time to clean.’"
Charlie nodded. "And what does that mean?"
"If the chief finds out you’re devoting time to yet one more case," Griggs leaned forward again, "he’ll say that means you
have more time for the cases you already have."
Charlie frowned, returned to his desk. For the rest of the week, focused on the job. A stack of reports to write, files to sift
through, interviews to conduct. Anything to keep himself from obsessing over Randy’s Comics Empire or questionable
arrests made by the vice squad.
He played a Hank Williams CD all Friday afternoon, had it set on repeat, barely registered how many times it must have
played through before he felt the pencil projectile hit his
ear. A detective at another desk asked, "Charlie, do you mind?"
Charlie jumped. "Hmm?"
The other detective sighed, rolled eyes. "Play something else?"
Charlie clicked open iTunes on his laptop. He started 25 hours’ worth of songs rotating now, showtunes and Christian
rock and Americana. Something to annoy everyone.
He returned to his thoughts.
What was going on at Randy’s Comics Empire?
Saturday. Charlie avoided the store. Had to remind himself it was a crime scene.
Sunday. Charlie went to church. Did not hear a word the preacher said.
Monday. Charlie went back to Griggs.
"Stay out of it," Griggs counseled. "I know cartoons are important to you -- but you have to understand they are not important
to everyone else."
Charlie sighed drama. "Not cartoons. Comic books."
"Whatever. Comic strips." Griggs grunted, rubbing his eyes. "We’re going to have to circle back around to ‘I don’t care.’"
Griggs stopped. Smiled sympathetic. "C’mon, Charlie, this is simple. A guy was selling a comic to some kid -- "
"Why would you assume that?"
"Assume what?"
"You said it was ‘some kid.’"
"Comics are for kids. No offense."
Charlie sat on the edge of the desk, awkwardly, in the middle of it now. "Comic books achieved their widest circulation
during World War II, when troops looked forward to care packages of cigarettes and copies of Superman."
Charlie stood. Puppy dog face. "Detective Griggs, the comic book is just another art form. A vehicle for narrative."
"Your words are starting to get big again."
Charlie nodded a couple of seconds, thinking. Then his eyes went wide. "When you were a kid, did you watch TV?"
"Sure."
"Does that mean ‘TV is for kids’?"
"Of course."
"No, I mean, is TV just for kids, and nobody else?"
"Oh. Then, no. I’m not an idiot."
"So we’re not going to arrest NBC for giving a grown man the right to watch material targeted for your age group?"
"Of course not." Griggs shrugged. Then his eyes widened. He pointed cautiously at Charlie. "You can’t mean the guy
buying the comic was a grown-up?"
"Yeah." Charlie smiled. Yahtzee.
"Surely they had some kind of evidence -- "
"Nope. In five years, there has only been one complaint." Charlie flipped open his file. "That was two years ago. Some
woman dismissed as a crank."
Charlie looked up. "A few days ago, the owner refuses to sell to Eddie Drake -- and vice suddenly decides to follow up on a
two-year-old complaint?"
Griggs was silent now, elbows on desk. Finally looked up. "Okay, Charlie, maybe you have something."
That evening, Detective Charlie Pasch visited the comic book employee, Jeevan Kapoor, at his home. He argued with
himself in the hall, still debating his actions even as he reached the man’s apartment door.
Then he knocked and the debate was over. Jeevan kept the door almost closed, just cracked it open as far as the chain
would allow. "What do you want?"
"Hi, Jeevan, it’s Charlie Pasch." Not sure how to play this. "I buy comics from you." Nothing. "I just wanted to see how you
were doing."
"Okay. I guess." Jeevan looked past Charlie into the hall. Made eye contact again. "How do you know where I live?"
"Oh -- it was in the police report."
"What, are those public now?"
Charlie hesitated, coughing into his fist. "No." Wasn’t sure how to break this, finally just came out and said, "I’m a cop." He
reached for his wallet, flashed his badge. "See?"
Jeevan’s eyes narrowed, dead. "Oh." Paused. "Haven’t you guys done enough?"
"I’m here to help." Charlie pocketed the badge, held out empty hands. "May I speak with you?"
Jeevan hesitated, closed the door. There was the sound of the chain, then the door opened again, wider. Jeevan not
saying a word, just waving Charlie in.
Charlie, nervous, made small talk at the kitchen table. "Hear about that guy at the store the other day?" Nonchalant. "Jawing
about ‘when was the Golden Age of comics books’?"
Jeevan leaned one elbow on the table. Smiled polite. "Why, what’d he say?"
"He claimed it started with the Yellow Kid. Can you imagine that?"
Jeevan nodded, thoughtful. "I don’t know what that is."
"You work in a comic book store and don’t know the history?"
"I just know what I like." Jeevan went to the cabinet, pulling out a couple of drinking glasses. "Water?" Charlie nodded and
Jeevan filled both glasses from a pitcher in the fridge. "So he was the first comic strip?" Jeevan set the frosted glass in
front of Charlie.
"No, but he was a major star. He was so popular that Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst fought over him."
Charlie took a sip. "Apparently, his presence in Hearst’s papers is why their tactics were called yellow journalism."
"Huh." Jeevan sipped his water, set it down. "You have a lot of stuff in your head, don’t you?"
Charlie felt his cheeks redden. "I read a lot as a kid. It gave me a sense of empowerment."
"I see." Jeevan sat back, shrugged. "So when do you say the Golden Age was?"
Charlie tried not to snort. "The late ’30s. That was a great time for discovery, for new ideas -- "
"I don’t know." Jeevan took another sip. "Seems to me the Golden Age for comics is 10."
"What do you mean?"
"You know, whatever you connect with as a 10-year-old, that’s your personal ‘golden age.’ It’s the benchmark you carry in
your head for the rest of your life."
Charlie didn’t know how to answer that. Changed the subject. "You want to tell me what happened the other night?"
The sudden shift catching Jeevan off guard. "Oh." Dead eyes again. Like Jeevan was shutting a part of himself down to
deal with the humiliation.
Charlie tried to encourage. "It would really help to hear your side of it."
Jeevan sighed, sat back in the chair. "There’s not much to tell." He started sliding his glass in a little circular rhythm,
pushing around condensation on the plastic tablecloth. "I was minding my own business. Next thing I know, I’m
handcuffed and hauled off to jail."
"I know it must be painful to think about, but -- "
"Do you? Do you know what it’s like to be handcuffed in front of your customers and shoved out the door in front of your
neighbors? Shoved in the back of a car like a robber or a murderer or something?"
Jeevan stared at his glass a second, stopping his circular rhythm. "I came to this country to get away from this kind of thing."
"Please, Jeevan, let me help."
Jeevan stared off into some private space for long moments. Eyes closed, breathing through his nose several times.
Finally, he softened. Turned to Charlie with kinder eyes. "What do you need, officer?"
"Call me Charlie. I need you to walk me through what happened. Step by step."
"I already had to do this down at the -- "
"I know, Jeevan." Charlie kept saying his name, a way to control the course of the conversation, a way to keep his interview
subject focused. "But … please."
Jeevan sighed again, more relaxed this time. "I was just working alone in the store. I was behind the counter."
"What were you doing?"
"I was updating our inventory records in the computer."
"Okay. Then what happened?"
"This … man came in. The cop."
"Did he identify himself as such when he came in?"
"No." Jeevan shrugged. "He just looked like a regular guy."
"What did he look like?"
"Tall, I guess, football player shoulders. Had this tan jacket. Big red moustache."
"What did he do when he came into the store?"
"Sort of milled around, I guess. Like he was just browsing."
"Did he seem suspicious to you?"
"I was just working on the inventory. So I just said hi and he went to browsing and I went back to the computer."
"That’s all you said to him?"
"Well, a few minutes later he came up and asked me where the pornography was."
"And you said … ?"
"I told him we don’t have any. Randy doesn’t carry that stuff. So he asked if we had any adult stuff -- that’s what he called it,
‘adult stuff’ -- and I told him we kept the restricted stuff in the back, so that kids can’t get to it."
"You told him that?"
"Yeah."
"That kids can’t get to it?"
"Yeah."
"Then what?"
"I don’t know, he went back there for a while. Then he came back out and he bought a comic. And he arrested me."
"Arrested you for selling a comic?"
"Yeah."
Unbelievable. "What was the comic?" Charlie knew the answer from the police report, but wanted to help Jeevan focus on
the moment.
Jeevan furrowed his brow, closed his eyes. He opened them again. "I think it was Angel McCoy."
Charlie reached for his glass of water, took a sip, sat back in the chair. He realized he had been subconsciously moving
closer and closer to Jeevan during the recount, infringing more and more on his personal space.
Relax, Charlie, relax.
Charlie smiled. Playing it cool. Everything is cool. "Okay, so he came out of the restricted area there and started to talk to
you about Angel McCoy."
"No, he just bought it."
Charlie frowned. "He must have commented on it or something."
"No." Jeevan shook his head. "He just bought it. I rung it up, he gave me the money, I gave him the receipt and he arrested
me."
Charlie leaned forward again. "Jeevan, think very carefully." Put a hand on the man’s arm. "When the undercover officer
came to the register, did he make any effort to engage you in a conversation before he purchased it?"
"No." Jeevan sipped some water. Shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"It might." Charlie did not want to pursue the thought any further right now. Grabbed his glass of water and sipped.
Charlie made small talk a little while longer. Told Jeevan his great idea for a new Quicksilver book he wanted to pitch to
Marvel Comics. Eventually realized he was just imposing.
Left Jeevan’s apartment feeling a failure.
Next morning, Charlie met the vice cop. In fact, the man was waiting at his desk, jumped to his feet as soon as he saw
Charlie arrive. "Are you Pasch?"
Charlie nodded, sipping from his mug of coffee and Fruit Loops. "And you are … ?"
"I’m Barnes." That would be Leo Barnes, vice. The name from the report. "When vice pulls a piece of scum off the street, it’s
not your job to get involved."
Charlie sipped again, frowned as he set the cup down. "Actually, it’s normal for departments to cooperate when their cases
intersect. Aren’t we all after the same thing?"
"If you wanted to co-operate," Barnes said it just like that, co-operate, like it was two words, "you would have asked." He
grabbed the file off Charlie’s desk, waved it in Charlie’s face. "Keep your nose out, detective," he growled in a low voice. "Or
it gets bit off."
Charlie nodded, said nothing as the vice cop walked away. Charlie sat in his desk chair, grabbed his mug and sipped. The
vice cop was playing belligerent, covering something. Otherwise, he would have complained through normal channels.
Charlie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the address of the crackpot.
The visit did not go well. The crackpot, Maddie Gill, was smug, she was righteous, she had a big Jesus statue in the living
room. The house was dingy, a wreck, dust everywhere.
Barely a few minutes passed before Charlie lost his temper, got off track explaining that comics were like any expressive
medium.
She wouldn’t hear any of it. "I know what a comic book looks like, Officer," she preached in a special voice.
"Detective," he corrected, but she didn’t seem to care.
"I read them to my little boy."
Fighting to level his voice, he asked, "Did you read books with your little boy?"
"That’s what I just -- "
"No, books," he snapped. "Regular, normal books. Did you read books to your little boy?"
"Of course."
"So, did you pick books that were age appropriate, or did you read Brave New World?"
"I don’t -- "
"Perhaps Slaughterhouse Five? Or maybe The Last Temptation of Christ?"
"I would never read that to my child."
"I see. So you exercised discernment." His words came out in clipped, flat tones. At least he wasn’t yelling. "And when did
you picket the bookstore?"
"What?"
"Every bookstore in town carries those books." He was pacing the living room now. "Do you picket them like you picketed
the comic book store?"
"I don‘t really -- "
"Did you picket Blockbuster for carrying R-rated movies?"
"No, I -- "
"Because if you’re going to say a parent has the right to be too lazy to distinguish what is age appropriate, only a hypocrite
stops with the comic book store."
"I don’t understand."
"No, ma’am." He shut his eyes tightly, then opened them again and glared. "You don’t."
Charlie, clenching and unclenching his fists, looked on the mantle and noticed the framed picture of a smiling boy. A whole
collection, dusted recently. The rest of the house layered with dust, yet these frames were clean.
Charlie softened, pointed. "Is this your son?" In one picture, the boy was smiling, holding a trophy. In another, he was
racing in a track meet. At the instant the picture was snapped, he seemed to be doing pretty well.
She spoke softly, a different voice. "My little boy." Her whisper trembled. "He would have been 22 come October."
"He was 10," Charlie said. "Wasn’t he?"
"Going on 11."
"What happened?"
"He got sick and the Lord took him home."
Charlie held his tongue. This was not the time to get into a theological debate.
Then something occurred to him. "Can I see his room?"
Puzzled, she nodded, led Charlie to the stairs. As they went up, Charlie rubbed his finger on the banister. Dust.
They reached the top of the stairs, third door on the left. Inside, his suspicions confirmed. The room was immaculate. The
rest of the house a sty, but this room clean.
On the nightstand by the bed were knickknacks and action figures. On the dresser a trophy, the one Charlie saw in the
photo downstairs.
A shoebox peeked from under the bed. Charlie inched over, turned to Mrs. Gill. "May I?"
She folded her arms, shivering. She nodded.
Charlie, on his knees, pulled the box gently, opened to a stack of old comics. Classics Illustrated. Batman. Fantastic Four.
Nice condition. Not perfect -- shoeboxes weren’t the best way to store comics -- but still nice. They also looked well-read.
Suddenly, he knew. Even now, she still pulled out the comics, read them to the empty room. Pretended she still had her 10-
year-old.
Two years ago, she went to Randy’s to buy some comics, a way to stay connected with the memory of her son. A way to
remember what it was like reading to him. She had been confused by all the modern options.
Charlie didn’t ask. He just knew.
He politely excused himself, left with the promise not to bother her anymore.
About 8 P.M., Charlie went to the store to regroup. It was dark, police tape flapping in the breeze. Empty parking lot a
graveyard. Strip mall closed for the night.
Charlie walked a big circle, getting a feel for the neighborhood. Past the flower shop, past the salon, past the dry cleaner.
Under flickering streetlight, you could see the big gas station two blocks down, shining against the night. The other
direction, the middle school was a boxy shadow huddled in moonlight. At the end of the block, turn right and you have a row
of family restaurants and churches.
Charlie thought again about Eddie Drake. This was not an ideal location for his sort of business.
Turning the corner, stepping in shadows, Charlie reached the back door. He had a key from the time he helped with Free
Comic Book Day, his annual day to pretend he worked at a comic book store.
Fumbling with the key in moonlight, he discovered the lock was broken. Pried with a crowbar, by the looks of it.
Charlie held his breath, listening. Hearing nothing but the rustle of dead leaves, he pushed in.
A stale smell enveloped him as he shut the door. He stabbed the blackness with the flashlight before venturing further into
the store.
Two open windows faced an empty field. Maybe Drake got a tip about some developer headed this way, planning a new
mall. Expected property values would soon shoot for the sky.
Then Charlie saw the mess. Some thugs had torn the place apart. Posters ripped from the walls, display cases smashed,
tables overturned, comics strewn across concrete floor.
Charlie headed for the corner door, which lead to the basement. He stepped carefully over shiny, flat slabs of culture.
Horrified to leave them on the floor, but he didn’t dare tamper with a crime scene.
Downstairs, his flashlight found the stockroom in a similar shambles. Stranger still, there were several holes in the dirt
floor, buckets and shovels pushed to the side. Someone
had been digging.
He looked again at the tools and came to a conclusion. Someone was coming back.
A hunch, of course, but all he had at this point. Off the clock, he parked in the darkness across the street. Checked his
reasoning. During the day, there were open businesses nearby, witnesses up and down the short sidewalk. Whatever was
going on, the miners did their whistling after store hours.
Charlie spent two hours in his car, waiting. Clinging to the belief that some crime was still in progress.
Around midnight, Charlie’s stakeout paid off. A beatup Dodge Plymouth pulled into the gravel lot, drove around back. In
fractured moonlight, Charlie saw maybe two guys go in.
When it appeared safe, he snuck from across the street on foot. He did not risk going in, could not exactly call for backup.
He didn’t see much from outside the window, but caught snatches of dialogue, as the men stumbled toward the basement
door.
One said: "We done everything but bust up the cement bricks in the walls."
The other replied: "Then we bust up the walls! As long as Eddie says it’s here, we keep looking."
"What if it ain’t here?"
"As long as Eddie says it’s here, we keep looking."
Charlie went back to his car, watched the Dodge from across the street. Fought fatigue until about 3 A.M., when the Dodge
emerged from the darkness. Charlie trailed them, unseen, until the driver dropped the passenger off in front of an
apartment building.
Charlie parked across the street and went in. Hearing noises up the stairwell, he took the stairs two at a time. Heard
someone tromping down the hall on the fifth floor. He peeked around the corner, saw the man entering an apartment.
A lead.
Detective Charlie Pasch, in the hall, outside the man’s apartment. The man who had broken into the comic book store,
Randy’s Comics Empire. Had left all those precious slabs of culture all spilled out on the floor.
Charlie had his badge in one hand, weapon in the other. He knocked, stood away from the door. There was a stirring
inside. He knocked again, stood away.
Finally, the guy came to the door. He cracked it open, croaked in a weary voice. "Hello?"
Charlie jumped hard against the door, slamming it against the guy, knocking him to the floor. "Police! Stay down!" The guy,
whose name turned out to be Harry Cage, folded pretty quickly. At 4 in the morning, after a night of manual labor, the guy
was just too exhausted and disoriented.
As the man slumped in a chair, Charlie glanced around the room. Saw all sorts of toys and ceramic collectibles. On the
coffee table, on the kitchen counter, on the TV. A framed
movie poster over by the hall, Wizard of Oz.
Charlie played hard with the suspect, careful not to cross the line. This needed to stay off the record. "Why is Eddie so
desperate for that store?"
"He needs money."
"For what?" Charlie kept his hand close to his gun. Kept checking to make sure they were alone.
"When the Feds grabbed Big Ed, there were legal costs. Eddie got into hock with some other family."
"How did you get Barnes to co-operate?" Charlie realized he had split it into two words. Realized the ceramic figurines
close by were munchkins and a scarecrow.
"Who?"
"Barnes, the vice cop."
"Oh -- Eddie got the guy on film," Cage croaked, throat full of dust. "He showed up one night and tried to shut down a porno
shoot." He tried to chuckle, but it turned into a cough. "It got complicated."
Charlie wasn’t sure how to process that. "I don’t get it. What’s the comic book store got to do with anything?"
"We been looking for Johnny Brown’s stash."
Charlie knew about Johnny Brown. Longtime resident of the gray bar hotel. Died last month. His last big haul, a million
bucks, never recovered. "Where does that fit in?"
"Big Ed met him in the stir. Johnny knew he was dying, told Big Ed where he unloaded his fortune."
"In the comic book store?"
Cage nodded, coughing.
Charlie drove back to his apartment in the wee hours, hoping to catch a few minutes sleep before heading in for work.
Spent the whole drive, spent the remainder of his fevered, sleepless night, sorting through the facts.
1) Johnny Brown told Big Ed he had unloaded his fortune in that comic book store.
2) Eddie Drake tried to muscle into the store himself. Denied.
3) Eddie had dirt on a cop, called in a favor. Got the place closed down, giving free access to rip and dig.
4) The treasure wasn’t in the wallpaper, wasn’t in the floor.
Charlie was awake when the alarm went off. Was brushing his teeth when the tumblers in his head finally clicked into
place.
Of course.
Charlie slapped his forehead. It hurt.
Griggs was impressed. Charlie laid the whole story out for him on the way to the suburbs, Griggs driving, Charlie filling in
the blanks. "So, this mob guy in prison has hidden all this stolen money, admits on his death bed he ‘unloaded a fortune in
that comic book store.’"
Griggs nodded. "And the bad guys assumed he meant somewhere on the physical premises."
"Right." Charlie grinned. "They must have missed Charade."
"What?" Griggs turned the corner. "Oh, right -- Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn."
"Right," Charlie said, nodding. "Anyways, what they were looking for wasn’t under the floor."
Griggs drove a bit further in silence. Eyes on the road, he said, "Hitchcock, right?"
Charlie frowned. "What?"
"Charade. That was directed by Hitchcock, right?"
"I don’t think so."
Griggs laughed. "I think it was."
"No, it was directed by Stanley Donen." Charlie trying not to slip into his lecture tone. He had been told that people hated
that. "The same guy who directed Singing in the Rain."
They reached the house in 20 minutes. Griggs shifted into park. Turned to Charlie. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, this is the house."
"No, about the movie."
"Pretty sure."
They walked up to the front door and knocked. Johnny Brown’s sis, Amanda Payne, opened for them. Charlie and Griggs
showed their badges, explained the events that led them to her door, how they had determined that Johnny’s personal
effects would be in her possession.
"Come on inside." The woman, shriveled and brown from a lifetime of smoking, did not ask for a warrant, simply allowed
them in.
They passed yellowed wallpaper as they headed to the hall. She pointed to the ceiling, to the square door leading to the
attic. "If it’s Johnny’s, it’s probably up there."
Charlie and Griggs looked at each other. Griggs, hands in his overcoat, said, "This is your show, Charlie-boy."
Charlie sighed and grinned stupid, jumped and grabbed the knob on the end of the short rope. Pulled with his weight,
opened the door and the ladder slid out. He climbed and Griggs followed, Mrs. Payne staying below.
Based on shouted directions, they went to the far corner of the attic, balancing carefully on wooden beams. They reached
the pile, opened the trunk. Found an old camel hair overcoat. A beaten, moth-eaten hat. Assorted junk, paperclips and
twine and electrical adapters, a collection only a bachelor would throw in a trunk for safekeeping.
Charlie dug, pulled, searched. Sat back on his heels. Looked at Griggs, pained face. "I don’t see them."
"It’s just that it seems so much like a Hitchcock film, you know?"
Charlie made a face. Threw out his hands. "Do you mind?"
Griggs shrugged. "Are the comics stuck somewhere in the lining? A false bottom, maybe?"
Charlie wrapped knuckles all through the inside, checking every surface. "No," he grumped.
The two climbed down from the attic. Charlie held tightly to patience, used as calm a voice as possible. "Mrs. Payne, I don’t
think what we’re looking for is up there." He made gestures as he spoke, more than usual. "Did your brother leave anything
else? A suitcase, maybe?"
Amanda Payne pursed her lips in thought, shook her head. "No, sir, I can’t think of anything else."
Charlie deflated. "He didn’t maybe have comic books?"
Amanda lit up. "Oh!" She grinned, baring crooked teeth. "I had those out for the grandchildren."
"All that trouble, and the comic books turned out to be worthless." Charlie back at Randy’s Comics Empire, open again for
business.
Randy in a wheelchair behind the counter, black eye less swollen now. "What did he have? Reprints or something? Some
speculators don’t know the difference."
Actually, Charlie explained, the haul turned out to have once been worth almost $900,000: Looney Tunes And Merrie
Melodies #1 (1941), less than 200 copies of which are thought to exist, purchased for $15,000; Amazing Fantasy #15
(1962), introducing Spider-Man, $42,500; More Fun Comics #52 (1940), the first full appearance of the Spectre, $78,000;
Detective Comics #27 (1939), the first appearance of Batman, $350,000. Topped off with the most valuable comic book in
existence, Action Comics #1 (1938), $400,000, which launched Superman into the world. And started a Golden Age.
Randy whistled. "He bought all those?"
Charlie frowned. "Didn’t you know?"
Randy shook his head. "He didn’t buy them from me." As he spoke, the chatter grew around them, kids and geeks alike
thrilled to resume their Saturday routine. "Some grandpa came in here, looking for rare comic books," the retailer
continued. "I turned him onto one of the big auctions, where a lot of the Golden Age stuff turns up."
"Johnny must have been the hit of the ball."
"Yep." Randy chuckled. "So how could a stack like that be worthless?"
"What do you always say are the two main factors that determine the value of a comic book?" "Easy. Condition and rarity."
"There you go."
Randy made a face. "Wait -- don’t tell me she let the grandkids damage those comics."
"Yep." Charlie nodded, pained mirth crinkling his eyes. "One of ’em took a magic marker and made alterations to the
artwork. I guess another one glued all the ad pages together so the stories would flow better."
Randy swallowed dramatic. "I gotta sit down."
Charlie laughed. "You are sitting down." He glanced at the bustle around them. Tables active with one of those trading card
games Charlie never could make sense of. On the walls, ripped posters taped back together, broken shelves nailed into
rough shape. Charlie grinned. "You got everything up in record time."
"Still a work in progress," Randy said. "And I had help from the kids." He smiled. Even with his healing lip, it looked painful.
"Thanks for calling some of the moms and telling them I was innocent."
Charlie shrugged. "Just wanted to help straighten things out." He clapped his hands together. "Well, I gotta go, Randy.
Glad to see you back in business."
"Hold on a minute." Randy carefully wheeled around to a box against the wall. He pulled a single flat item out, wheeled
back to the broken glass counter, set the item on top of the wooden sheet. "I found something for you."
Charlie gasped: A pristine copy of Flash #268, four-color magic, in a slick, shiny plastic bag and kept flat by a thin white
sheet of cardboard. "I can’t believe it!" He held the find gingerly, gawking at bright colors shooting off the cover.
Randy laughed. "What’s with you, detective man?"
"What do you mean?"
"You had all those rare books in your hand before, and you go gaga over this? It’s not even a landmark issue."
"Sure, it’s a landmark." Charlie speaking in a hushed tone. "This was the first comic book I ever saw."
"Ah." Randy nodded. "That explains it."
Charlie looked at the comic again, transported to his tenth summer, transformed into that little boy with the wide eyes. The
comic, printed in 1978, discovered years later in that trunk at his grandma’s.
It had opened up a whole new world for Charlie. One from which he never recovered.
Then Charlie suddenly understood. Jeevan was right.
The Golden Age of comic books is 10.
excerpted from Deliver Us From Evelyn (Harvest House)
ISBN: 0736914064
ISBN: 0736914064
© 2006 Chris Well
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of
the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Comic Book Legal Defense Fund
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| "The Golden Age" |
| Online EXCLUSIVE |
StudioWell
| ©2009 Chris and Erica Well |
STORIES and ART
