““Yeah, my father printed that little paper for him at the end.” The man whose voice was raised to be heard over the din was Kenneth Parker, and the business was Steuben Press. It was located an even mile from the motel I had stayed in. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could talk to your father.” I didn’t think there was. Kenneth Parker looked about fifty. “You’re a few years too late. I’m sorrier than I can tell you. My father was a wonderful man.” I said something appropriate. “I don’t su...ppose you remember J.J. Eberling?” I asked. “Sure I remember him. We printed that paper—” he looked up at the ceiling “—I’d say damn near six months.” “Must have been expensive for J.J.” “He had no choice. They were closing down the shops in that old town, and they wouldn’t let him stay on. That crazy little paper was his life. Besides, the expense didn’t bother him.” “I heard he had plenty of money.” “He had enough. His column kept him going.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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