Reeve, Lloyd Eric (“A Regular Moll”): Reeve was best known as a prolific western pulp writer, appearing consistently in the ’30s and ’40s. He was well-known in the Oakland-Berkeley area where he occasionally lectured on the subject of writing. The August 1935 Writer’s Review reported: “Lloyd Eric Reeve, told to cut down on his ciggies, did just that. He uses a razor blade to make five out of one, and catches a couple of puffs every thousand words or so at the end of a long holder...”
In his introduction to This Is the Way It Was: The Best Western Stories of Ryerson Johnson (Ohio University Press, 1990), Johnson told this tale:
I should mention an alternative way of writing stories. Good old Bill Mowery was... coaching two of my friends, Lloyd Eric Reeve and George [Armin] Shaftel, introducing them into the pulp world. The three of us would gather at Lloyd’s apartment sometimes. Lloyd’s wife, Alice, poured tea and listened quietly while we pitched the virtues of the Mowery Method.
It became increasingly apparent that she was antagonistic to it. “It kills your creativity” she insisted. “Bill’s making automatons of you all!”
This was sacrilege. We argued with her — three against one.
We couldn’t budge her. “Bill’s way allows no expression of verve, spontaneity, freshness... No human warmth—”
“Yes, it does! All of that’s structured into the outline—”
“You can structure emotion?”
“Sure... sure... sure. Look at the record. We’re selling.”
But then Lloyd’s record became not so good. He ran into a spell where nothing was selling. He dropped in at my place one day, gloomy and discouraged. “I’ve got the promise of a job driving a truck,” he said. “I start tomorrow.”
But Lloyd’s truck driving career never wheeled out. In that afternoon’s mail he received two story checks.
And Alice?
Soon afterwards she sat down at the typewriter, and just out of her head and feelings — no outlining, no conscious striving — wrote a pleasant little story about some people with problems, and sold it to Good Housekeeping for $900. And she kept on doing this!
Alice’s story sold in 1934, which dates the end of this anecdote. Reeve’s writing career obviously started several years earlier, so Johnson must have compressed events in his memory.
Rivers, Vernon (“When China Jo Lost His Woman”): No information.
Stueber, William H. (“The Highway to Hell”): Stueber’s (known) career runs from 1929-36. He wrote gang fiction both for Hersey and Popular’s Gang World He also wrote western stories and appeared in the rare one-shot. Popular Engineering Stories. He was a member of the American Fiction Guild as of March 1, 1933.
Wood, Clement [1888–1950] (“Kid Dropper Plays It Alone”): Wood was born in Tuscaloosa, graduated from the University of Alabama in 1909, and received a postgraduate degree from Yale in 1911. He was best known as a poet, and wrote several books on the subject. His poetry was collected in 1936 in The Glory Road. He also dabbled in the pulps with the occasional short.
Wrigley, Chuck (“The ‘Eyes’ Have It”): No information.
Young, Dan (“The Singing Kid”): No information.
The Squealer
By Robert Kiswold
Gangster Stories, November 1929
A stool — an ironic detective — and between them a brutal avenging underworld to hold the scales of justice.
A wizened rat — a stool — a copper’s snark — a punk! All ugly words and every one at one time or another had been used to describe that most unlovely individual — Nosey Snedden.
For a long time now, the underworld had suspected him. Just give them a proper tip-off and, well, Nosey Snedden’s wagging tongue would be silenced forever with a splash of hot lead through his guts.
First there was Topsy; piquant, defiant little Topsy. Good kid, Tops. Playing the lookout on a safe-cracking job she was snitched by the police and railroaded. Something queer about that lay.
Then the Monk was run down coming out of a nocturnal visit to a Post Office. The Monk was plugged — plugged dead with .45’s.
Two or three other of the boys had mysteriously run into poison at the hands of the bulls. And Nosey Snedden, well, somehow he always came through with an unpunctured hide.
The underworld wondered; and fingers itched around the butts of heavy automatics.
Night. Nigger Mike’s — the joint where booze and bullets mixed. Nosey Snedden lifted the mug of beer to his dry lips. His hand trembled slightly and two dark brown splotches slopped onto the oily table at which he sat. He drained the beaker without pausing for breath and set it down again with a defiant bang.
“To hell with Cassidy,” he muttered to himself; but the clutching devils of fear in his heart belied his words.
He lifted his head toward the bar for a moment to order the whiskey that his system cried for, but hesitated halfway through the gesture. Booze was no good on a job like this. Better shaky nerves than a fuddled brain.
The swinging doors of the bar were suddenly filled with a bulky black figure. Nosey Snedden’s eyes straying in that direction reflected the fear that crept through his veins.
“The damn fool,” he muttered. “If he speaks to me I’ll kill him—”
Slowly the big shape in the doorway strode through the bar room. He surveyed the groups at the tables with an amused cynicism in his eyes.
The drinkers stared back at him, with lips set in grim red lines and hands conspicuously above the tables.
For Detective Sergeant Tim Cassidy was the quickest and most relentless rod that the Police force boasted.
The hand of Nosey Snedden tightened about the handle of his stein. Sweat congealed on the thick glass of the vessel as Cassidy continued his round of insolent scrutiny. For a fleeting second he paused before the table of Nosey Snedden.
Snedden inhaled quickly and kept the breath in his lungs for a full ten seconds. Slowly Cassidy raised his brows and indicated the door. Then suddenly he turned and walked out of the saloon.
Nosey Snedden’s breath blew from his bursting lungs and his hand relaxed on the glass. Hastily he looked around the room. Quizzical inquiring glances were cast in his direction. He smiled nervously and fought with the tremor in his throat.
“Beer, Joe,” he called loudly, masking his emotions in a bellowing roar. “Beer! Pronto!”
He drank but half the second glass. The empty sensation at the pit of his stomach had somehow killed his thirst.