A Mobster's Hallowe'en

[Veritas]

Author's note: Of all the characters I've created on this forum, former mobster Danny "Springs" Springer proved to be one of the most popular. He is a representative of Las Vegas' golden era, when the casinos were run by the mob. Vice was a lucrative business: extortion was standard business practice, bribery was considered "insurance" against reprisal or prosecution from the law, and bullets were the most effective means of eliminating the competition--or silencing those who would "squeal" to the authorities. A gangster like Springs would have seen the darker side of Sin City in its heyday, and remembered the legends associated with that era.

This Hallowe'en, I have made Springs the master of ceremonies for a trilogy of terror tales: two of my own creation, the third a poem I found in a graphic novel. So, fix yourself a Manhattan, dim the lights, sit back, and enjoy:
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Prologue:

Hallowe'en in Las Vegas has always been a gaudy, glitzy, ghoulish affair with lavish costume parties and elaboratly staged live horror shows. Costumed revelers parade up and down the Strip, mugging and preening before the camera, either on their way to a party or just leaving one.

This year was no exception: There were vampires galore that year (thanks to the popularity of the Twilight series) as well as the usual ghosts, witches, Frankenstein monsters, UFO aliens, glammed-out drag queens and showgirls. Many of the women's costumes were so revealing they gave the phrase "trick or treat" a whole different meaning.

As usual, the nightclubs and bars competed to host the biggest and best Hallowe'en party. The newest club, Liquidity, was no exception. They did, however, boast one advantage: its owner was none other than Criss Angel, the hottest magician in Vegas, if not the world. His live show, Believe, was a major hit; the Hallowe'en show alone sold out last July in less than thirty minutes, a box office record. Those who couldn't get tickets settled for attending the aftershow party in Liquidity, just to catch a glimpse of the MindFreak himself--assuming, of course, they could get through the door.

It was eleven PM on Hallowe'en night, early by Vegas standards. The evening show was over, and the aftershow party was in full swing. The music thundered from the loudspeakers, the soundwaves pummeling the walls and bouncing back again. The liquor flowed freely, as did the dancers on the dance floor, the flickering strobe lights above giving the effect of a silent movie film. If not for the masks and costumes, it would have been just another night out at the club.

This was the scene in which former Glitter Gulch Guy, Danny "Springs" Springer, made his appearance, his date for the evening, Dimitra Sarnatakos, who happened to be Criss Angel's mother, on his arm. Both were dressed in the fashion of the Twenties: Springs in a double-breasted black suit and fedora with a gold watch chain dangling from the vest pocket, Dimitra in a long tailored flat-looking gown with an equally long string of pearls around her neck, her black hair bound up with a feathered headband. Though seemingly out of place among the younger crowd, they moved comfortably among them.

Dimitra showed off her famous son's new club with the pride only a mother could possess. "So, what do you think, Danny?" she asked, beaming as brightly as the sun as they stood by the bar.

Springs sipped his Manhattan. "Booze is good," he commented, "but I'd prefer Tommy Dorsey to whatever's playin' right now. Where's yer son, Criss, anyway?"

Dimitra looked around and spotted a small knot of costumed figures (mostly female) in a far corner of the room. "He's over there," she told him, pointing to the group.

Springs glanced at where her finger directed. "You sure?"

"Oh, yes," Dimitra confirmed positively. "Where there are women, there is Christopher."

Springs laughed at Didi's instinct. The elderly couple threaded their way to the corner, stopping occasionally for an enthusiastic Loyal who wanted to say hello and happy Hallowe'en to Mama Angel. One lovely young girl dressed as a French maid who remembered Springs from an episode of MindFreak asked him what he himself thought of Criss.

"Good magician," Springs replied flatly, "lousy dresser."

The girl left, giggling all the way. Springs and Dimitra made it to the corner where, sure enough, Criss was entertaining the group gathered around a small bar table with a deck of cards. They had missed the trick itself, though by the reaction of the group, it had been amazing. "Did we miss anything?" Springs said nonchalantly.

Criss looked up. "Mom!" he cried out happily, reaching out to embrace her. The group respectfully withdrew, deferring to Mother Dimitra for the moment. "Hey, happy Hallowe'en!" He examined her costume. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "You look great!"

"Thank you," Dimitra replied. "You remember Danny, don't you?"

"Course I do." Criss reached over and shook Springs' hand. "Good to see you again, Springs. Happy Hallowe'en!"

"Same to you," Springs returned. "Quite a joint you got here. Pretty damn noisy, though."

Criss laughed. Springs suddenly became indignant. "What, you ain't gonna offer us a seat?" he chided. "Whatsa matter with you? Ain't your ma here taught you some manners?"

Chastened, Criss directed Springs and his mother to a large semi-circular booth and offered them to sit. Satisfied, the elderly couple slid over to the back of the booth. Criss slid next to his mother. The rest of the group sidled in as best they could, or found chairs from other tables to sit on the other side. Springs looked around the table. "Quite a little party we got here," he commented. "Who's buyin'?"

Criss flagged down a waitress passing by to take drink orders. He ordered a Martini, while his mother asked for a beer. The guests went for more exotic fare, such as Fuzzy Navels or Sex-On-The-Beach ("And hold the beach!" one quipped laciviously, obviously forgetting the presence of Criss' mother). Springs, of course, ordered another Manhattan.

After the waitress left with her stack of drink orders, Criss turned to Springs and Dimitra. "So, what brings you here?" he asked casually.

"Your ma wanted me to see yer new nightclub," Springs explained. "Since it was Hallowe'en, we decided what the eff, let's dress up, have some fun! Beats hell out of stayin' home doin' crossword puzzles, that's for sure."

"You look lovely tonight, Dimitra," a woman dressed as a female vampire complimented. "Really you do."

"Thank you, dear," Dimitra replied graciously.

A young man in Johnny Depp-style pirate garb turned to Springs. "Is it true you're a former mobster?" he blurted out eagerly.

All eyes fell on the pirate for his indiscretion. "Please," Springs said primly. "I prefer the term 'retired businessman'." He shrugged a little. "Maybe it wasn't the most legitimate business to be in at the time," he conceded, "but I did well for myself, as you can see."

"I saw you on Criss' show," a perky little Dorothy figure in blue gingham piped up. "And I found your book at the bookstore, so I bought a copy and read it. If I had known you were gonna be here, I would have bought it with me for you to sign it."

Springs smiled indulgently. "Your a good kid," he said.

"You've must've seen a lot of changes since then," Dorothy commented.

"Damn right I have," Springs replied. "Hell, I can tell you stories that're scarier than anything you'll hear on Hallowe'en!"

He leaned closer, drawing in the others in a tighter circle. "Y'know," he spoke conspiratorially, "Vegas...is haunted!"

"Haunted?" they all echoed.

"Oh, yeah," Springs nodded. "And that's not all. I've heard stories from guys in the Syndicate who had...whaddya call it?...paranormal experiences. They kept it to themselves, of course--they didn't want to be packed off to the bughouse ward, if you know what I mean. But I heard 'em, and I remember 'em to this day. Wanna hear?"

Everyone nodded enthusiastically. "Okay," Springs said. "Gimme some time to dust the cobwebs outta the attic, here, and I'll tell ya one."

(to be continued...)

[Veritas]

Springs rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he collected his thoughts. "Well, I remember back in the Forties, early Fifties, there was this shyster named Maurice...uh, had this Dutch name--Hiddenbock, I think it was. But, anyway, he was known as Moe the Gyp. This guy was a real pro when it came to scammin' and swindlin'--hell, he'd gyp you outta yer eyeteeth as soon as he met ya! He'd done everything from three-card monte to tax evasion, just to get some easy cash in his pocket. The Syndicate didn't like him much, but when it came to setting up rackets, he was the guy they called in--but they made damn sure Moe didn't gyp them while he was at it."

The waitress arrived with the drinks. Springs picked up his Manhattan and sipped it. "That's a damn good Manhattan," he said. "Luxor always seems to have the best Manhattans. I dunno why."

He set down his glass. "Now where was I?" he wondered.

"You were talking about Moe the Gyp," Criss reminded him.

Springs brightened. "Oh, yeah, that's right! Well, anyway, Moe, it turned out, cheated everybody, even Bugsy Siegel--and nobody cheated Bugs for nothin' and lived to tell about it."

"How'd he do that?" Dorothy asked.

"Well, it had to do with the construction of the Flamingo," Springs replied. "Moe was in on this little racket with the construction crew. I ain't too clear on the details, but the gist of it was that Bugs kept purchasing the same materials over and over again because the guys in charge of buildin' the hotel kept tellin' him they needed more stuff, or the stuff wasn't good enough, or somethin'. Anything to keep the money flowin' in. That's why there were so many cost overrruns with the Flamingo. And remember, it was the Syndicate's money that was being invested into the hotel in the first place. Bugs was a top hitter, but he was a lousy businessman, and he ended up costing the Syndicate a helluva lotta dough. For Bugs, that was bad.

"In the end, Bugsy got whacked in his hotel room--you might've read about it in my book. Moe, however, was the real culprit, and he made out like a bandit with the Flamingo scam--literally! Like I said, Moe gypped everyone, but I remember when Moe the Gyp cheated death itself.

"One day, word got out that Moe the Gyp had a contract out on his life. I ain't too clear on why, but knowin' Moe the way I did, I figured one of his rackets blew up in his face and now he was in over his head. Coulda been a race he fixed that didn't work the way he planned, or a boxer he paid to take a dive but didn't--that happened a lot back then. But anyway, Moe was a marked man, and there was a hitter out to get him. Don't ask me who it was--I know it wasn't Bugsy because he was already dead by then. It don't pay to get too cozy with hit men, 'cause you might be their next target.

"Anyway, Moe was holed up in some cheap roadside motel somewhere outside of Vegas. The hitter had cased him out, found out where his room was, then took out a tommy gun and emptied it right through the window of the room where Moe was stayin'. Moe got shot up pretty bad, and we all assumed he met his Maker. We pretty much forgot about him after that.

"Six months later, there was another hit, against the Syndicate itself. Another hitter came in and fired a few rounds into the guy who whacked Moe the Gyp, and a couple of Lansky's goons, so you can guess who put out the contract on him. The cops who came to investigate the scene found the hitter still alive, but barely. Cops bein' who they are, asked him if he knew who did it. The hitter looked up at the cop with his eyes buggin' out like he'd seen the devil himself, and he says, 'Moe! It was Moe the Gyp! He's alive! The son of a (bleep) is alive!'. Turned out Moe pulled through, even though he got shot up worse than Lucky Luciano did, and that was back in the Twenties. Pulled through and came back for revenge. Never figured Moe to be a killer, though. Not that he didn't have any reason to.

"Well, word got out that Moe the Gyp was still kickin'. I heard it from Blusey. Old Bluse never pulled one over me, but I hadda admit, this was unbelievable. I mean, that hitter filled that motel room fulla lead--anyone there woulda been Swiss cheese! Not Moe the Gyp, though--he pulled one on the Grim Reaper and came back for revenge. Pretty amazing, huh?

"Anyway, time goes on, it's the Fifties, and I'm walkin' down the street past City Hall--the old City Hall, not the new one they got today--and who do I see walkin' up the steps of City Hall but Moe the Gyp. He looks at me, smiles, tips his hat to me, and goes inside. Well, I'm curious, so I follow him. I go up the steps, but he's gone, vanished, just like that." Springs pointed to Criss. "Like to see you top that, Angel," he challenged.

Criss smiled defiantly. "Maybe I will," he retorted.

"Anyway," Springs continued. "I'm wonderin' what the hell Moe was doin' in City Hall? Well, coulda been anything, ya know: marriage license, traffic ticket, who knows? But, hell, that was his business, not mine, I figured, so I go on my way. I met up with Blusey to go over some, uh, financial information he had for me, and I tell him I saw Moe the Gyp goin' up the steps of City Hall.

"Well, Blusey turns white as a sheet! 'What's wrong with you?' I ask. Then Blusey tells me that Moe the Gyp had been murdered just last night--bullet in the back of the head, right behind the Silver Slipper. I said 'Wait a minute, there, Blusey! I just saw him at City Hall! He can't be dead!' Well, Blusey tells me if that's true, then who was the stiff they found behind the Silver Slipper? Well, damned if I know, I tell him, but it couldn't have been Moe the Gyp. Bluesy insists it was, and he swore up and down that Moe had gotten whacked behind the Silver Slipper last night. I swore up and down I saw him at City Hall barely half an hour ago.

"Then I read in the paper next day about the murder, and sure enough, the stiff they found really was Moe the Gyp. He'd been whacked gangland style--bullet to the back of the head. To this day, I still believe I saw Moe at City Hall. If it wasn't him, then he must've had a twin brother, because it was the spittin' image of him." Springs laughed a little. "I dunno if it was a ghost or what, but somehow it seems fittin' for Moe to pull one last scam before he died."

Springs looked around at his audience. "I swear by all that's holy, it's true!" he insisted. "Either Moe gypped death again, or he came back as a ghost." He sighed and took another sip of his Manhattan. "Guess we'll never know," he said.

[Veritas]

Criss stared bug-eyed at Springs. "Whoa!" he exclaimed. "That was awesome!"

The rest of the party agreed. "You know any more stories like that, Mr. Springs?" the Johnny-Depp pirate begged eagerly.

"Oh, yeah," Springs replied, draining the last of his Manhattan. "I gotta million of 'em! But there's one in particular that stands out in my mind that'll really scare the pants off ya."

"Okay, let's hear it!" Criss demanded.

Springs set down his glass and leaned back. "This one took place back in the Thirties, when Vegas was just a local watering hole for the men working on the Boulder Dam project during the Depression. Even then gambling was legal, and they just passed Repeal so there was plenty of boozin' goin' on, too.

"Repeal?" Dorothy repeated, puzzled.

"Yeah, repeal," Springs said. "You know, Prohibition? Eighteenth Amendment? Whatsa matter, ain't you studied history in school?"

"The Eighteenth Amendment prohibited the sale and distribution of alcohol," Criss explained to Dorothy. "The Twenty-sixth Amendment repealed it."

Suddenly, Dorothy understood. "Oh! Okay, I get it now. Sorry."

"Well, anyway," Springs continued, "back in the Thirties, Vegas was pretty much still the Wild West, though it had a few amenities, like saloons, dance halls, casinos--just back room joints, not like the ones they got today. And brothels, lots of brothels. They said a guy could blow his wages for the week in one night on booze, blackjack and (bleep)jobs."

Springs suddenly remembered who was sitting next to him and turned apologetically to Dimitra. "Pardon the French, Didi," he said regretfully, "but that was how they talked back then."

"It's all right, Danny," Dimitra replied, suppressing her indignation. "Just go on with your story."

"Anyway, here's the story," Springs went on. "Even though the Syndicate hadn't even heard of Las Vegas back then--they pretty much concentrated on Chicago or New York--there were a few guys on the take when it came to the gambling there. Chump change compared to what came later, but where's there's gambling, there's gonna be some racketeering of some sort. And there was this guy named Eddie Creed, big bruiser of a guy, who owned a saloon with gambling in the back. It was mostly craps and poker, but he had one of the first blackjack tables in Vegas. Twenty-one, they called it back them. Lotta guys credit him for making it popular there.

"Well, Eddie was as shrewd as they came. Not like Bugsy Siegel, who was a better hitter than businessman. He was dealer, pit boss, cashier and bouncer all in one. He could skim profits like the best of 'em; did pretty well for himself, considering it was the Depression and all. He also had a wife, gorgeous brunette named Nancy. And lemme tell ya, Eddie was one jealous son of a (bleep) when it came to Nancy. A guy could get his nose broken if he so much as looked at her.

"Well, one day this guy who just started work on the dam project came into Eddie's saloon for a night of...what I just said earlier, and somehow or other, he and Nancy met without Eddie knowin' about it. Don't know how they pulled it off, but they ended up havin' an affair behind Eddie's back. Every Saturday night when Eddie was workin' the tables, Nancy and her new squeeze would slip away and pitch a little woo, if you know what I mean."

Everyone nodded in understanding. "Woo-woo," Criss quipped.

"Of course, they couldn't get away with it forever, you know," Springs pointed out. "Can't say for sure, but somebody somewhere squealed to Eddie that his wife was foolin' around behind his back. Needless to say, Eddie wasn't too happy about that, so he kept a keen eye on Nancy for a while, and sure enough, he discovered their little Saturday night affair.

"Now, you'd think Eddie woulda flown off the handle right then and there, right? Well, like I said, Eddie was shrewd, and he was gonna teach Wifey a lesson she'd never forget--no matter how hard she'd try.

"One Saturday night, Eddie leaves the saloon and goes to where his wife and her lover were trysting, which was up in a loft above the garage--it used to be a stable, but Eddie converted it into a garage--and he goes up into the loft and finds them sound asleep on some canvas sacks and old horse blankets.

"Eddie goes to work on the guy who did his wife without waking her up. Then he left just as quiet as a mouse. Sunday morning comes, Nancy wakes up, turns over and sees her lover beside her--with a eight-inch gash across his throat." Springs drew his finger across his neck for emphasis. "There he was. just lying there, covered in blood from the neck down, his eyes buggin' open and his tongue stickin' out all blue like that. Nancy screamed like a banshee, made a dash for it, but she fell off the loft, broke her neck and died right there.

"And Eddie? Well, he claimed justifiable homicide when the authorities came knockin'; the wife's death was suicide, he told 'em. Well, the sheriff didn't buy it, and Eddie was hanged for murder.

"When Bugsy Siegel came to build the Flamingo, someone told him that story, and he just laughed and said 'Served her right.' But I'll let ya in on a little secret--the Flamingo, the original Flamingo, was built on the very site where Eddie Creed had his saloon. And not too far from it was the garage where Nancy was havin' a fling with her lover. Think about that, huh?"

[Veritas]

Criss shook his head in disbelief. "Now I'm really creeped!" he exclaimed.

"So, did Nancy or her lover come back as ghosts or something?" Dorothy asked.

"Can't say for sure, sweetheart," Springs replied. "But it was bad luck for Bugs, that's for sure. Oh, sure, there were stories of Siegel's ghost wanderin' around the Flamingo or the hotel where he got shot, but I don't give 'em two cents' worth." He laughed ruefully. "Pretty much everyone I knew back then are ghosts now, more or less."

"Besides Moe the Gyp," a zombie painted young man spoke up, "have you ever seen any more ghosts from the past?"

Springs stirred the swizzle stick in the watery remains of his drink, contemplating his answer. "Only in my nightmares," he replied ruefully. "Only in my nightmares. They may be dead and gone today, but up here--" he tapped his head "--they live on. And even when I'm six feet under, they'll still live on. That's why I wrote my book when I did, while I still had all my marbles: so that I'll live on with 'em."

"Old gangsters never die," Dorothy spoke up.

Everyone looked at her, bemused at her statement. Springs, however, realized the meaning of the phrase. "You really did read my book," he said.

There was an awkward silence, then there was a loud tolling of a heavy iron bell striking midnight. "It's the witching hour, folks!" the deejay announced menacingly. "The ghosts and ghouls and goblins are comin' to getcha! Mwahahahahahaha!"

Springs looked at his watch. "Well, I think it's time I'd better be heading on back home before Sharon calls the morgue to see if I'm there," he joked. "Nice meeting you all."

The party around the table slid out to allow Springs and Dimitra out. Criss kissed his mother good-bye and shook Springs' hand. "Thanks for the entertainment," he said. "But what did that girl mean when she said 'old gangsters never die'?"

"It's a poem I put in my book," Springs explained. "Read it sometime."

The elderly couple bid the party good-bye and headed out of the club. "Would you like to stay in my suite tonight?" Dimitra suggested.

Springs was taken aback at such a request. "Why, Didi! I never took you for that kind of woman!"

"I meant because you had too much to drink tonight," Dimitra retorted indignantly, "and I don't want you driving after having all those Manhattans!"

"I know, I know," Springs laughed. "Anyway, I can get Sharon to pick me up." He gave her a peck on the forehead. "You go on to bed; I'll be all right."

Dimitra smiled. "All right, Danny. Good night."

The two parted ways, Springs to the main entrance, Dimitra to her suite. Once upstairs, she took off her costume, pulled on her nightgown and climbed into bed. On the nightstand beside her was a copy of Springs' book, The Guys of Glitter Gulch. She recalled that he had mentioned a poem in it, so she picked up the book and found it in the introduction:

Old Gangsters Never Die:

Old gangsters never die
Heh
Except the few that pass away
In the cinemas at midnight

Lay there sprawling in the footlights
For the usherette or the ice cream girl to find.

And if I die
God knows I might
Don't let me die in black and white

Don't let me share a haunted screen
With every other ghostboy
who stood trembling in the foyer sipping wine
Then coughed, and shot his cuffs,
And checked the time
And stepped outside and got cut down
By dead policemen, faces strobing in the panic light
Their long dark cars parked out the back
Their haloes black against the night.

And John Dillenger's name in finest bulletsilver
Etched upon their hearts
A cold tattoo upon their skin
Right next to where the badge is pinned.

I could die carefully, at dusk,
'cause buddy, I once owned a pair of diamond collar studs
And as I live and breathe I swear that that's no lie
And men like me deserve to cash their chips
More elegant than those without a shirt upon their back,
Or shine upon their dancing shoes!

Like drowning

Do you know so many hoods and hitmen
Got sent down to tread the river bed for all eternity
That now they look like statues in some cold submerged art gallery
And I would gladly kiss the hand of any man
Who'd bind my wrists and send me down
To be in such good company!

Or playing poker
Being dealt the Ace of Flames,
You stand
And whispering once your mother's name
Pitch headlong dead across the roulette table
Bulletholes pinned like armistice poppies
In neat rows across your back

Dutch Schultz
Capone
Why men like that had hellstars in their eyes
And when they walked in groups of more than three
They musta looked like grounded constellations
Torn down from a B-movie sky.
Old gangsters never die.

Heh, heh, say
Wouldn't it be nice to fall asleep forever
In some old speakeasy in the 1920s
Where they never pulled aside the blind
And looked outside to find that fifty years had washed away the legends
And the zoot suits and the bloodstains
Like a dead rose someone left with the hatcheck girl
Then drove off into old Chicago
Windows wound and radio turned down
To keep their holstered shoulders cold and dry
Old gangsters never die.

Hey! Hey, John
I got tickets for the show here,
In my very hand.

Enjoy the show
And when you kiss that girl goodnight,
There in her red dress streaming,
Do it carefully
Good burgundy upon the tongue,
For she will kill you, John
And one must always kiss one's killer
Ain't that so?

Hey, Ma!
They shot your boys out there
And as I live and breathe I never saw a pair
Who fell so sweet to hear the final poetry of cordite in the air
Or turned their faces up like so,
Receiving death as if it were a mother's kiss
Or something black and rare.

Hey, fellas, is it cold there in that movie house tonight?
C'monnnn
Let's pass out that Jack Daniels
And we'll talk about old murders, double crosses and dead blondes
And say "Here's looking at'cha! Here's mud in your eye!"

Old ghosts sit in the backroom.
Old bodies don't tell stories.
Old dreams wear dusty clothing.
Old gangsters never die.

(Alan Moore, 1983)

Dimitra closed the book. It seemed sadly ironic to her that such a sweet, kind, wonderful man like Danny Springer had such a violent past. He could talk about murder and other criminal activities the way other people talked about their jobs or families. The man she knew and the man she read about in the book were like two different people: one a perfect gentleman, the other a gangster. Could she ever reconcile the two?

She set the book aside, turned out the light and lay back on the pillow. Lord, she prayed, thank You for this day--and night. Bless my sons, JD, Costa, and Christopher. Bless them and keep them safe--especially Christopher. Bless Danny Springer, and forgive him of his past crimes. Amen.

With a deep sigh, Dimtra settled down to sleep.



Meanwhile, Danny Springer stood outside the Luxor, speaking to his housekeeper, Sharon, on his cellphone. "Yeah, the Luxor," he shouted over the traffic noise. "Main entrance. See ya soon. 'Bye."

He shoved the phone in his pocket and waited for his ride. Around him, costumed figures roamed the Strip, mugging and preening for the camera, either looking for a party or returning from one. Springs smiled indulgently. Let 'em have their fun, he said to himself. That's what Hallowee'en's all about, right?

He saw approaching headlights coming up the drive. Might be Sharon, he figured. Stepping back from the curb, he waited patiently for the car to come to a stop in front of him. Sure enough, it was Sharon in the Mercedes. Springs climbed into the passenger side and closed the door. "Let's go," he said.

Sharon drove away from the hotel. "How was the party with Mrs. Sarantakos?" she asked.

"Good," Springs nodded. "That new club of Criss' is one hoppin' joint. Don't care for the music, though."

They drove on past City Hall. Springs idly looked out the window. The area was practically deserted except for a lone figure in a double-breasted suit and fedora making its way up the steps, pausing only to tip his hat at him, then disappearing.

Springs did a double take, then shook his head. Sharon turned to him. "Something wrong, Mr. Springer?" she asked.

"Hm?" Springs grunted. "Oh, nothing, nothing. Just thought I saw...someone I knew, that's all."


(Happy Hallowe'en!)

[RACHEL02189]

that is a good story you should bring Springs back one more time