I have known a lot of journalists in my life. Most of them were good objective reporters, although there were a few bad apples in the barrel..
Jack Karie was one of the best.
He lived in Phoenix, AZ. with his wife and four daughters when I met him. I was an aspiring reporter without a job and Jack was assistant editor of the Evening American, a daily newspaper published by a Mormon Bishop named Evan Mecham who would later be elected governor of Arizona.
My younger brother Legs had rented a motel room on East Van Buren Street. Legs immediately found work as a house painter for a building contractor, but I was looking for work when I met Karie. He took my phone number and promised to give me a call if anything came up.
A week passed. On a Saturday morning around 6 a.m., the phone rang.
'Kid, you want to be a reporter?' said Karie. 'Get dressed. I' m going on a murder story. I'll pick you up in 10 minutes.'
I hurriedly dressed, gulped down a fast breakfast and was finishing my cup of coffee when a sharp knock sounded at the door. It was Karie. The engine on his white station wagon was running and I followed him to the car.
I was dressed in a suit, tie and low cut shoes. I had just bought the shoes at a department store. Karie was wearing jeans, a denim jacket and combat boots. He also had a .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster strapped beneath his jacket. When he looked me over, he just shook his head and said not a word.
As we roared into traffic, I said, 'Where are we going?'
He kept his eyes glued on the road as we weaved in and out of traffic. 'Superstition Mountains,' he said.
We drove the 30 miles to Apache Junction, turned off on a side road, and drove until the rugged Superstition Mountains looked ahead. A Maricopa County Sherffis' patrol car was parked by the side of the road. Karie took a flask of vodka out of the glove compartment, stuffed it into a pocket, and we joined two smiling sheriff's deputies.
'Morning, Jack,' one of the deputies said, smiling. 'Who's that you got with you?'
'A greenhorn,' Jack said. 'Where's the body?'
The deputy pointed toward the rugged mountain range. 'Somewhere up there. He worked for a company that's taking gold out of these hills. Somebody shot him between the eyes. Must have been a good shot.'
Jack gave me his Graphlex camera to carry. He gave ech of the deputies a swig from the bottle of vodka and offered it to me.
'No thanks,' I mumbled. Jack shrugged, took a drink and stuffed the bottle back to his jacket.
We headed into the mountains and began walking.
And walking.
And walking.
I wore out my new pair of shoes and actually lost a heel on a rock. I snagged my suit jacket on a saguaro cactus plant. Somewhere along the trail I threw away my tie.
We kept walking.
About 4 p.m. we found the body. His name was Ed Piper and he was lying across the trail with a big bullet hole between his sightless eyes.
Jack took notes and the deputies did their work. I wondered what we what we would do next. Karie had the answer.
'We wait for a helicopter to pick up the body,' he said.
The helicopter didn't arrive until morning. All that night surrounded by the faraway barks of coyotes and animals stalking through the brush we waited by the side of the trail. I didn't get back to my motel room until noon.
As he left me off at my door, Karie smiled. 'You'll do, Kid,' he said. 'You'll be hearing from me.'
A week later the phone rang. It was Karie. He told me to come to work Monday morning. I had been hired as a reporter.
Karie was a poker player, a drinker and a friend of Del Webb who owned two casinos in Las Vegas and who would later build and develop the retirement community of Sun City.
He was a fearless reporter. There was a labor problem involving the Chinese owner of a Phoenix supermarket. The Teamsters Union was making it difficult for the owner to do business. One day after work, Karie said he had to buy some groceries. He took me with him to the supermarket.
When we arrived, half a dozen burly Teamsters were already in the market. They casually walked between the aisles knocking down canned goods and other groceries from the shelves.
Karie approached the biggest of the men and said, 'Stop doing that. It's childish.'
The man feigned surprise. 'Me? I didn't do anything. The groceries must have fallen by themselves. They probably weren't stacked properly.' The other Teamsters roared with laughter.
Karie gave him a steely look. 'You knocked them over deliberately,' he said.
One of the other Teamsters, a short man, said, 'Just who in the hell are you?'
Karie met his stare. 'I'm Karie of the Evening American and this story is going to be on page one of my newspaper tomorrow morning,' he said.
The story appeared. A week later the labor issue was settled. Jack and I remained friends for the rest of his life.
I was never reimbursed for my pair of shoes.
Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.
(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter and poker player who lives in Phoenx, AZ. He has published 2,000 articles in 50 magazines and 125 newspapers. If you want to share a gambling story or book idea with him, send an email to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).
