The Brute!


June 26, 1907
Los Angeles

Fred D. Samuels is a monster and nothing less, according to his aunt, Sister Kostka, assistant mother superior of the Ursuline Convent in Frontenac, Wis. As her mother, Maria S. Bowman, lay dying at her home, 1266 E. Adams, Samuels refused to let Sister Kostka (nee Minnie Bowman) see her.

In fact, Kostka charged, Samuels refused to let a Catholic priest visit Mrs. Bowman and refused to grant her a Catholic funeral. Instead, Bowman received two services, one at St. Patrick

The Mysterious Ms. Pulva

June 23, 1907
Los Angeles

 

pulvaheadlineWhat can one say about pretty young Eva Pulva?  She lived in a lonely cottage on West Fifty-Fourth, and though her mother and sister lived on East Fifty-Seventh, she told people she had no kin.  Her gentleman friends knew little of her.  The police knew her best of all—watching as she, a ward of the probation department, came to the verge of trouble via men of low character.  But she’d secured her nice little cottage, and things seemed to be going well…

…until she shaved her head and disappeared.  The cops looked for her to offer her protection from whatever trouble she was in, but didn’t find her until she had a self-inflicted bullet in her chest.

Her note read “Dearest Sister:  You will find my trunk at 2739 Budlong avenue.  Please don’t tell the lady you are a relative of mine.  I told her I had no relation.  So let me go knowing that one person on your Sunny Earth don’t think me a liar.  I am sorry I don’t leave espense money but (I belong to a gang that have my money) and when they hear I am goine most likely you will get it.  Don’t tell mother.  I wrote anything.  Put me anywhere sister.  I do don’t care where.  I know you understand and my dear I am no good here…I am a coward to live but not a coward to die.”
 

Banker Busted!

June 22, 1907
Los Angeles

John Smith Cravens. Pasadena pioneer. Influential LA banker. Director of Security First National Bank. Founder and Director of Southern California Edison. Instrumental in founding Torrance with his buddies in Dominquez Land Co.; also deep into the Los Angeles Extension Co., Chino Land and Water, and American Conduit. Trustee of the California Institute of Technology and Barlow Sanitarium. Known for the 14-acre estate he owned at 1101 South Orange Grove (“Millionaire’s Row”) in Pasadena. Belonged to all the best clubs. You get the idea.

Not mentioned in any of the many recountings of J. S. Cravens’ greatness is his badass lead foot and disdain for the coppers. True since time immemorial, the fact stands that landed gentry get to do what they want: according to news reports, Cravens was taking an airing in his “high-power machine” Friday morning, June 21. He caught sight of the auto guards and blew by them like a comet. The Motorcyclized Auto Squad of Pasadena gave chase, and Cravens threw his beast into overdrive, leading the bulls on crazy chase for many blocks down Pasadena Avenue.

Some have said that Cravens’ recent Black Hand threats–yes, the blackmail-prone Camorra had reached Los Angeles in 1907–have left him justifiably untrustworthy of any and all authority figures.

That notwithstanding, the officers overtook Cravens and arrested him, hauling him into court today and extracting the $15 fine.

Visitation of the Rambler

June 19, 1907
Los Angeles

John Sheres has graced Los Angeles with his presence. The professional adventurer, or, as he self-describes, “chronic loafer,” boasts that he has never done a month’s of real work in his life. Sheres says he has been a wanderer ever since he was able to walk, and as such was promptly arrested and given a short jail term on his arrival in our Fair City.

Town to town, jail to jail, Sheres wanders, or “beats;” he was beating his way to San Francisco looking to jump some vessel bound for New York. He is hoping to reach England, from where he intends to finagle passage to South Africa or India.

Released to-day from our local gaol, the itch to move is upon him, and so we shall bid farewell to Mr. Sheres. We wish him a fulfilling life of beating, unburdened by the terrible specter of work. He states he expects to die a professional tramp.