American Posse drops on Monday!
American Posse is coming on Monday!
Pre-order yours now: books2read.com/AmericanPosse
A decades-old unsolved crime.
Wyatt Earp and his posse of American masterminds are on the hunt to solve the greatest art heist in US history. How did the renowned lawman of the Old West come to present-day Boston? What secrets does he keep? Who stole the Rembrandts and other priceless art in 81 minutes from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?
Chapter 1
“Ten million dollar reward!” Wyatt Earp slapped a December 2, 2022, edition of The Boston Globe on the lacquered bartop in front of him. A stack of paper napkins fluttered away from the sudden movement. He sat at the end of the bar on a rickety stool and patted his Colt .45, which was forever glued to his hip. Even when he slept, the piece was only an arm's reach away. His handsome face, outlined by a strong square jaw, was weathered but strong, just like him. Nearby, his black handsome full-brimmed gambler hat was hooked on a wall ready to be taken on its next adventure.
Wyatt called to his barkeep, “Eddie, get over here and take a look at this!”
“For the last time and forever the first time, it’s Edgar,” the bartender grumbled under his breath. He put away a clean highball glass, tossed the drying towel onto the counter, and ambled toward Wyatt.
“Think what we could do with that kind of money. That’s a lot of dinero.” Wyatt pointed to the newspaper headline.
“Perhaps hire more barkeeps,” Edgar muttered. He raked a hand through his wavy, dark hair. “Though I fancy the depths of solitude, it would be nice to have help now and then.”
“Oh, hobble your lip,” Wyatt said. “We’re plenty fine.”
Edgar huffed.
Wyatt’s Golden Dragon Tavern was nearly empty on a quiet Friday afternoon. An old-timer sucked down his gin at one of the back tables. A young black fella wearing a white button-down shirt and slim suspenders strummed at his guitar at the table near the front windows. At the far end of the bar, a man and a woman, who didn’t seem like they belonged together, finished up their last round of drinks. They nodded to Wyatt and left.
Ignoring Edgar, Wyatt read the subtitle, “Gardner Museum Extends $10 Million Reward for Information in Art Heist.”
“The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?” Edgar leaned toward Wyatt’s newspaper. “The museum south of Fenway? There are so many.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt replied. “It’s right off the Green Line.” He held the newspaper upright, inches from Edgar’s face, and tapped it with a finger. “Says 13 works valued at half a billion dollars were stolen in 1990 and never recovered. Half a billion dollars, Eddie!” Wyatt blew out a low whistle that a hound could hear a mile away.
Edgar rolled his eyes at Wyatt’s continued name butchering. They had worked together for a few years and Wyatt never called him Edgar. “What was stolen?”
“A few Rembrandts, a Manet… They spelled it wrong. Don’t they mean Monet?”
Edgar chuckled and offered Wyatt an arrogant grin. “Claude Mo-net painted water lilies. Edouard Ma-net painted modern life. Two different men.”
“Eh, well, one of ‘em oughta change their name,” Wyatt scoffed. “Too confusing.”
“What else was taken?” Edgar asked.
Wyatt scanned the article again. “Some Daygas prints, and a couple others I ain’t never heard of.”
“Do you mean Degas?” Edgar pronounced it Duh-gaa.
“There’s an s in there,” Wyatt countered. “Why in the hell would it be Duh-gaa?”
“Because Edgar Degas was French,” Edgar fired back, his gray eyes twinkling. “They don’t pronounce their s’s.”
“Some people think they’re so smart,” Wyatt muttered, knowing that Edgar had bested him. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. But he was okay with that. He studied the bottles of libations that filled shelves against the back mirror. He dreamed of increasing his inventory of Jack Daniels, Johnnie Walker, and Glenfiddich. He’d even splurge $200,000 on a rare bottle of Dalmore 62 whisky for a special occasion. “Just think what we could do with that $10 million reward. Buy a herd of horses. Get me some new guns. And bars of silver and gold.” The ideas tumbled over themselves in his mind. “I have a few debts I can pay off.”
Wyatt didn’t want to burden Edgar that the city inspector had come by a few days earlier with a condemned property notice. The roof constantly leaked like a dripping faucet. The plumbing needed to be replaced. All of the windows on the second floor let the frigid Boston winters blow through. A family of mice was on the verge of paying rent in the basement. Termites chewed through the wooden floors. Wyatt had 30 days to make the necessary repairs or he and Edgar were out on the street and the end of his vigilantism.
“It’s a lot of money.” Edgar leaned in curiosity against the wooden bar. “Who is paying for it?”
“Says the museum.” Wyatt squinted at the newspaper.
“The statute of limitations hasn’t run out?” Edgar asked.
“Nope.” Wyatt shook his head.
“I’ve never heard of a reward so high,” Edgar said. “Wonder why? Is the museum searching for new leads?”
Wyatt shrugged. “No idea. But I ain’t complaining.”
“We could use that kind of money.”
“Let’s do it.”
Pre-order yours now: books2read.com/AmericanPosse
A decades-old unsolved crime.
Wyatt Earp and his posse of American masterminds are on the hunt to solve the greatest art heist in US history. How did the renowned lawman of the Old West come to present-day Boston? What secrets does he keep? Who stole the Rembrandts and other priceless art in 81 minutes from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?
Chapter 1
“Ten million dollar reward!” Wyatt Earp slapped a December 2, 2022, edition of The Boston Globe on the lacquered bartop in front of him. A stack of paper napkins fluttered away from the sudden movement. He sat at the end of the bar on a rickety stool and patted his Colt .45, which was forever glued to his hip. Even when he slept, the piece was only an arm's reach away. His handsome face, outlined by a strong square jaw, was weathered but strong, just like him. Nearby, his black handsome full-brimmed gambler hat was hooked on a wall ready to be taken on its next adventure.
Wyatt called to his barkeep, “Eddie, get over here and take a look at this!”
“For the last time and forever the first time, it’s Edgar,” the bartender grumbled under his breath. He put away a clean highball glass, tossed the drying towel onto the counter, and ambled toward Wyatt.
“Think what we could do with that kind of money. That’s a lot of dinero.” Wyatt pointed to the newspaper headline.
“Perhaps hire more barkeeps,” Edgar muttered. He raked a hand through his wavy, dark hair. “Though I fancy the depths of solitude, it would be nice to have help now and then.”
“Oh, hobble your lip,” Wyatt said. “We’re plenty fine.”
Edgar huffed.
Wyatt’s Golden Dragon Tavern was nearly empty on a quiet Friday afternoon. An old-timer sucked down his gin at one of the back tables. A young black fella wearing a white button-down shirt and slim suspenders strummed at his guitar at the table near the front windows. At the far end of the bar, a man and a woman, who didn’t seem like they belonged together, finished up their last round of drinks. They nodded to Wyatt and left.
Ignoring Edgar, Wyatt read the subtitle, “Gardner Museum Extends $10 Million Reward for Information in Art Heist.”
“The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?” Edgar leaned toward Wyatt’s newspaper. “The museum south of Fenway? There are so many.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt replied. “It’s right off the Green Line.” He held the newspaper upright, inches from Edgar’s face, and tapped it with a finger. “Says 13 works valued at half a billion dollars were stolen in 1990 and never recovered. Half a billion dollars, Eddie!” Wyatt blew out a low whistle that a hound could hear a mile away.
Edgar rolled his eyes at Wyatt’s continued name butchering. They had worked together for a few years and Wyatt never called him Edgar. “What was stolen?”
“A few Rembrandts, a Manet… They spelled it wrong. Don’t they mean Monet?”
Edgar chuckled and offered Wyatt an arrogant grin. “Claude Mo-net painted water lilies. Edouard Ma-net painted modern life. Two different men.”
“Eh, well, one of ‘em oughta change their name,” Wyatt scoffed. “Too confusing.”
“What else was taken?” Edgar asked.
Wyatt scanned the article again. “Some Daygas prints, and a couple others I ain’t never heard of.”
“Do you mean Degas?” Edgar pronounced it Duh-gaa.
“There’s an s in there,” Wyatt countered. “Why in the hell would it be Duh-gaa?”
“Because Edgar Degas was French,” Edgar fired back, his gray eyes twinkling. “They don’t pronounce their s’s.”
“Some people think they’re so smart,” Wyatt muttered, knowing that Edgar had bested him. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. But he was okay with that. He studied the bottles of libations that filled shelves against the back mirror. He dreamed of increasing his inventory of Jack Daniels, Johnnie Walker, and Glenfiddich. He’d even splurge $200,000 on a rare bottle of Dalmore 62 whisky for a special occasion. “Just think what we could do with that $10 million reward. Buy a herd of horses. Get me some new guns. And bars of silver and gold.” The ideas tumbled over themselves in his mind. “I have a few debts I can pay off.”
Wyatt didn’t want to burden Edgar that the city inspector had come by a few days earlier with a condemned property notice. The roof constantly leaked like a dripping faucet. The plumbing needed to be replaced. All of the windows on the second floor let the frigid Boston winters blow through. A family of mice was on the verge of paying rent in the basement. Termites chewed through the wooden floors. Wyatt had 30 days to make the necessary repairs or he and Edgar were out on the street and the end of his vigilantism.
“It’s a lot of money.” Edgar leaned in curiosity against the wooden bar. “Who is paying for it?”
“Says the museum.” Wyatt squinted at the newspaper.
“The statute of limitations hasn’t run out?” Edgar asked.
“Nope.” Wyatt shook his head.
“I’ve never heard of a reward so high,” Edgar said. “Wonder why? Is the museum searching for new leads?”
Wyatt shrugged. “No idea. But I ain’t complaining.”
“We could use that kind of money.”
“Let’s do it.”
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