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THE CLOSEST I ever got to the late, great Neal Russo was the clucking end of a rubber chicken. Russo sold me the chicken late one night when I was working the graveyard shift.
Among other things, Russo was the CEO, VP of sales and pitchman for his own ambulatory carnival supply company, NR Products. Corporate motto: "If it doesn't say NR, you paid too much." The rubber chicken, needless to say, was a steal.
Many, if not most of us at the Post-Dispatch, knew we could turn to Russo for such essential items as chattering teeth, "Brock-a-brellas," Cardinal windbreakers, fireworks (in and out of season), tops that glowed in the dark and hummed like flying saucers, lighters, key chains, candy, baseball caps, etc.
What inventory wouldn't fit into a cardboard box or the bulging pockets of his windbreaker, Russo stored in the trunk of one of a succession of beat-up cars. The rest he kept piled in one of the rooms of his shotgun house on the Hill.
Long after he retired from the Post-Dispatch in 1990 after 43 years as a colorful and talented sportswriter and editor, Russo continued to haunt the newsroom like a blend of Banquo's ghost, Columbo and Oscar the...