The Sporting House Killing

by G. Reading Powell

  No telling how much later, something woke him up. He shot straight up. It sounded like it was from the house. Was that a lady hollering?

  “No, stop!” a lady screamed from the house. “Get out!”

  The room upstairs was still dark. That was where the scream come from. He jumped up. The commotion scaryfied him, and he took off running up Washington.

  He never looked back, just run as fast as he could, and got to the dorm before long. Out of breath, he crawled through the window and jumped into his bed, still in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.

  He shut his eyes tight.

  “Lord, this is Jasper Cantrell of Fayette County, Texas. I sure hope you’ll forgive me. I didn’t mean to do no sinning, especially on a Sunday, and I’m awful sorry for it. But mostly, Lord, please make sure my friend ain’t in no trouble. He’s Cicero Sweet of Washington County, Texas. We’s roommates at Baylor University in Waco, Texas, in America, and I’m sorry as I can be I run off and left him in a whorehouse. Amen.”

  Chapter 2

  If there was a finer Monday to conduct the practice of law, Catfish couldn’t imagine it. In fact, this was a superlative day to wrap up the last murder case he’d ever have to defend. Judge Goodrich had finally promised to stop appointing him to defend alleged killers. This afternoon, after pleading Willie Bond to manslaughter in the Nineteenth District Court and passing Noah Griffin’s horse-stealing case in the Fifty-Fourth, it would be a very fine day for savoring a White Owl cigar by the soft glow of his reading lamp at home.

  Across the work table in the center of the office, Harley flipped a page in a treatise on encumbrances. It was a fine day to watch his son slowly season into professional manhood, as he himself had done thirty years earlier; to study his face, to see there the precious similarities with two others, to remember when the four were together. Such a fine day for remembrance.

  In the front room, young Miss Peach was finishing up the papers for filing. Catfish couldn’t abide the incessant, mind-numbing clatter of her confounded typewriting contraption, but she and Harley had insisted on getting one. It was a fine day to escape the modern law office, too.

  He stood, and every joint cried out in protest against disturbing the status quo ante. He never used the walking stick Harley had given him. Canes were for peacocks and decrepit old men.

  “I’m going next door.”

  Harley nodded and continued reading.

  “Colonel Terry,” he commanded the hound at his feet, “get.”

  The hound bounded past Miss Peach drumming away at the confounded clicking contraption.

  Catfish passed in a more leisurely fashion. “Going next door.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was a fine spring day.

  Mrs. Goodhue, with a garden of daisies shooting from her straw hat, advanced up the sidewalk carrying some parcels.

  Wonder what bee was in her bonnet today?

  “How do, ma’am.”

  She exhibited no mirth at the day. “Mr. Calloway.”

  He and the colonel headed for the Old Corner Drug. They took their usual spot at the soda fountain.

  The soda jerk, a winsome young fella with sandy hair, freckles, and a white apron, appeared across the counter.

  “Morning, Mr. Catfish. The usual?”

  He winked. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

  It was a fine day for a soda water. The boy’s whistling drifted along the counter. An electrified ceiling fan whopped overhead, but at least the breeze was fresh. Other customers hoorahed at each other across tables in the back. The front door stood open behind him, as usual in the spring. Outside, electric trolley cars rattled up and down Austin Avenue, sparks crackling from their wires when they turned onto Fourth Street. They honked at dawdling mule carts or carriages, and horses whinnied in protest.

  Jimmy brought his soda bottle. He dropped his Stetson No. 1 on the counter. Could there be a finer day?

  The colonel curled up at his feet. Sleeping here or sleeping there was all the same to him. His square head rested on his paws, his floppy ears splayed on the floor to each side as if he needed stabilizing against toppling over. Probably did.

  It was a fine day to catch up on the Saturday newspaper. Catfish pinched his pince-nez spectacles onto his nose and began reading, by habit, back to front. Not much but advertisements on the last page.

  On page seven, his eyes immediately arrested at an announcement placed by Thaddeus Schoolcraft. He skipped to page six. It was too fine a day to sully with a single thought about Thaddeus Schoolcraft.

  He moved on to a six-handed euchre game hosted by the Fairchilds for Miss Berry and some other guests on page six. Nice folks. Page five, sarsaparilla and fig syrup advertising. Mind reader’s pitch for unread minds on page four.

  It wasn’t until the front page that there was anything of particular note: Sam’s Red-Hot Shot; The Bombardment of Satan’s Stronghold Continues. Preacher Sam Jones was in town for several weeks of revivals at the Tabernacle, and he was sure to stir folks up over something—likely the saloons or the sporting houses. Satan’s Stronghold. Catfish snorted. Some people just couldn’t abide whores being whores.

  It was a fine day if you weren’t a sporting girl.

  He spread the paper on the counter and curled the errant ends of his mustache back into place as he read: Uncle Jones then delivered a few gentle remarks anent the collection. He said: “The hat will be passed. Let each lady and gentleman contribute something. The balance of you needn’t give anything.”

  He chuckled. That preacher had at least half a wit after all. He sipped his bottled soda.

  Next came the sin of profanity: “I think I have heard as much swearing among the men of this town as any town I was ever in. Old cussing colonel, old cussing judge, old cussing citizen. Young men cuss. I want to hold them up tonight and show what infernal scoundrels they are. Cussers from Cusserville.”

  He laughed. “Cusserville must be over in Dammit County.”

  There was movement in the mirror across the counter as a young fella took a seat to his right around the corner of the fountain.

  When he glanced over, the fella spoke. “Excuse me, sir, did you say something?”

  “No no, sorry, just reading to myself,” he answered with a grin. “Sometimes reader and audience forget themselves.”

  “Brann’s my name,” the man said, smiling back. He was about thirty years younger, with hair as dark as his own was white. He had a wry smile and an accent from somewhere east of the Mississippi. “William Cowper Brann.” He extended his hand.

  “How do. Name’s Catfish Calloway.” They shook. “Ever been to Cusserville?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Brann gave him a puzzled expression.

  “I was just reading about it in Sam Jones’s sermon—you know, that evangelist from Georgia?”

  “Indeed.” Brann whirled his stool around to directly face Catfish. “In fact, I’m in your fair metropolis in part because of him. I’m reporting for a daily newspaper. He’s appearing as a divine proxy, and that’s news.”

  Catfish rocked back on his stool. “What’d you think of him?”

  Brann pondered it for a split second, resting his right elbow on the bright metal counter. “He’s a proverbial cornucopia of bombast, an idolater of idiomatic ignorance, and a man unafraid to speak his dull mind.” He slapped the counter. “I find him entirely worthy of countervailing ink.”

  Jimmy appeared across the counter. “Can I get you something, mister?”

  “Shoot him a Waco on me,” Catfish said. “He’s from out of town. And a Circle-A for the colonel.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Catfish,” Jimmy replied. “In a jiff.”

  “The colonel?” Brann asked.

  “Meet my hound dog, Colonel Terry.” He bent over and scratched his hound’s floppy ear. One eye arched up in gratitude. “He mostly goes by ‘Colonel.’”

  Brann touched a hand to his brow. “I salute you, Colonel. What are you having?”

  “He’s p
artial to ginger ale.”

  Jimmy brought a glass for Brann and a bowl for the colonel.

  Brann examined the darker liquid in his own glass. “So mine’s not ginger ale?”

  “No, it’s the specialty of the house.” Catfish showed the name on his bottle, Dr. Pepper’s Phos-Ferrate. He thumbed over his shoulder. “Concocted across the street.”

  Brann shook the ice-filled glass and took a sip—“Fruity, very refreshing”—and then a longer draw. “Now, back to Preacher Jones. What is your learned opinion concerning his favorite subject, the ubiquity of sinfulness and selfishness here on the banks of the Brazos?”

  “Couldn’t make much of a living here without it.”

  Brann’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you a man of the cloth too?”

  He laughed. “No, sir. Not by a far stretch. I’m a lawyer.”

  “Ah, so we have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We both make a living off sin and greed.” He took another drink. “I find vice exceedingly more stimulating than virtue.”

  “Sinners hereabouts do too. What paper you work for?”

  “The San Antonio Express, but I also write essays for a journal.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “The Texas Iconoclast.”

  “Haven’t read it.”

  Brann looked disappointed. “Was called that, actually. I sold it just last month to Will Porter in Austin. Do you know of William Sydney Porter, by chance?”

  “Can’t say as I do.”

  “At any rate, I fully intend to buy it back someday. I’m not sure he’s genuinely committed to the métier.”

  “But you are?”

  He bowed his head. “Irreverently and proudly.”

  Catfish raised his Dr. Pepper. “Well, sir, here’s to your success.”

  “To sin, greed, and jural elocution.”

  “And editorial eloquence.”

  They clinked and drank.

  A fine day to meet an interesting fella, even if he was a reporter.

  “I’m most intrigued, Mr. Calloway—”

  “Catfish.”

  “I’m most intrigued, Catfish, by your fair municipality’s official sanction of sin.”

  He smiled. “You mean the Reservation?”

  Brann nodded. “Indeed I do. I’m not sure I know of any other city in the land that explicitly legalizes the oldest profession by official ordinance.”

  “I think there’s one other place somewhere east of the Mississippi.”

  Brann took a drink. “Where is your den of iniquity situated?”

  Catfish waved over the counter to the north. “Couple of blocks thataway. Mostly other side of Barron’s Creek. Sodom’s over there”—he gestured again—“between Second and Third Streets, but Gomorrah’s this side of the creek right down on Washington Avenue, spitting distance from City Hall.”

  “That’s convenient. Maybe your mayor spies on them from there.”

  “Maybe.” He finished off his drink and slid the bottle across to Jimmy with a wink.

  Brann’s eyebrows narrowed. “Does the city do anything more than just permit them to operate?”

  “Yes, sir. About five years ago they started to license ’em, inspect ’em for the clap, and watch ’em like a hawk. In fact, if you wanted to pick one out by name, they even got sort of a directory at the city secretary’s office. They call it the bawdy house register. Every madam and every sporting girl listed by name—least, the names they give.”

  Brann looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “Why would a bastion of Baptists like Waco condone open vice?”

  “Well, it’s not like making it illegal puts an end to it, is it?” he asked with a chuckle. “The powers that be in City Hall decided we’d collect fees from licensing and inspecting instead of court fines. Not much different in the end, except fellas around here get less clap.”

  Brann smirked. “So City Hall went into the skin trade. Fascinating. But perhaps members of the bar prefer that vice remain illegal?”

  “Don’t matter much to lawyers. Sporting girls still get in trouble with the law one way or other. They attract drunk farm boys and cowboys like flies to a bull’s ass. And the coppers sometimes pick up girls who go outside the Reservation.”

  “It sounds like a prison without walls.”

  “Well, sir, they can leave the Reservation, maybe go to a store, but they gotta stay in their hacks or they might just get hauled to the calaboose for vagrancy.”

  Brann looked skeptical. “How do they shop if they can’t even get out of the carriage?”

  “The shopkeepers don’t mind taking goods out to the street as long as the girls don’t come in and mix with decent folks. Money’s money, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed—but as a matter of fact, Preacher Jones took on the city for its part in the skin trade in last night’s sermon.” Brann pulled out a copybook and flipped some pages. “Listen to this: ‘You can hang a few anarchists in Chicago every few years and think you have killed out anarchy, but if you have a law on the books you don’t enforce, you’ve got anarchy right here in Waco, Texas.’ He gave your mayor hell. Let’s see”—he skimmed through his notes—“here it is. ‘I wouldn’t be the mayor of Waco the way the town is run now. If the devil were mayor and the imps of hell were aldermen, they wouldn’t make any change. They’d be just fine with all them painted women in the Reservation, every single one shamelessly naked, sweaty with the execrable lust of he-ing and she-ing.’” He looked up. “And your mayor and some of his alderman were right there with him on the stage.”

  Catfish snorted. “They got an earful.”

  “Oh, here’s a good part: ‘If you can block off a place, call it a Reservation, and license licentiousness, why don’t you reserve a few blocks where a man can commit murder and go unpunished?’”

  Catfish shook his head. “This is a town of only twenty-seven thousand folks, but we’ve got about thirty-five churches, almost fifty saloons, and over sixty sporting houses. It’s the only place in the state where City Hall blesses all of ’em. You lob a firebrand evangelist into that tinder, and sparks’ll fly. Maybe even a blazing fire.”

  “A conflagration in Satan’s Stronghold.”

  A fine day for Satan.

  There was a flash of movement in the mirror as a Western Union messenger boy on a bicycle rattled over the threshold. The colonel’s head popped up. The boy dropped his bicycle on its side and rushed up to Catfish.

  “Mr. Catfish, telegram for you.” The boy was breathless. “Miss Peach said you were here.”

  “Thanks, Billy.” He tipped him, and the boy left.

  Catfish popped his pince-nez spectacles back onto his nose and unfolded the telegram: CATFISH. NEED HELP. SON CICERO DISAPPEARED. SENDING ROOMMATE YOUR OFFICE. HENRY SWEET.

  It had been such a fine day.

  Chapter 3

  Jasper was downright scaryfied. He’d finally had to tell Professor Charlton that Cicero hadn’t come back, but he hadn’t said any more than that. He told the professor he didn’t know where Cicero was at that very minute, and that was true. But even that stirred up a hornet’s nest. Before long, a deputy sheriff showed up at the dorm, but Jasper didn’t tell him much neither.

  He was worried about Cicero mostly, but he was scared for his own self too. If anybody found out he’d went to a whorehouse to drink beer, they’d boot him straight out of Baylor before he could spit. His family would be shamed. Them folks at his church back home in Fayette County had put offerings in the plate just so he could go off to college. His parents didn’t ask them to. Folks just did it on their own because it was the neighborly thing to do, like helping with a barn raising. Momma and Daddy found out about it that Sunday morning at the same time he did, when the preacher announced it from the pulpit. Momma cried. Money was hard to come by for sharecroppers, especially those days.

  Momma worried about him all the time, even when he was back home. She said “Watch for snakes” when
he took off for the woods more times than Papa said grace. When he left home for college, his first time being away from home, they both give him a talking-to about city things to be wary of. Beer was one. And Momma said, “Don’t let some girl talk you into doing something you shouldn’t be doing.” Reckon he’d figured out now what she was talking about. If she heard about all this trouble he’d gotten into in the city, she’d be disappointed in him. Daddy too. In fact, he’d be awful sore.

  Once the deputy left, Jasper had breathed easier, but then Professor Charlton told him they had to go downtown to some lawyer office. He just knew they was on to him. He ain’t never been in no lawyer office. In fact, he didn’t recollect ever even laying eyes on a lawyer before. As far as he knowed, there wasn’t none in Flatonia, but they probably had two or three over in the county seat. He wondered if they wore wigs like that lawyer Buzfuz in the book he’d read in English class. He hoped they wouldn’t talk as much as the folks in that book.

  The office was next door to the Old Corner Drug. A gold-painted sign on the front door said Calloway & Calloway, Attorneys. Professor Charlton said they was father and son. He followed the professor into a front room, where a nice lady was working on one of them letter-typing machines he’d seen at Baylor. It rattled like rain on a tin chicken shed. She took them into a bigger room that was longer than it was wide, with a high ceiling and fans dangling from long shafts. They was humming and going round and round, but it was still awful warm in there. Jasper felt like he had before his first class at Baylor, waiting for the professor in a classroom full of boys and girls he didn’t know and was too shy to meet.

  The lady asked him and Professor Charlton to have a seat at a long table in the middle of the room. Other tables was around the room, stacked with books and papers and such. Against the left wall, right in the middle of the room, was a big ol’ rolltop desk like the postmaster had back home, with papers sticking out of pigeonholes and a stack of papers with blue wrappers and red ribbons. Heavy-looking books was stacked on the top. Another desk was across the room on the opposite wall. Electric lights was hanging from the ceiling. Maybe someday his family could get an electric light for the house. It would sure help Momma with her mending at night after supper, but for now they couldn’t even afford enough oil for the lamp. They made do with candles.