The Sporting House Killing

by G. Reading Powell

  He had no idea what his father was talking about. “I didn’t look in the deed records.”

  “Why not?”

  “You told me to look for Orman’s criminal records. I went another step and looked at the civil court records too. But you didn’t ask me to look at any deed records, Papa.”

  He knew the look Papa gave him in reply. It meant if it was me, I would have thought to check the deed records next.

  On the first case he’d ever helped Papa with, he’d interviewed an eyewitness at his father’s suggestion. When he reported back, Papa asked if he’d talked to the woman’s aunt’s housekeeper. Harley didn’t even know she had an aunt, much less why he would want to speak with her, and it was beyond his wildest contemplation the aunt might have a housekeeper or she might be somehow important. She turned out to be the witness who broke the case wide open.

  That was the first time he’d seen that look.

  “Orman got burned by fire once,” Papa said. “You can bet your bottom dollar that if he required Josie to give him a lien on her furniture, he did the same thing with Jessie—but this time, he would’ve required her to get enough insurance on it.”

  “Right. But how will that help us?”

  “Colonel, what do you think?” The colonel opened both eyes and looked lovingly at his master. “You figure it’s better to know more or know less when we’re defending a murder case?”

  The colonel’s long sigh was likely all the explanation Harley would get.

  “I’ll look at the deed records as soon as I finish talking to Josie Bennett,” he said.

  “Have you run down that bald drummer yet?”

  Harley skimmed his copybook. “My friend in Post H says just about every drummer here for the TPA convention was bald. He didn’t know of any who had an eye twitch.”

  “So Bud Orman’s our best bet at this point. After you talk to Josie, we’ll pay a social call on him.”

  “Right.”

  “Not likely Bud Orman is Winky-Blinky, but we better make sure. Let’s get Jasper to go with us when we visit Bud.”

  “Yes, sir. What do you think Orman has to do with Miss Georgia’s killing?”

  “There’s your query, isn’t it? The way I see it, a man who’d shoot a hack driver in daylight over an insult wouldn’t bat an eye at killing a sporting girl in the dark.”

  That seemed reasonable, except nobody had said Orman was there that night, and Papa had always told him not to jump to conclusions. Especially the ones that were too obvious.

  Chapter 15

  Harley watched the pedestrians on the suspension bridge while he waited for Miss Josie Bennett to answer his knock. As a boy, he’d loved to sit by the road and watch the cattle cross that bridge, packed shoulder to shoulder, heading north on the Chisholm Trail. The ground rumbled like thunder, and they threw up a cloud of choking dust. There might be a thousand head at a single crossing. But it was the cowboys he really admired. They rode as though they were born to the saddle, bringing a stray steer back to the herd with just a whistle and a crack of the quirt. They never seemed bothered by any troubles.

  He and Houston used to pretend they were on a cattle drive. Papa had a couple of saddles they’d sling over sawhorses, and they’d ride them all the way from the Rio Grande to Abilene. Houston was the trail boss, and Harley rode drag. Their hound dog, Mulberry—the colonel’s sire—served as lead steer, though he didn’t care for their rawhide quirts. Houston would tie a long stick crossway on the dog’s head, which made a perfect longhorn until he finally shook it loose. They were usually into Kansas by then, anyway. Those were the best days ever. Harley told his parents he wanted to be a real cowboy someday, and Papa’d just smiled.

  Now there were two railroad bridges over the Brazos just five hundred feet downriver from the suspension bridge, and no more cattle drives. Harley had admired the trains when they first came, but they never dislodged the cowboys and cattle drives from his imagination. Papa always said he didn’t much care for what the world had become in modern times. Maybe he was right.

  The door behind him squeaked open, scattering his memories. A woman in her thirties stood in the doorway.

  “Miss Josie Bennett?” he asked.

  “Afternoon, honey. Would you like to come in?”

  “Sure, if you have time.”

  “I have time for you.” It seemed like a half-hearted attempt at being coy.

  Miss Josie’s place was a far cry from Miss Jessie’s. It looked as if she was the only working girl there, and the place was more than a little run-down. If this room was her parlor, it was about half the size of Jessie’s. No nude statues, no nude photos, no wallpaper, no velvet love seats. Only a half drunk whiskey bottle on the table. Like Miss Jessie’s, the place smelled of perfume, but the perfume was heavier and smelled cheaper. Josie looked cheap, too.

  She eased up to him just inside the front door and ran her fingers through his hair. “It’ll be three bucks for an hour.”

  “Well, no ma’am,” he said, backing away.

  “All right, mister, two bucks. But no slapping, no hitting, no French stuff, and it’s over sharp after an hour no matter what.”

  He cleared his throat. He had no interest in whatever she was talking about. “I’ll sure pay you two bucks, but I won’t take an hour of your time.”

  She gave him a worn-out smile. “You might be surprised, honey.” She turned toward an open door, through which a dilapidated bed was just visible. “Come on back.”

  “Oh . . . ma’am . . . oh, wait just a minute.” He couldn’t help but stammer. “We don’t need to go back there. I just want to talk.”

  She stopped and faced him. “Talk, huh? Dirty talk is still two bucks.”

  He put his hands up. “Not dirty talk. I just want information.” He handed the money over. “Here.”

  She pulled up her gown as if she was about to remove it. “You want me to take this off while we talk?”

  She just didn’t understand. “No, no, that’s not necessary. Let’s just sit and talk.”

  “Suit yourself. It’s your two bucks.” She plopped on a stuffed chair with the upholstery worn off the arms.

  He pulled a chair from a beat-up old table. Something scampered across the floor from under the table.

  “Nice day, ain’t it?” she said.

  “It sure is.” He felt an overwhelming urge to get straight to the point and get out of there as soon as he could. “What I wanted to talk with you about is that house you used to have around the corner.”

  “The place that burned?”

  “Yes.”

  “You from the insurance company?”

  He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I represent a young man accused of killing a girl in that house.”

  “You’re a lawyer?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t look much like one. All the lawyers I ever seen is old and fat.”

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s quite a few like that.”

  She got up and went to the table to retrieve the whiskey bottle. “I heard about that killing.” She took a swig directly from the bottle and extended it to him, but he declined. She fell back into the chair and took another drink. “That killing don’t matter much to me, but I hope your client hangs.”

  “Well, we don’t believe he did it.”

  “Sure, that’s what they say most every time. I seen a killer or two.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The rat crawled on top of an old sofa behind her. It darted across and then hopped onto the cushion. “Well, anyway, do you know Miss Jessie Rose?”

  She laughed as if that were the funniest thing she’d ever heard. It was the first time she’d displayed any spirit.

  Maybe he was getting somewhere.

  “Does that mean you do or you don’t know her?”

  “Oh, I know that thieving, lying, goddamned French bitch-whore.” She slammed down another drink of whiskey. “I sure do.”

  �
�So you don’t much care for her?”

  She smirked. “How’d you know?”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “’Cause I just don’t,” she said, her rancor building.

  “I see. What can you tell me about her?”

  “She’s a thieving, lying, goddamned French bitch-whore.”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, and one more thing I can tell you,” she said and took another swig. “I don’t like her much.”

  “I think I understand. How about Miss Georgia Gamble? You know her?”

  She wiped her mouth with her arm, then belched. “Met her, that’s all. Nice girl who didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

  “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  She belched again. “Nope.”

  “How about a girl named Sadie?”

  “I know six whores named Sadie.”

  “This one works for Miss Jessie.”

  “Don’t know her.”

  “Do you happen to know a man who works for Jessie called Big Joe?”

  She looked surprised. “Big Joe still working there? Well, ain’t that something.”

  “So you know him?”

  She nodded and smiled. “He worked for me when I ran that house. Big Joe’s a good man.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Joe.”

  “I see.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’ll say this, mister. If a customer shot a whore in a house Big Joe worked at, that customer wouldn’t be alive today.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Big Joe takes care of the girls. I’m surprised he didn’t kill your boy.”

  “My client was passed out drunk. We think another man was there, though, and he was the one who did it.”

  “Did you find his dead body floating in the creek?”

  “No.”

  Josie nodded and guzzled the whiskey. It splashed onto her face and neck. She absentmindedly dabbed at her amber-stained gown. “Then there wasn’t no other man.”

  “I see. Let me ask you about something else.” The stench of cheap whiskey was beginning to overpower the other odors. He felt queasy. “You leased that house from Bud Orman, didn’t you?”

  Her expression changed. “What’s that got to do with the murder?”

  “I’m not sure it does. We think Bud Orman might be involved somehow.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me none,” she laughed.

  “Yes, ma’am. Why’s that?”

  “That goddamned son of a bitch was always mad at the whores because they didn’t turn more.”

  “He was mad at the whores? You mean, when you were there?”

  She screwed up her face. “He’s always mad at his whores because they don’t work hard enough to suit him.”

  “If Orman shot her, and Big Joe was—”

  “Big Joe works for the boss man.”

  “So Big Joe wouldn’t protect the whores from Orman?”

  “I told you Bud’s a goddamned son of a bitch.”

  “Sounds as though you don’t care much for him.”

  “You’re a smart fellow, ain’t you?” Her sarcasm intensified with every slug of whiskey.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  She set the whiskey down. “All right, I think you’ve about got your two bucks’ worth. I don’t need no more trouble from Bud Orman. Nice to see you, honey.” She headed to the front door and opened it for him. “Come back for a frolic sometime when you’re feeling more frisky.”

  “But—”

  She shoved him out and slammed the door.

  Orman had a powerful effect on people. Was Papa right about him?

  Chapter 16

  Jasper wasn’t sure exactly what it was Mr. Calloway wanted to know, but he’d arrived at the law office as requested. Miss Peach said her boss was out but would be back soon, so he stepped outside to wait. Fresh air always suited him better, even on a warm day. He found a spot in the shade on the street corner by the alley, settled down on the curb, and propped his back against a light pole, sipping a bottle of sody water.

  The Garland Opera House was on the other side of Fourth Street and across the alley from it was the Artesian Bottling Company. There wasn’t no opera going on, but there was plenty of sody water loaded onto a wagon with a sign in big letters: Dr. Pepper’s Phos-Ferrates. Ideal Nerve & Brain Tonic. His nerves was right fine, but maybe that sody he was drinking would perk up his brain a little for his geometry test.

  A wagon hauling seed rolled by with a couple of farmhands perched on top of the bags, joking and carrying on about something real humorous. They reminded him of home, which he missed sorely. The city was awful crowded, and things here was downright different. It was like a place where you could step out of your own time and into the next one to see what was up ahead. Electric lights made good sense, and indoor plumbing at the main school building had sure been nice back in the winter. Telephones might be a fine idea too, though he ain’t yet had occasion to use one. Ice cream and sody water was positive improvements for the progress of mankind, but there was times like right at that very moment when he didn’t much care for the big city.

  Life back home on the farm might be a string of endless chores, but the daily routine was something you could count on, along with Momma’s meals. He didn’t mind chopping wood, really. Or plowing. Picking cotton in the summer was work—made your hands raw and your back sore—but there was always fishing to look forward to. At least he’d be home for harvest in the summer by the time the cicadas started singing. No better napping than in the shade of the front porch after picking cotton all day, when the cicadas would sing a body to sleep. He’d wake up to the smell of Momma’s supper afterward.

  An old cowboy come along on a fine-looking mare, ambling down Fourth Street in no apparent hurry, hunched over the saddle horn like he’d had a hard ride into town. He was whistling a mournful tune—sounded like “Lorena,” maybe. Grandpa whistled that too. Pretty soon, the trolley come clanking along in the cowboy’s tracks. Or maybe he was on theirs. The trolley conductor honked his horn and the cowboy eased his horse off the tracks, still whistling, never looking up.

  A hack come rolling up Fourth and turned in front of Jasper into the alley. The passenger in the back seat, a woman in a fancy wide-brimmed hat with flowers and bows, turned her head and looked straight at him as the hack passed.

  Land o’ Goshen, it was Miss Jessie!

  She made no expression, didn’t say howdy neither, and then the hack was on down the alley. It stopped under a big iron walking bridge that crossed over the alley from the second story of one building to another across the way. Nobody got out. Pretty soon, a man come out of the building to the right and went up to the carriage. He went back inside, and it wasn’t long before another man come out. This one sure looked like that bald fella from the whorehouse. He carried a big square box to the hack and handed it to Miss Jessie. The man went back inside, and the hack rolled on off.

  Jasper jumped up and ran back to Mr. Calloway’s office.

  “Miss Peach, I’m sorry to be a bother,” he called through the open door, “but I just seen that bald man.”

  “Which bald man, Jasper?” she asked with a beautiful smile.

  “The one I seen going into Miss Jessie’s on the night all that business with Cicero happened.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Looked just like him. I’ll admit a fair distance betwixt us, but bald sticks out.”

  She headed for the door. “Show me where he is.”

  He led her down the alley until they stood just under the overhead passageway and pointed to the alley door. “I think he come out of there.”

  She stepped back to the edge of the alley and looked to her right, counting doors with her finger. “One, two, three, four. It must be Sanger Brothers.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “The big dry goods store. The storefront’s on Austin Avenue.” She took off down the alley. “Follow m
e, Jasper.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She led him around the corner and onto Austin Avenue, then slowed to a stroll. They passed a bookstore and a small grocery before she stopped in front of a window display. The sign painted on the window said in big gold letters Sanger Brothers and under that Dry Goods, Clothing, Shoes, Millinery, Ladies Suits and Wraps, Fancy Goods. There was a dry goods store back in Flatonia, too, where he went with Momma once a month to stock up on things they needed, but that one didn’t have nothing like this store. In the Sanger window, a statue of a woman stood all dressed up in a fancy dress with a big floppy hat covered in flowers. She looked downright real. Some other women’s clothes, all fancy, hung on racks.

  “I don’t want that man to leave before Mr. Calloway or Mr. Harley gets back,” Miss Peach said. “We’re going inside to find him. I want you to point him out when you see him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He followed her inside. He ain’t never seen so many clothes and shoes and such. They walked through a long, narrow room with shelves on both walls. The shelves had stacks of boxes, must’ve been hundreds. In front of the shelves was high-back bench seats and stools. A few ladies sat there while men put shoes on their feet. Open boxes was on the floor all around ’em. There was enough shoes in that room for every woman in Fayette County to have three pair. Momma wouldn’t believe her eyes.

  “Jasper, look at the men, not the shoes,” Miss Peach said under her breath.

  None of ’em was bald. Miss Peach led the way through a door into another big room. Long wooden counters had boxes stacked on top. A sign said Hosiery, whatever that was. Men and ladies walked around, helping folks doing their shopping. He looked at all them men, but the bald fella wasn’t nowhere. They checked all the first-floor rooms, but no bald man.

  She led the way to an elevator. “Let’s go to the second floor.”

  “I ain’t never been in no elevator, ma’am. I always just take the stairs.”

  She went in anyway, and he followed.

  “Good afternoon,” she said to the elevator operator. “Two, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Should I hold on to something?” Jasper asked.