The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (free ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📗

conversation. Wealthy lumber merchant and banker William Cameron presided over a long table near the front—money talk, judging by the presence of the bank presidents: Mr. McLendon of Citizens Bank, Mr. Watt of Provident National Bank, Mr. Seley of Waco State Bank, and Mr. Rotan of First National Bank. Whatever their talk, bar manager Smith looked pleased when he checked on them.

Catfish’s vantage point was a big round table in the back corner. All the regular bar patrons knew that table had a permanent claim laid to it most Fridays. The seven men there swapped stories and argued politics over cigars, liquor, and cold ginger ale.

Catfish’s guest arrived by four thirty.

“Let me introduce you to our muster, Mr. Brann,” Judge Warwick Jenkins said. “You know Catfish Calloway, of course, and his son, Harley. The next gentleman is Wesley Dodson, who’s an architect.”

“Most of the places I work at in this state are his creation,” Catfish added.

“An exaggeration,” Dodson said modestly. He and Catfish were about the same age and were longtime friends.

The judge pointed to the next man. “This is Bob Lazenby. He’s got the Artesian Manufacturing & Bottling Company. And to his right is Sterling DeGroote. He’s a wool gatherer.”

DeGroote grinned in response. “He means I’m a manager at the Slayden-Kirksey Woolen Mill.”

“To your left is Professor Jeremiah Perkins, who supplies most of the intellectual firepower of this group. And I’m Warwick Jenkins.”

Catfish tapped cigar ashes into a spittoon. “He’s my old law partner’s brother and now judge of the county court.”

“An esteemed conclave you have, gentlemen,” Brann said.

Catfish put a hand on Brann’s shoulder. “He’s an editor, boys. Met him at the Corner Drug the other day. He specializes in exposing transgressions of the human race, so he’s a natural for us.”

“You’ll notice,” Judge Jenkins said, “there are no other newspapermen here, and that’s intentional. We prefer honest fellowship, but Catfish assures me you’re the exceptional editor.”

“Indeed, Your Honor, I make my living by honest diatribe alone.”

“Bravo,” Lazenby interjected. “Diatribe is the weapon of choice in this group.”

The conversation, enlivened by braying diatribe and counter-diatribe, ranged from cotton prices to bimetallism, tariffs to unemployment, and William Jennings Bryan to the simmering revolt in Cuba before finally taking a local turn.

“What brings you to Waco?” Professor Perkins asked Brann. The professor was a younger man than the rest, and he had the same midwestern accent as Brann.

“Your fair metropolis is the venue for several interesting gatherings this week.”

“So you’re covering the Texas Veterans Association?”

Brann nodded. “I’ve also attended some sessions of the Travelers Protective Association. Conveniently for me, both happened to meet down the street at City Hall.”

“I was at the veterans’ meeting too,” Lazenby said. “I’m sorry the rest of you missed it. When General McCulloch asked the San Jacinto veterans to stand, I don’t think I’ve ever heard such cheering.”

“You’re correct about that.” Brann leaned back in his chair and spoke as though they’d gathered just to hear his thoughts. Seemed used to taking the floor. “There were twelve of them, and they were revered by the convention like apostles incarnate. All were bent with age and had frosty white hair. Though I’m a relative latecomer to Texas, I’m a student of that battle—your glorious Yorktown, I believe—as well as the general course of your struggle for independence. I felt myself honored to be in their presence. It would not have been different had Washington and Lafayette appeared by magic.”

“I was at the TPA meeting,” the judge said. “Gentlemen, Mr. Brann was elected an honorary member.”

“I felt honored until they also voted thanks to Sam Jones for his sermon,” Brann replied with a wry smile.

Catfish laughed. “Maybe association with him will get you past Saint Peter someday.”

“It would surely be short-lived. He would easily arouse the angels against me, and Saint Peter would have no choice but to swing the gate the other way.” Brann lit a cigar and turned serious. “By the way, Catfish, your client featured in Jones’ rant in the ladies-only sermon the other night.”

He’d been afraid of that. The last thing they needed was a fire-eating preacher riling folks up against Cicero before the grand jury convened. “What’d he say?”

“Of course he crowed about his murder prophecy at the men-only service the night before. But you’ll be happy to know he placed most of the responsibility at the feet of the local officials who licensed the bordello.”

“I understand some of the alderman’s wives were there and felt his heat a little too closely,” Lazenby added.

Brann slapped the table with delight. “By God, one lady did scamper out of the Tabernacle in a huff. He’d just issued his heavenly edict for the wives to fetch their husbands back from Gomorrah before it’s too late. He proclaimed the imps—that’s what he called the aldermen—had blood on their hands. It wasn’t a very Christian thing to say.”

“He’s gotten people stirred up about it,” Lazenby said.

“I confess ignorance,” Dodson said. “What happened?”

Lazenby leaned forward. “A college boy murdered a whore in the Reservation.”

Harley shifted in his chair. “Now wait a minute, Bob, that’s not what happened.”

Catfish jumped in. “Hold your fire, boys. Harley and I can’t talk about it. We might be involved if they charge him.”

“Do you think they will?” DeGroote asked, with surprise on his face. “I just assumed they’d let it go since she was a whore.”

Lazenby shook his head. “They’ll prosecute. Just to prove Preacher Jones wrong, if for no other reason.”

“I personally know Cicero Sweet,” Professor Perkins said, “and I don’t think he did it. He’s a fine lad.”

Lazenby laughed derisively. “Well, maybe he is when he’s in the Baylor Chapel, but I hear they arrested him in the whore’s room with his drawers down and a gun in his hand.”

“That’s not right,” Harley said, but Catfish put a hand on his arm.

“Let it be, fellas,” he said.

Thankfully, the conversation moved back to politics, as it always did, and the gathering broke up a short time later.

Catfish and Harley walked out with