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

calendar hung crookedly on the wall beside his desk, and every day passed had been Xed off. On the opposite wall, a mounted fox head sported a miniature derby hat between his ears, a pipe protruding from his mouth, and a bow tie and winged collar under his long, pointed snout.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?” Orman asked, rocking back and propping his alligator skin shoes on the desk.

“I have a few questions about a sporting woman you might know.”

Orman grinned, flashing yellow teeth. “Oh, y’all looking for a romp, eh?”

“No, sir. I’m too old and he’s too busy.”

A tarnished spittoon hid in the back corner near the dapper fox. Every now and then, Orman discharged a tobacco-brown projectile at it with practiced precision. Ding! Harley’s chair, thankfully, was well outside the flight path, and Papa seemed unfazed by the barrages of spittle arcing over his shoulder. He’d be taking that suit to Hop Lee’s laundry.

“This girl’s involved in a case we’re defending,” Papa said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, I see. Who is she?”

“Miss Jessie Rose.”

“Don’t know her.” He shook his head definitively.

His answer was surprising. Orman didn’t act as if he was lying, but then again, a man like Bud Orman was probably as adept at his lying as he was at his spitting.

“Oh? I thought you might be acquainted somehow,” Papa said, scratching his head until his hair flopped over his forehead. “Probably in her late twenties, black hair, came from New Orleans a couple of years back. Slight accent.”

“Sorry. I know a few whores, but not that one.” Orman broke into another big grin. “I can fix you up with a fine mulatto gal, if that’s your taste.”

Ding!

“Kind of you, but we’ll pass on that,” Papa said.

Orman rocked forward and searched his desk until he found whatever he was looking for beneath the map. “If you’re having trouble, mister, try some of these.” He held up a box of oriental sex pills. “Friends tell me they work. Don’t know myself, of course.” He cackled.

“No, sir. But thanks kindly for your offer.”

Orman shrugged.

“You know a man named Buford Lowe?” Papa asked.

“Never heard of him.” He seemed as sure of that as anything.

“Got a nervous eye twitch.”

“Don’t know him. Sorry.”

Papa rubbed his hands along the thighs of his pants. “Well, sir, looks like we’ve troubled you for no good reason. We’ll let you get back to your business.”

He got up, and Harley did the same.

“Sure, always happy to help law.”

Papa drove the surrey back to the office. They hadn’t learned much from that cagey old man. Harley wondered what Papa thought but didn’t ask. It would come once he’d digested it thoroughly.

He urged the horse into a trot up the long, straight stretch along Fourth Street, and his white hair flew back from beneath his black Stetson No. 1. He didn’t even slow at the intersections, except when they approached the Katy Railroad tracks on Jackson.

Would he look toward the depot? Harley didn’t stare, but he shot his father more than a glance. He knew how Papa felt.

When the Katy came in, they’d repainted the old Missouri Pacific terminal. It had been eight years, but it looked much the same. The carriage rattled over the tracks.

Harley looked down. We could talk about that day. About Schoolcraft. About the trial.

As soon as they were across the tracks, Papa lashed the horse into the final stretch. In no more than a minute, he parked outside the office on Fourth Street.

As Papa tied the reins, Harley finally asked, “Do you think Orman’s lying about Miss Jessie?”

“Probably.”

He followed Papa into the office.

“How do, Miss Peach.” Papa swept by.

“Welcome back, sir.” She eyed Harley knowingly.

He trailed behind Papa into their office. Papa headed for his desk, tossing his hat on the table in the center of the room, and Harley went to his own desk.

He glanced at Papa across the table. “Why didn’t you ask him whether he owned the whorehouse?”

“Didn’t want to scare him off.” Papa put his satchel on the desk, then took off his coat and carried it back over to the coat hook by the door.

“Scare him off from what?”

“From lying, if he’s got a mind to.”

“Huh?”

Papa spoke over his shoulder as he removed papers from his satchel. “Lies hop off a killer like fleas off a coon dog. Give him a chance, and he’ll lie. But if he thinks you’re watching to see what hops when you get close, he’ll shy away.”

Maybe Papa noticed something he didn’t. “He didn’t act as if he was lying—to me, anyway.”

“He’s lying if we find he knows Jessie Rose.”

“Yes, sir.”

Papa sat and whirled his chair to face him. “Now, Harley, don’t you think it’s about time you go look at those deed records?”

It finally sunk in why a mortgage on furniture from Jessie Rose to Bud Orman might be important. Harley stood up again abruptly.

“Right, Papa. I’ll go now.”

***

Harley pored over the big clothbound deed books in the county clerk’s office, looking for any legal instruments filed by Orman in 1893. He’d have filed a lien on the furniture if Miss Jessie had executed one to him, so he could enforce it by foreclosure if necessary. There were no liens in Orman’s name in the grantee index. The grantor index under R showed nothing for Jessie Rose. Harley even checked Georgia Gamble and Sadie Wiggins. Nothing. He didn’t know Big Joe’s last name. Jessie had other girls working for her, but he didn’t know their names either.

Just as he was ready to leave, he decided to check the grantor index under O. He couldn’t conceive why there might be a conveyance by Orman rather than to him, but he could hear Papa’s voice asking if he checked anyway.

And there it was.

The index entry jumped out at him: William Robert Orman, Grantor, to J. R. Reneau, Grantee. He pulled the proper deed book and flipped through it until he found the page. Orman had conveyed the whorehouse property after the fire to J. R. Reneau. Could Miss