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

and asked me to find him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So please,” he said, friendly-like, “do you know where Cicero went to last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Harley closed the book, whirled his swivel chair around, and eased it up to the table across from Mr. Calloway.

“Tell Harley and me what you know, son.”

“Well, we was at the revival with that banty preacher.”

“Sam Jones? At the Tabernacle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened there?”

“Well, I was downright edgy. It took that preacher three syllables just to say ‘Jesus.’ He wasn’t even halfway from hellfire to brimstone before me and Cicero was ready to give religion a rest for a while.”

“Did you go somewhere after that?”

“Back to the dorm.”

“Did you leave again?” Mr. Harley asked.

Mr. Calloway sat up. “Did Cicero leave?”

“Yes, sir. I think so.”

“Where’d he go?”

“To Washington Street.”

“Where on Washington Street?”

“Almost to the river.”

Mr. Calloway glanced over at his son. “Did he go in a hack?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who the hack driver was?”

“No, sir.”

“Where’d Cicero go when he left the hack?”

“He went—well, I reckon he went to a brick house across the street.”

“Was that brick house on the side of Washington closest to City Hall or the other?”

“The other.”

“Whose house was it?”

“It was, I reckon . . . it belonged to a lady name of Miss Jessie.”

“Miss Jessie who?”

“I don’t know no other name.”

Mr. Calloway looked at Mr. Harley again. “See if you can find Miss Jessie’s place and learn what you can.”

“Right.” Mr. Harley got his hat and left.

Miss Peach come back with a sody water. Jasper took a big gulp and then wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. She put the bowl of ginger ale in the corner, and the dog lapped it up.

“Miss Peach,” Mr. Calloway said, “get on that talking-phone you coaxed me into buying.”

“The telephone?” she said, real irritated-like.

Mr. Calloway rolled his eyes at Jasper and spoke like she wasn’t in the room. “She says everybody’s gonna have one someday. Got my doubts.” He winked.

“They got one at the dorm too,” Jasper said.

“It’s 1894, Mr. Calloway,” Miss Peach said, plain botheration all over her face.

“And it’ll be 1895 if you don’t get on with it,” he said without even looking her way. “Ring up the police office and see if they’ve run across Cicero down in the Reservation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Calloway smiled like Daddy did on Sundays. Maybe he wouldn’t tell nobody at Baylor after all. He pulled a cigar out of a White Owl box on the table, bit the end off, and spit it into a brass spittoon by his desk.

Smoke puffed out from the cigar, and Jasper coughed. He didn’t care much for smoke. The fan picked it up and blew it around the room, and pretty soon the whole place stunk. He coughed again, and Mr. Calloway quit puffing on it. Jasper turned his face aside to try to avoid the last of it. Leaning there against the wall by the desk was a cavalry saber. He looked for the dent in the scabbard and sure enough, there it was, just like Grandpa’s.

“Was Cicero in any trouble last time you saw him?”

“No, sir. He was happy as a lark.”

“I thought he might be.”

“Mr. Calloway,” Miss Peach said. “All the police officers are at the courthouse for an inquest.”

He faced her sudden-like. “An inquest? Into what?”

“A killing.”

Jasper started shaking. God, please not Cicero. Then he just cried. He couldn’t help it. Miss Peach come over and sat beside him. She put her arm around him and held him tight. Jasper wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Dang it, he was too old to be crying.

“It’s all right, Jasper,” she said soft-like. “The operator didn’t know who it was. It’s probably somebody else.”

But maybe that lady hollered ’cause Cicero was hurt. Jasper worked up his courage. “Mr. Calloway, I’ve gotta tell you something else. I need to tell you real bad.”

“What is it?”

“I ain’t sure at all, but maybe a lady screamed inside Miss Jessie’s.”

Miss Peach gasped. “Why didn’t you—”

Mr. Calloway touched her sleeve.

“Tell us what happened,” Mr. Calloway said, real calm-like.

Jasper took a deep breath. “I was outside waiting on Cicero—I need to tell you, sir, Miss Jessie’s is a whorehouse—and he was inside getting acquainted with one of them ladies.”

“What happened then?”

Tarnation, but he began crying again. “I just run—I’m so sorry, I truly am. I reckon I was scaryfied. I can’t think of no other reason I done it. I been praying no grief come to Cicero, but he got hisself killed.”

“Jasper, I’m sure he’s just fine,” Mr. Calloway said, real kind-like. “I want to find out what happened first, and we’ll talk some more later. I’m going to the courthouse right now. Miss Peach will get you back to your dormitory. Don’t worry about Cicero, son.”

He got up and strapped on his artillery and put his coat over it. He turned back to Jasper and smiled. “And you won’t get in any trouble yourself. I’m your lawyer from now on, and I ain’t never had a client kicked out of any school anywhere for any reason. Whatever a client says to me ain’t for nobody else’s ears but mine.”

Did he need a lawyer? He’d left all his spending money at the whorehouse. “I ain’t got no money left, sir.”

“You won’t owe me a thing.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. I’m obliged.”

Mr. Calloway tossed a calling card on the table in front of him and hurried out.

William “Catfish” Calloway

Calloway & Calloway

Attorneys-at-Law

109 N. Fourth Street

Waco, Texas

Audi Alteram Partem

“That’s Latin, ain’t it?” Jasper asked Miss Peach.

“Yes, it is.”

“What’s it mean?”

“‘Hear the other side.’”

Chapter 4

Harley was only in his fourth year of practicing law with Papa, but everybody in every courthouse knew Catfish Calloway. “Oh, you’re Catfish’s boy” was something he’d gotten used to. His name gave him immediate credibility with every judge he appeared before, whether his legal positions merited the trust or not. On those occasions where they didn’t, the judge’s face often told him “I expected better from Catfish’s boy.”

He helped try some of Calloway & Calloway’s bigger cases. Papa called it