The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller Read online

  “Yes, sir. That’s Miss Jessie’s sporting house.” He tapped Harley on the back. “Let’s go.”

  “And did Cicero actually know it was a whorehouse when he went there?” Henry asked.

  “He did. He admits it. He remembers dancing with a girl—the one that got killed—but he can’t remember anything else. He said he was drinking beer.”

  “Will his roommate back him up?”

  Catfish nodded. “But Jasper took off when Cicero went upstairs with the girl. He fell asleep outside and was woken by screaming from the building. He turned tail and ran all the way back to the dorm. Miss Jessie called the police, and they found Cicero passed out at the foot of her bed. He was stark naked, and a derringer was in arm’s reach.”

  “He doesn’t own a derringer.”

  “It was the girl’s.”

  Henry shook his head. “It does look bad.”

  “They might not prosecute him at all. Some folks feel like things just happen in the Reservation. There’s some feeling that sporting girls know what they’re getting into when they enter the trade.”

  “And Cicero’s not a killer.”

  “Of course not.”

  Henry turned to him. “If he’s charged, you’ll represent him, won’t you?”

  He well understood Henry’s concern, but his friend had had no way of understanding his reluctance. “I’ll see to it he gets the best defense possible.”

  “But you’ll defend him yourself, right?”

  He made a show of waving at Toby Topper as they caught up and passed him again. “We’ll see what happens. But I promise you I’ll make sure he’s in good hands.”

  A strong hand came down on his knee.

  “No, Catfish. I don’t trust anybody but you. Promise me.”

  He patted his friend’s hand. “Let’s just wait and see what happens. It may never get to that.”

  Henry didn’t look satisfied, but Catfish changed the subject anyway. “I got you a room at the McLelland Hotel right above our office. We’ll take you to see Cicero, and when you’re done we can go to the hotel.”

  Henry smiled grimly. “I’m grateful you’re here for us.”

  “I know. You’d do the same if it was Harley.”

  “Of course.” Henry squeezed his arm. “I feel bad that I haven’t seen you since Martha’s funeral. I’m sorry I’m a little out of touch. Does Houston live here too?”

  He shook his head and abruptly leaned forward, looking ahead, so that Henry couldn’t see his face. They should worry about Henry’s son, not his own. Thankfully, they pulled up at the jail moments later. Back to more immediate matters for now.

  ***

  “I didn’t do it, Father,” Cicero said. “I swear I didn’t.”

  “I believe you, son,” Henry said, extending his hand across the table to grasp Cicero’s. “But it sure looks bad the way you were found.”

  “I know, and honest to God, I don’t remember how I got there or how she got dead.” A tear rolled down his cheek, and he wiped it away with his sleeve. He gazed at his father with absolute fear in his eyes.

  Catfish knew that look. He glanced away.

  “Don’t worry.” Henry spoke to Cicero, but the words seemed directed at him, as if he were pleading with his old friend. “You have the best lawyer in the state.”

  “I’m not worried,” Cicero mumbled, staring at the table. “Thank you, Mr. Calloway.”

  Catfish flashed a quick smile. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You can count on that.”

  He pushed his chair back and rose. Maybe they wouldn’t charge the boy. Maybe defending him wouldn’t even be necessary.

  Pray God it’s not.

  ***

  Harley walked with Papa back up Austin Avenue from the courthouse toward their office.

  The clerk had just told them the judge wasn’t going to grant bail, said the judge wouldn’t even consider it. That was a surprise. Papa assured him a wire to Mr. Sweet’s bank would confirm his ability to post the bond, but the clerk said that didn’t matter. Harley didn’t understand why.

  On the way back to the office, they ran into Bootblack Ben under the awning in front of Sam Kee’s restaurant. He shined shoes on the town square, and Papa always stopped to talk to him.

  “How do, Mr. Moon.”

  “Sure is good to see you, Cap’n Calloway, Mr. Harley.” He gave Colonel Terry a vigorous ear rub. “Y’all be needing a shine today?”

  “Sorry, we’re in a rush now. I’ll try to get back by tomorrow.” Papa started to walk off but turned back instead. “Tell Mrs. Moon I really cotton to that sweet tater pie of hers. I hope she got her crop in.”

  “Cap’n, you done told me that three times,” Ben said.

  “Well, sir,” Papa said with a wink, “you can tell her three more times if it gets me another pie next fall.”

  Ben broke into a big, toothless grin. “Sure enough, I’ll tell her.”

  Papa took off up Austin Avenue. Harley followed one step behind. He knew better than to talk about the case until Papa said something first. Papa liked to chew on things before discussing them.

  They were both lost in thought when the ding-ding of the trolley rang out behind them, and the colonel growled. Harley hadn’t noticed the trolley or even that they were walking up the middle of the track. They stepped out of the way, and it clickety-clacked past. The overhead electric wires sparked and crackled as the trolley changed lines turning onto Fourth Street.

  “Thanks, Catfish,” the conductor shouted on the way by.

  They stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the drugstore, and Papa pulled out a cigar. He looked above the Old Corner Drug at the clock protruding between two owls in the cigar sign on the corner of the McLelland building. It was about to strike noon.

  “This one confounds me,” he said finally.

  “How’s that?”

  “That boy ain’t a murderer, but he does look like a boy who might get drunk and do something he later regretted.”

  “I agree with that. He’s young and probably can’t hold his beer very well.”

  “On the other hand, for the life of me, I can’t understand how a boy could be so drunk he passes out right after shooting a girl in the chest with a derringer. If he was that drunk, how’d he hit her? ’Course he might’ve pressed it right up against her, but I didn’t see any powder burns on her body, did you?”

  Harley shook his head.

  Papa leaned against the telephone pole, puffing on the cigar. “A barrel that short emits a prodigious flash. So he’s sober enough to hit her in the heart at some distance, but too drunk to remember it. And how’d he get her gun? Doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Do you think he’s lying about not remembering?”

  “I don’t.” Papa shook his head and headed down the sidewalk toward the office. “No boy of Henry Sweet would be a liar. And besides, the madam testified he was passed out, which supports his story.”

  “Maybe he got knocked out somehow.”

  “Maybe. That must have been a pretty hard blow to his head to leave a knot like that. That may account for his memory loss.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Just before they got to the office door, he stopped and touched Papa’s elbow. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “If he gets indicted, are you going to represent him?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Papa went inside without waiting for an answer.

  Papa knew why. He shouldn’t have to hear it from Harley.

  Chapter 6

  The bar of the McLelland Hotel was the busiest place on the busiest street in Waco. It was Friday afternoon, and folks looked worn out from the week. Catfish was ready for a good stiff drink as he greeted the other regulars and kept an eye peeled for William Brann to enter.

  The hotel was right above the Old Corner Drug and his own law office at the corner of Fourth and Austin Avenue. It had been brimming with guests all week because of the two big conventions
in town, and as both wound down, the conventioneers were reconvening at hotels, restaurants, and bars across the city. Waco was busting at the seams with veterans, drummers, and pilgrims following Brother Sam Jones as well as the usual visitors there to take the artesian waters. Some found healing in the waters of the Natatorium, while others discovered it in the hymn-filled air of the Tabernacle. Whatever the attraction, hotel proprietor Joe Knapp looked exceedingly pleased.

  The bar was packed. It was mostly businessmen, chattering like church women in small bunches under clouds of cigar smoke. Catfish didn’t need to listen in to know that the talk was of cotton deals, cattle deals, and real estate deals. There were railroad men and liquor drummers. The saddle maker and the general manager of the trolley line were locked tight in 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 DeGroote.

  “Catfish, I need to tell you something,” DeGroote said when they got out on the sidewalk.

  “About what?”

  He waited for two people to pass, then lowered his voice. “Your client.”

  “You mean Cicero Sweet?”

  DeGroote had a pained expression. “I hesitate to mention it, but I feel as though there’s something you should know. You best speak about it with my son, Peter. He’s on a trip now but will return soon.”

  “Tell us,” Catfish said. “What is it?”

  “Wait to hear the whole story from Peter.” He hurried down the sidewalk.

  “What could it be?” Harley asked.

  Catfish stared at the departing DeGroote, then took a breath and expelled it. “More t
o Cicero than meets the eye.”

  Chapter 7

  It was the following Monday, April twenty-third, a week after the killing. Catfish had been in his office drawing up a will for Old Man Calhoun when Miss Peach came in and told him that Mr. Simon Shaughnessy, known by his friends and associates as Cooter, had called and wanted Catfish to come to his office—immediately. Catfish obligingly put away his papers and headed down the street.

  Shaughnessy was a cotton factor and one of the wealthiest men in town. An elected city alderman and one of the Democratic Party leaders in the county, he was a big man not only in politics but also in physical size—weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds, although he stood no more than five and a half feet in boots. He had pendulous jowls and sagging tow sacks under his black eyes. Not the kind of fella you’d go fishing with.

  Shaughnessy’s office was on the top floor of the Provident Building. Dark oak paneling covered the walls, and fancy crystal light fixtures dangled from the ceiling in the reception area as well as his private office. The man’s desk was as big as he was. Catfish felt like David sitting across from Goliath. The old boy’d doubtless given that effect a great deal of forethought, because the desk was perfectly clear except for a miniature cotton bale.

  After an exchange of pleasantries, Shaughnessy quickly got to business. His jowls jiggled as he spoke in a forceful, throaty voice. “Mr. Calloway, I want to visit with you about one of your clients.”

  “Which one?”

  “It’s come to my attention you’ve been employed to represent a murderer. Mr. DeGroote tells me you’re a family friend of the murderer, I believe.”

  “No, sir,” Catfish answered, making a show of surprise. “I haven’t been hired to represent any murderers lately.”

  Shaughnessy pushed on, undeterred. “Your client is a hot-blooded young man by the name of Sweet. Misnamed and misbred, it appears.”

  The man knew nothing of the Sweets. “I do know a young man named Sweet, but that boy is in fact well named. May I ask how you’re interested?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell you.” Shaughnessy shifted forward in his swivel chair, which squeaked and groaned under the pressure, and cocked his head to one side. His black eyes stared all the way through Catfish. “I’ll tell you plain and simple. He murdered a whore. Your client has broken the law, and we can’t tolerate lawlessness in our city.”