The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

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