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

She pulled up her gown as if she was about to remove it. “You want me to take this off while we talk?”

She just didn’t understand. “No, no, that’s not necessary. Let’s just sit and talk.”

“Suit yourself. It’s your two bucks.” She plopped on a stuffed chair with the upholstery worn off the arms.

He pulled a chair from a beat-up old table. Something scampered across the floor from under the table.

“Nice day, ain’t it?” she said.

“It sure is.” He felt an overwhelming urge to get straight to the point and get out of there as soon as he could. “What I wanted to talk with you about is that house you used to have around the corner.”

“The place that burned?”

“Yes.”

“You from the insurance company?”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I represent a young man accused of killing a girl in that house.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shook her head. “You don’t look much like one. All the lawyers I ever seen is old and fat.”

“Yes, ma’am. There’s quite a few like that.”

She got up and went to the table to retrieve the whiskey bottle. “I heard about that killing.” She took a swig directly from the bottle and extended it to him, but he declined. She fell back into the chair and took another drink. “That killing don’t matter much to me, but I hope your client hangs.”

“Well, we don’t believe he did it.”

“Sure, that’s what they say most every time. I seen a killer or two.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The rat crawled on top of an old sofa behind her. It darted across and then hopped onto the cushion. “Well, anyway, do you know Miss Jessie Rose?”

She laughed as if that were the funniest thing she’d ever heard. It was the first time she’d displayed any spirit.

Maybe he was getting somewhere.

“Does that mean you do or you don’t know her?”

“Oh, I know that thieving, lying, goddamned French bitch-whore.” She slammed down another drink of whiskey. “I sure do.”

“So you don’t much care for her?”

She smirked. “How’d you know?”

“Can you tell me why?”

“’Cause I just don’t,” she said, her rancor building.

“I see. What can you tell me about her?”

“She’s a thieving, lying, goddamned French bitch-whore.”

He nodded.

“Oh, and one more thing I can tell you,” she said and took another swig. “I don’t like her much.”

“I think I understand. How about Miss Georgia Gamble? You know her?”

She wiped her mouth with her arm, then belched. “Met her, that’s all. Nice girl who didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

“Can you tell me anything about her?”

She belched again. “Nope.”

“How about a girl named Sadie?”

“I know six whores named Sadie.”

“This one works for Miss Jessie.”

“Don’t know her.”

“Do you happen to know a man who works for Jessie called Big Joe?”

She looked surprised. “Big Joe still working there? Well, ain’t that something.”

“So you know him?”

She nodded and smiled. “He worked for me when I ran that house. Big Joe’s a good man.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Joe.”

“I see.”

She crossed her arms. “I’ll say this, mister. If a customer shot a whore in a house Big Joe worked at, that customer wouldn’t be alive today.”

“Why’s that?”

“Big Joe takes care of the girls. I’m surprised he didn’t kill your boy.”

“My client was passed out drunk. We think another man was there, though, and he was the one who did it.”

“Did you find his dead body floating in the creek?”

“No.”

Josie nodded and guzzled the whiskey. It splashed onto her face and neck. She absentmindedly dabbed at her amber-stained gown. “Then there wasn’t no other man.”

“I see. Let me ask you about something else.” The stench of cheap whiskey was beginning to overpower the other odors. He felt queasy. “You leased that house from Bud Orman, didn’t you?”

Her expression changed. “What’s that got to do with the murder?”

“I’m not sure it does. We think Bud Orman might be involved somehow.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me none,” she laughed.

“Yes, ma’am. Why’s that?”

“That goddamned son of a bitch was always mad at the whores because they didn’t turn more.”

“He was mad at the whores? You mean, when you were there?”

She screwed up her face. “He’s always mad at his whores because they don’t work hard enough to suit him.”

“If Orman shot her, and Big Joe was—”

“Big Joe works for the boss man.”

“So Big Joe wouldn’t protect the whores from Orman?”

“I told you Bud’s a goddamned son of a bitch.”

“Sounds as though you don’t care much for him.”

“You’re a smart fellow, ain’t you?” Her sarcasm intensified with every slug of whiskey.

“What can you tell me about him?”

She set the whiskey down. “All right, I think you’ve about got your two bucks’ worth. I don’t need no more trouble from Bud Orman. Nice to see you, honey.” She headed to the front door and opened it for him. “Come back for a frolic sometime when you’re feeling more frisky.”

“But—”

She shoved him out and slammed the door.

Orman had a powerful effect on people. Was Papa right about him?

Chapter 16

Jasper wasn’t sure exactly what it was Mr. Calloway wanted to know, but he’d arrived at the law office as requested. Miss Peach said her boss was out but would be back soon, so he stepped outside to wait. Fresh air always suited him better, even on a warm day. He found a spot in the shade on the street corner by the alley, settled down on the curb, and propped his back against a light pole, sipping a bottle of sody water.

The Garland Opera House was on the other side of Fourth Street and across the alley from it was the Artesian Bottling Company. There wasn’t no opera going on, but there was plenty of sody water loaded onto a wagon with a sign in big letters: Dr. Pepper’s Phos-Ferrates. Ideal Nerve & Brain Tonic. His nerves was right fine, but maybe that sody he was drinking would perk up his brain a little for his geometry test.

A wagon hauling seed rolled by with a couple of farmhands perched on top of the bags, joking and carrying on