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

He made some notes and got up to leave. What would Papa expect him to do next? He’d probably ask if Harley had wired Orleans Parish to see if they had a record of Jessie Rose Reneau, so he might as well try to find that out first.

At Western Union, he wired his deputy sheriff friend: FOLLOWING UP PREVIOUS INQUIRY. DO YOU HAVE RECORD OF WHORE NAMED JESSIE ROSE RENEAU?

He checked back an hour later, and a reply had come. JESSIE ROSE RENEAU CONVICTED JUNE 1892 PROSTITUTION. FINED FIFTY DOLLARS. COULDN’T PAY. SERVED TWO MONTHS JAIL. RELEASED. NO RECORD SINCE.

He didn’t have to hear Papa actually say it. There’s your query. How could she afford to buy a sporting house in Waco when she couldn’t even pay a fifty-dollar fine in New Orleans?

He stared at the deed book. Maybe Papa was on to something. If Bud Orman wasn’t Miss Jessie’s boss, then who paid for that house? Or had there really been any payment at all? Maybe the sale was just a sham. Maybe Orman was at the bottom of it all somehow.

Chapter 20

After that, Papa remained convinced that Bud Orman was somehow involved in the killing of Georgia Gamble. He said it had to be him—there was nobody else who made sense. Orman must have been at the sporting house that night, and he must have arrived in a red gig. Lowe was mistaken that the man there had been young. Orman had lied about not knowing Miss Jessie. It was just a matter of finding proof, Papa said.

They spent the rest of May and into June searching for that evidence. Papa sent Harley to city and county offices. Next, it was the utility companies. But the answers were always the same. Jessie Rose paid the bills herself—county property taxes, bawdy house fees, telephone bills, water bills, electricity bills. No trace of Bud Orman anywhere.

Then Papa sent him back to look again. This time he wanted to know who paid those bills before Orman put title to the place in Miss Jessie’s name. Was it Josie Bennett or was it Bud Orman? Harley came back with an answer Papa didn’t like: Bud Orman had paid all the bills on the house before the fire. Josie Bennett never had.

Papa sent him back a third time to check the other whorehouses on Orman’s Alley. The deed records, the tax records, the utility records—all in Bud Orman’s name.

Still not satisfied, Papa went back to see Bud Orman, despite Harley’s protests that the man obviously wasn’t involved. This time Papa confronted him directly about ownership of the house. Orman said he sold it to J. R. Reneau, but he never met Reneau in person. His son had handled everything for him. He didn’t even know Reneau was a woman. No, he insisted, he didn’t know if J. R. was actually Jessie Rose.

He finally got testy when Papa just wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I wouldn’t know this Jessie Rose woman if she kissed me on the ass. Now get the hell out of my office.”

Far from being satisfied, Papa became more suspicious than ever. He sent Harley back to the county clerk to see whether it was Orman himself or his son who’d brought the deed in to record, but the clerk refused to talk about it. He said instructions had come down that nobody in the office was to help the Calloways anymore. He wouldn’t say who the directive came from or the reason for it.

Papa attributed it to Orman.

Harley crossed his arms and shook his head. “Why would the county employees help Orman? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Orman’s a lying scallywag. He’s lying to them, too.”

“I’m sorry, Papa, but I think we’re chasing up the wrong tree on this. The trial date is fast approaching, and we’ve got to either find another defense for Cicero or try to make a plea agreement.”

Papa shot straight up from his chair and stabbed his finger at Harley. “We’re not pleading that boy guilty to anything. Henry Sweet is counting on me, and I won’t let him down. I’m not as willing as you to give up so easily.”

That stung. Papa hadn’t rebuked him like that since he was a boy.

Papa paced around the office, blowing cigar smoke like a chimney. Finally he announced their next move. They’d try to link the red buggy to Orman. He told Harley to watch Orman’s office during prime business hours before and after noon. How did Orman get lunch? How did he go to business meetings outside his office?

At midmorning, Harley parked the surrey on the next block of Fourth Street, where he had a good view of Orman’s place. He watched Orman come and go. It was such a waste of time. Yes, he had a carriage, but it was a dark-green coal box buggy with a vermilion stripe and dark-green cloth trim—nothing like the one Jasper had described.

Papa still wasn’t satisfied. If Harley had been that stubborn about something, Papa would have said Son, don’t be pigheaded.

Mid-June came, and they still had no proof Bud Orman was involved with the killing. Trial was imminent, yet Papa became more insistent. He rented a second-floor room in a boarding house across the street from Orman’s office, which was also his home. His instructions to Harley were simple: Sit by that window in the late afternoon and early evening and watch whoever came and went at the close of business. Just in case, Harley was to do the same in the morning hours when business opened for the day, and he should watch for Miss Jessie in particular. She must bring their earnings to Orman somehow—or maybe she’d just send Big Joe. And watch for that red gig.

Papa entrusted Harley with his old LeMaire binoculars from the war. “They’ve a good eye for the enemy.” Then he said he wanted a photograph if Miss Jessie or the red gig showed up. Papa told him