He never looked back, just run as fast as he could, and got to the dorm before long. Out of breath, he crawled through the window and jumped into his bed, still in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.
He shut his eyes tight.
“Lord, this is Jasper Cantrell of Fayette County, Texas. I sure hope you’ll forgive me. I didn’t mean to do no sinning, especially on a Sunday, and I’m awful sorry for it. But mostly, Lord, please make sure my friend ain’t in no trouble. He’s Cicero Sweet of Washington County, Texas. We’s roommates at Baylor University in Waco, Texas, in America, and I’m sorry as I can be I run off and left him in a whorehouse. Amen.”
Chapter 2
If there was a finer Monday to conduct the practice of law, Catfish couldn’t imagine it. In fact, this was a superlative day to wrap up the last murder case he’d ever have to defend. Judge Goodrich had finally promised to stop appointing him to defend alleged killers. This afternoon, after pleading Willie Bond to manslaughter in the Nineteenth District Court and passing Noah Griffin’s horse-stealing case in the Fifty-Fourth, it would be a very fine day for savoring a White Owl cigar by the soft glow of his reading lamp at home.
Across the work table in the center of the office, Harley flipped a page in a treatise on encumbrances. It was a fine day to watch his son slowly season into professional manhood, as he himself had done thirty years earlier; to study his face, to see there the precious similarities with two others, to remember when the four were together. Such a fine day for remembrance.
In the front room, young Miss Peach was finishing up the papers for filing. Catfish couldn’t abide the incessant, mind-numbing clatter of her confounded typewriting contraption, but she and Harley had insisted on getting one. It was a fine day to escape the modern law office, too.
He stood, and every joint cried out in protest against disturbing the status quo ante. He never used the walking stick Harley had given him. Canes were for peacocks and decrepit old men.
“I’m going next door.”
Harley nodded and continued reading.
“Colonel Terry,” he commanded the hound at his feet, “get.”
The hound bounded past Miss Peach drumming away at the confounded clicking contraption.
Catfish passed in a more leisurely fashion. “Going next door.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was a fine spring day.
Mrs. Goodhue, with a garden of daisies shooting from her straw hat, advanced up the sidewalk carrying some parcels.
Wonder what bee was in her bonnet today?
“How do, ma’am.”
She exhibited no mirth at the day. “Mr. Calloway.”
He and the colonel headed for the Old Corner Drug. They took their usual spot at the soda fountain.
The soda jerk, a winsome young fella with sandy hair, freckles, and a white apron, appeared across the counter.
“Morning, Mr. Catfish. The usual?”
He winked. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
It was a fine day for a soda water. The boy’s whistling drifted along the counter. An electrified ceiling fan whopped overhead, but at least the breeze was fresh. Other customers hoorahed at each other across tables in the back. The front door stood open behind him, as usual in the spring. Outside, electric trolley cars rattled up and down Austin Avenue, sparks crackling from their wires when they turned onto Fourth Street. They honked at dawdling mule carts or carriages, and horses whinnied in protest.
Jimmy brought his soda bottle. He dropped his Stetson No. 1 on the counter. Could there be a finer day?
The colonel curled up at his feet. Sleeping here or sleeping there was all the same to him. His square head rested on his paws, his floppy ears splayed on the floor to each side as if he needed stabilizing against toppling over. Probably did.
It was a fine day to catch up on the Saturday newspaper. Catfish pinched his pince-nez spectacles onto his nose and began reading, by habit, back to front. Not much but advertisements on the last page.
On page seven, his eyes immediately arrested at an announcement placed by Thaddeus Schoolcraft. He skipped to page six. It was too fine a day to sully with a single thought about Thaddeus Schoolcraft.
He moved on to a six-handed euchre game hosted by the Fairchilds for Miss Berry and some other guests on page six. Nice folks. Page five, sarsaparilla and fig syrup advertising. Mind reader’s pitch for unread minds on page four.
It wasn’t until the front page that there was anything of particular note: Sam’s Red-Hot Shot; The Bombardment of Satan’s Stronghold Continues. Preacher Sam Jones was in town for several weeks of revivals at the Tabernacle, and he was sure to stir folks up over something—likely the saloons or the sporting houses. Satan’s Stronghold. Catfish snorted. Some people just couldn’t abide whores being whores.
It was a fine day if you weren’t a sporting girl.
He spread the paper on the counter and curled the errant ends of his mustache back into place as he read: Uncle Jones then delivered a few gentle remarks anent the collection. He said: “The hat will be passed. Let each lady and gentleman contribute something. The balance of you needn’t give anything.”
He chuckled. That preacher had at least half a wit after all. He sipped his bottled soda.
Next came the sin of profanity: “I think I have heard as much swearing among the men of this town as any town I was ever in. Old cussing colonel, old cussing judge, old cussing citizen. Young men cuss. I want to hold them up tonight and show what infernal scoundrels they are. Cussers from Cusserville.”
He laughed. “Cusserville must be over in Dammit County.”
There was movement in the mirror across the counter as a young fella took a seat to his right around the corner of the fountain.
When he glanced over, the fella spoke. “Excuse me, sir, did you say something?”
“No no, sorry, just reading to myself,” he answered with a grin. “Sometimes reader and
