“Brann’s my name,” the man said, smiling back. He was about thirty years younger, with hair as dark as his own was white. He had a wry smile and an accent from somewhere east of the Mississippi. “William Cowper Brann.” He extended his hand.
“How do. Name’s Catfish Calloway.” They shook. “Ever been to Cusserville?”
“No, I haven’t.” Brann gave him a puzzled expression.
“I was just reading about it in Sam Jones’s sermon—you know, that evangelist from Georgia?”
“Indeed.” Brann whirled his stool around to directly face Catfish. “In fact, I’m in your fair metropolis in part because of him. I’m reporting for a daily newspaper. He’s appearing as a divine proxy, and that’s news.”
Catfish rocked back on his stool. “What’d you think of him?”
Brann pondered it for a split second, resting his right elbow on the bright metal counter. “He’s a proverbial cornucopia of bombast, an idolater of idiomatic ignorance, and a man unafraid to speak his dull mind.” He slapped the counter. “I find him entirely worthy of countervailing ink.”
Jimmy appeared across the counter. “Can I get you something, mister?”
“Shoot him a Waco on me,” Catfish said. “He’s from out of town. And a Circle-A for the colonel.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Catfish,” Jimmy replied. “In a jiff.”
“The colonel?” Brann asked.
“Meet my hound dog, Colonel Terry.” He bent over and scratched his hound’s floppy ear. One eye arched up in gratitude. “He mostly goes by ‘Colonel.’”
Brann touched a hand to his brow. “I salute you, Colonel. What are you having?”
“He’s partial to ginger ale.”
Jimmy brought a glass for Brann and a bowl for the colonel.
Brann examined the darker liquid in his own glass. “So mine’s not ginger ale?”
“No, it’s the specialty of the house.” Catfish showed the name on his bottle, Dr. Pepper’s Phos-Ferrate. He thumbed over his shoulder. “Concocted across the street.”
Brann shook the ice-filled glass and took a sip—“Fruity, very refreshing”—and then a longer draw. “Now, back to Preacher Jones. What is your learned opinion concerning his favorite subject, the ubiquity of sinfulness and selfishness here on the banks of the Brazos?”
“Couldn’t make much of a living here without it.”
Brann’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you a man of the cloth too?”
He laughed. “No, sir. Not by a far stretch. I’m a lawyer.”
“Ah, so we have something in common.”
“What’s that?”
“We both make a living off sin and greed.” He took another drink. “I find vice exceedingly more stimulating than virtue.”
“Sinners hereabouts do too. What paper you work for?”
“The San Antonio Express, but I also write essays for a journal.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Texas Iconoclast.”
“Haven’t read it.”
Brann looked disappointed. “Was called that, actually. I sold it just last month to Will Porter in Austin. Do you know of William Sydney Porter, by chance?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“At any rate, I fully intend to buy it back someday. I’m not sure he’s genuinely committed to the métier.”
“But you are?”
He bowed his head. “Irreverently and proudly.”
Catfish raised his Dr. Pepper. “Well, sir, here’s to your success.”
“To sin, greed, and jural elocution.”
“And editorial eloquence.”
They clinked and drank.
A fine day to meet an interesting fella, even if he was a reporter.
“I’m most intrigued, Mr. Calloway—”
“Catfish.”
“I’m most intrigued, Catfish, by your fair municipality’s official sanction of sin.”
He smiled. “You mean the Reservation?”
Brann nodded. “Indeed I do. I’m not sure I know of any other city in the land that explicitly legalizes the oldest profession by official ordinance.”
“I think there’s one other place somewhere east of the Mississippi.”
Brann took a drink. “Where is your den of iniquity situated?”
Catfish waved over the counter to the north. “Couple of blocks thataway. Mostly other side of Barron’s Creek. Sodom’s over there”—he gestured again—“between Second and Third Streets, but Gomorrah’s this side of the creek right down on Washington Avenue, spitting distance from City Hall.”
“That’s convenient. Maybe your mayor spies on them from there.”
“Maybe.” He finished off his drink and slid the bottle across to Jimmy with a wink.
Brann’s eyebrows narrowed. “Does the city do anything more than just permit them to operate?”
“Yes, sir. About five years ago they started to license ’em, inspect ’em for the clap, and watch ’em like a hawk. In fact, if you wanted to pick one out by name, they even got sort of a directory at the city secretary’s office. They call it the bawdy house register. Every madam and every sporting girl listed by name—least, the names they give.”
Brann looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “Why would a bastion of Baptists like Waco condone open vice?”
“Well, it’s not like making it illegal puts an end to it, is it?” he asked with a chuckle. “The powers that be in City Hall decided we’d collect fees from licensing and inspecting instead of court fines. Not much different in the end, except fellas around here get less clap.”
Brann smirked. “So City Hall went into the skin trade. Fascinating. But perhaps members of the bar prefer that vice remain illegal?”
“Don’t matter much to lawyers. Sporting girls still get in trouble with the law one way or other. They attract drunk farm boys and cowboys like flies to a bull’s ass. And the coppers sometimes pick up girls who go outside the Reservation.”
“It sounds like a prison without walls.”
“Well, sir, they can leave the Reservation, maybe go to a store, but they gotta stay in their hacks or they might just get hauled to the calaboose for vagrancy.”
Brann looked skeptical. “How do they shop if they can’t even get out of the carriage?”
“The shopkeepers don’t mind taking goods out to the street as long as the girls don’t come in and mix with decent folks. Money’s money, isn’t it?”
“Indeed—but as a matter of fact, Preacher Jones took on the city for its part in the skin trade in last night’s sermon.” Brann pulled out a copybook and flipped some pages. “Listen to this: ‘You can hang a few anarchists in Chicago every few years and think you have killed out anarchy, but if you have a law on the books you don’t enforce, you’ve got anarchy right
