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And his clothes, equally handsome, are custom-tailored to conceal the pads he wears on his shoulders and buttocks to fill out his figure to superstar proportions.It’s always been easy, of course, to make fun of Marvin Zindler, as do most of his colleagues in journalism. The house was by now rooting itself into the communal fabric of La Grange and its resident employees, encouraged by Miss Jessie to stay on a permanent basis, had fashioned a broad array of links with the townsfolk; when the boys from La Grange went overseas to Save Democracy in The Great War, the girls from the Ranch sent them cookies.Soon after the end of the War, Will Loessin was elected to succeed his brother. After he’d busted ya, he’d stick around till ya were mugged an’ printed an’ in the tank, an’ he’d make sure ya had cigarettes before he’d leave.”He still shows that same concern in his role as Channel 13’s consumer affairs reporter, staying long after work to answer a blizzard of phone calls from l2-year-olds with lost bicycles and dowdy matrons who don’t like the gas company. The brothel that became the Chicken Ranch opened in La Grange in 1844. Senator, had sounded the call for a great moral crusade aimed vaguely at making the state safe for the easily outraged, who presumably form an impressive bloc of voters.State law enforcement officials were dashing hungrily around on the hot trail of sin, very nearly arresting the entire island of Galveston, and it seemed likely that the Chicken Ranch, as the state’s most notoriously renowned whorehouse, would be a sure target.Edna’s response was to go underground, making the pretense of shutting down while admitting regular customers through the back door. Life at the Ranch temporarily became a little more circumspect, but the officially subversive operations went unimpaired for the duration.The end of the War brought, amidst other happenings, the retirement of Will Loessin; his replacement, ascending almost mechanically into the vacancy, was T. J. The Ranch slipped back into a normal high gear and went humming along into its future, sweetly indifferent to muffled indignation or pious politicians, prepared to cope when necessary with the inevitable next crusade.The next crusader, though, would come armed with cameras.Marvin Zindler was a public curiosity [See “Marvin Zindler, Consumer Lawman,” Back when he was heading the Consumer Protection Division of the Harris County Sheriff’s Department, he would inveigh against truthless advertisers or fast-dealing car salesmen with all the indignant wrath of a Calvinist preacher accosted in the pulpit by some hot-eyed, leering flasher. Now how much money you figure a dozen whores’re gonna spend in this town?”All sad but true.
It was just about the first tourist attraction I heard about when I came to Texas. He just called Edna and told her to shut it down. That’s when they broke the story and ran up against, or into, County Sheriff T.J. “Jim” Flournoy.Old Jim Flournoy looks like he leapt full-bodied from one of Bobby Seale’s nightmare visions of a county sheriff, a pot-bellied, gun-totin’, hulking incarnation of Frontier Justice.
Like all crusades, Wilson’s choked on the heat of its own righteousness and he soon went away. Is School Next?Struggling Texas Farmers Thought Hemp Might Save Them. It’s hard to laugh at somebody’s closet skeletons when they rattle them at you.And then there’re his eyes, as warmly blue and gentle (and genuine) as any superstar could hope to possess, the only external hint that within that ludicrously handmade body of his there’s a soft nub of sincerity and compassion.Danny, who’s sort of a hustler, remembers being arrested by Marvin way back when he was just another deputy in the Warrants Division: “Most of the crooks I know have a lotta respect for Zindler. They just settled a few years earlier into that semi-moribund inertia that captured the country through most of the fifties.Miss Jessie, wheelchair-bound in her last years, watched the decade turn from the front porch of the Chicken Ranch, still firmly in command and admitting respect for no one since Franklin Roosevelt. He was just there to help park cars, though, so we proceeded on up to the door where Lilly, the black maid—the only black as a matter of strict fact (historical accuracy being an important part of articles like this) who ever passed the doors of the Chicken Ranch—checked our phony I.D.’s to make sure we were 21 and let us in.We sauntered into the parlor where we drunkenly introduced ourselves to a half-dozen local farmers, a couple of cross-country truck drivers, and a fellow pilgrim who’d journeyed all the way down from Nebraska—and met three young ladies who either worked there or were truck drivers, too, we weren’t sure which.One of the young ladies offered to sell us a Coke for 50 cents, which we declined, and then one of her friends asked us for a quarter to play the jukebox, which we cheerfully provided. Marvin promptly left for Jamaica on vacation.Within a week of its shuttering, the Ranch is deserted, with only Lilly still hanging around to shoo off curious interlopers. Dense battalions of age-disfigured live oaks, camouflaged in clouds of hanging moss and sentried by towering cedars, occupy the creek and river bottoms while post oak columns skirt the soft green edges of Bermuda Grass hillsides and cypress files demarcate the boundaries of old Spanish land grants.
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