The Haunting Ballad (10 page)

Tim's “Thanks” was overridden by Patch, who thrust a finger at my partner and exclaimed, “A fellow Celt! I hear the Kerry countryside tripping off your tongue, though there are other shades in the mix, I'd venture.”

“Quite true,” said my particular Irishman. “My years on the stage and in New York have colored my accent a bit.”

“Well, it suits you!” Patch declared. “Gives you a spot of style. Plus, with that fine gray beard, don't you bring to mind Saint Paddy himself?”

“That, young sir, would be a stretch,” my partner said.

Names were exchanged and hands shaken all around.

“How long have you been in the States, Mr. O'Nelligan?” Tim asked.

“Twelve years now. How about you lads?”

“Patch and Neil came over three years ago in '54, and I arrived the following spring.”

Patch addressed my partner. “You say you've done some acting? I've put in a bit of time on the stage here myself. Oh, but don't these Yanks love to hear a brogue being bandied about when the curtain rises? For my first part in town, all I did was stagger about the stage cursing humanity and bellowing for a drink.”

Tim snickered. “Oh, and weren't we all shocked that he could land a role so contrary to his own sweet self?”

Ruby now reappeared, bearing her tray. “What would you all like here?”

“What would I like?” Patch reached up and slipped an arm around her waist. “I've got a lively answer for that, my girl.”

Ruby shook herself free of him and asked once more for our orders. It was coffee all around except, again, for Mr. O'Nelligan and his tea. Ruby nodded and strode off.

Patch studied her retreat. “Glory! A well-constructed female, that one.” He clicked his tongue.

“For God's sake,” Neil grumbled. “Enough already.”

“Enough of what? Artistic appreciation? I was just honoring the sturdiness of her backside.”

“Quit your vulgarities!” Neil demanded. “Have some respect for Kimla here.”

Patch turned to the young woman. “Ah, Kimla knows me for a harmless clown. Don't you, love?”

Kimla smiled in her calm, easy way. “I'd say that you're your own worst enemy, Patch.”

He wagged a finger at her. “You're a keen girl, y'know. Brimming with insight. Our Tim here best beware or you'll turn him inside out with all your clever witchery.”

Tim placed a protective arm around Kimla. “Leave her be now. She's just too polite to tell you to get stuffed.”

The Grand Mazzo suddenly appeared and stared down at our gathering with a satisfied look. “Cool! You all found one another.”

“We Irishmen are drawn to each other like bloody magnets,” Patch said. “Just couldn't resist the pull of Mr. O'Nelligan here.”

“You boys should drag him onstage to join you in a tune.” Mazzo paused, his mind hunting for a joke. “I know! You can sing ‘When Private Eyes are Smiling.'” He laughed freely at his own wit, then hurried off on his hosting rounds.

Patch furled his brow. “Private eyes? I don't get it.”

Clearly, it was time to state our purpose for being there. Mr. O'Nelligan did the honors, laying out our mission succinctly and delicately. The musicians listened without interruption—even Patch.

Finally, after a moment of quiet, it was Tim who spoke. “Lorraine Cobble was a feisty lady. She won't be soon forgotten, God rest her soul. But as to murder … That's what you're speaking of, isn't it? Someone flinging her off that roof?”

Beside him, Kimla gave a notable shiver, and Tim drew her closer.

“It's just so terrible,” she said softly. “A suicide…”

“They're saying it
wasn't
a suicide,” Tim corrected. “They're saying that some flesh-and-blood villain did her in.”

“That's a strong claim,” Neil added.

“Yes it is,” I agreed. “Though we're not actually making it. Not yet. We're just trying to see if anyone knows anything that might steer us one way or another.”

“Well, I for one never bought into it,” Patch said. “Her suicide, I mean. Lorraine wouldn't snuff out her own flame. She was just too damned ornery.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Neil sputtered. “Respect the dead, can't you?”

“Who's not respecting her? I believe ornery to be an admirable trait.”

Tim chuckled lightly. “I'm sure you do, Patch.”

“How long did you all know Lorraine?” I asked.

“A year maybe?” Tim guessed. “She was in the audience one night when we were just starting to make a go of it. We were seeing, y'know, if we could earn a bit of a living doing what we like to do anyway. This singing thing, I mean. It wasn't here we were performing, but at a dive across town called the Duckbill.”

Patch groaned. “Oh, but what a dungeon
that
place was.”

“It's true.” Tim stared off and lapsed into a sort of reverie. “But when I think of that gig, what I most remember is Lorraine Cobble. I can still see her there—a handsome woman, really, with her long blond hair and fine features—sitting up front, watching and listening to us so intently. Truly
getting
us, if you understand me. Swaying a touch with the gentle tunes and tapping away with the wild ones. After our set, she collared the three of us and wanted to know all about the songs, their origins and all that.”

“What
I
remember from that night,” Neil said, “was how intimidating she seemed. With those great piercing eyes of hers.”

Tim nodded. “Aye, she could fairly nail you to the wall with those eyes, but she always struck me as someone who truly
embedded
herself in life. Or at least that part of life that interested her. The music, y'know. It was the music that seemed to connect her to the world.”

Patch slapped the tabletop. “Brilliant, Timbo! Now, aren't you our own wee Aristotle? You with your deep thoughts and ruminations.”

Tim frowned. “Oh, push off, why don't you? I'm just trying to give these fellows a sense of the woman.”

“Which we appreciate,” I said.

Ruby returned with our beverages, which she distributed quickly before Patch could get into anything with her. When she'd moved off, Patch dug out a small silver flask from his pants pocket and poured a liberal dose of its contents into his coffee.

“It curbs the bitterness,” he insisted. “The stuff they brew here is a touch rugged.”

I tasted my own coffee. It was fine. Patch offered the flask around, but there were no takers.

I now turned to Kimla, who had kept largely silent since sitting down. “How about you, Miss Thorpe? How long did you know Lorraine?”

Her reply was unhurried and subdued. “Not as long as the boys here. I've only been in the city since last summer. Of course, it's so very sad.”

“Most certainly it is.” Mr. O'Nelligan matched the softness of her voice. “A very sorrowful thing. Did you have much of a connection with the woman?”

“Oh, we talked about music a little. She'd come in and take note of some song I was singing and ask about it later. Like Tim says, music was what she most cared about. I just don't like to think of how she, well…” She looked down into her cup and went silent.

Tim reached over and squeezed her hand. “I know, Kimla. It's not a very nice thought for any of us.”

Patch lifted his mug of whiskey-fortified java. “To the poor woman's memory! I drank to her when she died, and I'll drink to her now.”

Then he did. I'm pretty sure it was a duty he didn't mind discharging.

“Death is a curious creature, isn't it?” Tim said to no one in particular. “It takes hold of whatever you were and whatever you hoped to be and swallows it all whole.”

Patch became suddenly solemn. “Aye, it swallows you and, God willing, doesn't spew you back out. There are tales aplenty of the dead returning, all vapory and restless, to harass the living.”

Neil gave a grunt of agreement. “Especially when they've had a turbulent death.”

“Right you are,” Patch said. “'Tis said those are the hardest ghosts to put to rest.”

Mr. O'Nelligan blew the steam off his tea. “Perhaps it's up to us the living to help such spirits find their repose.”

“How, sir?” Neil asked.

“With truth,” said Mr. O'Nelligan. “With simple, unflinching truth.”

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

The Doonans took the stage again for a few more songs, mostly loud, raucous ones that precluded any conversation at our table. When they returned to us, I got back on course, trotting out our standard inquiries: Had Lorraine Cobble been seen just prior to her death? Did anyone know about her meeting that morning? Besides her incident with Byron Spires, had there been any other recent altercations?

Only that last question drew a noteworthy response, as delivered by Patch Doonan, who gave out a long, loud sigh—foghorn loud—and cast his eyes heavenward.

Tim smirked. “Go on and tell it, Patch. It's a tale that shows you in all your glory.”

The dour Neil actually cracked a smile. “Don't leave out the bit about your trousers.”

“If I
do
tell the tale,” said their older brother, “it wouldn't be for the amusement of you two blackguards. It would be to assist these gentlemen in their investigation.” He indicated my partner and me with a magnanimous sweep of the hand. “By providing a snapshot, as it were, of the deceased.”

“For which we would be immensely grateful,” Mr. O'Nelligan said soothingly. “Please proceed.”

Patch leaned back and lit himself a cigarette. “It was last month, about three weeks ago, I'd say.”

“So, a week before Lorraine died,” I clarified.

“Maybe only a few days before. We'd just put in a set here, the boys and me, and were kicking back a little. Herself was in attendance, sitting off on her own, giving a good listen to the next singer. Manymile Simms it was. So Lorraine's there keeping her own company, as was her preference, when this little weasel Loomis scurries over to her table.”

“Loomis—would that be a person?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Patch said. “A twitchy, toady breed of person, but, yes, technically a human being.”

“You're being cruel, Patch,” Kimla said quietly.

“Oh, come now, girl! Don't tell me you'd want to cozy up with that sort. Him with his gambling and slick ways and filthy gossip. Always sniffing about for a bit of dirt to dredge up on some poor soul or other. Is that a class of scoundrel you wish to defend?”

“She wasn't defending him,” Tim said sternly. “Back off now.”

Patch softened his tone. “No offense, Kimla. I know you've got a good heart, but don't let it bleed itself out on riffraff like Loomis Lent. The man's a barnacle. I should know; I had to share the stage with him last winter. He somehow wormed his way into a play I was in. He filled the role of third imbecile, I believe.”

“He's awkward,” Kimla countered. “And he's lonely. Lonely people can be difficult like that.”

“True enough,” Tim said. “As for the gambling, if I remember right, Patch, you've taken a wager or two off him yourself.”

Neil nodded. “Sure, you're just bitter because you've lost a few dollars to the man.”

“Blessed Mary!” Patch barked. “Are you going to let me tell the damned story or not?”

“Tell it and be done,” Neil said.

“So, as I was saying, Loomis strides on over to Lorraine's table—”

I snuck in a question. “Why would a guy like Loomis be hanging around a place like the Mercutio?”

“He fancies the music, I guess,” Patch said. “Even a barnacle can fancy music. Anyway, he plops himself down beside the formidable Miss Cobble, uninvited and undesired. When Lorraine was intent on listening to a tune, she hated to be distracted. Especially by Loomis.”

“Though those two did have a bit of an alliance,” Tim added.

“Sure they did,” Patch conceded, “but only because he provided her with spiteful tales of their fellow beings. Lorraine wasn't above reveling in gossip herself, God rest her soul. To continue, Loomis starts in to jabbering about some nonsense or other, and it's more than obvious that Lorraine wants him to vacate. Dense as the man is, he just keeps babbling on like a bloody brook. So here I am witnessing this all when a lovely notion comes to me. Promptly, I get up and find the waitress…”

“Ours?” I asked. “Ruby?”

“Nah, Ruby wouldn't have put up with it. No sense of high comedy, that one. This was some other girl that's since come and gone. So I arrange for her to deliver a bottle of wine and two glasses to Lorraine's table. Plus a little note I jotted off that says
Take your leisure, sweet lovers—the night is young
.” Patch grinned at the memory. “A nice touch, I thought that was.”

I looked for clarification. “They weren't, though? Lovers, I mean.”

“God, no!” Patch guffawed. “The heavens themselves would've cracked open had such a thing transpired. That was the beauty of my jest. Loomis, he's just befuddled by the note and the wine, but Lorraine clearly comprehends the prank and is none too pleased. She starts scanning the room, looking for who's responsible, which isn't too difficult seeing as I'm sitting there dissolving into giggles. She parades herself over and starts lashing me with that sharp tongue of hers, telling me what a famous idiot I am. To my credit, I maintain my good humor and toss up my hands in surrender. I admit to her that I'm a jackass and offer to make amends.”

“Here's where things get magical,” Neil said flatly.

Patch pushed on. “Then I reach into my pocket and pull out this little thingamabob that I'd come by. Something I'd bought earlier in the day, just for the hell of it, from one of the street merchants who are always out peddling their trinkets. It was a little stone slate with a painting on it—a raggedy fellow playing a banjo. I press it into Lorraine's hand, saying, ‘Here's a wee gift to ease the tension.' The thing is, I truly meant it as a peace offering. I'd had my laugh, but I didn't want any hard feelings.” He looked to his brothers. “I'm not mean-spirited, now am I, lads? You can say I'm a bit daft, but you can't say I'm mean-spirited.”