The Haunting Ballad (17 page)

Neither my colleague nor I said anything, just letting that fact settle over us.

“He was pretty much lurking in the shadows,” Cornelius continued. “Kind of peculiar now that I think back on it—that boy skulking about that way. You might want to have a chat with him.”

“Yeah, we just might,” I said. “A lovely little chat.”

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

Cornelius told us how to find Escobar's Grocery, then vanished back into his apartment. Before leaving the building, Mr. O'Nelligan and I decided to try the other tenant on Lorraine's floor. If Detective Smack had blown it with Cornelius, maybe he'd done the same with Lorraine's next-door neighbor. In this case he hadn't. That individual—a vacuum cleaner salesman who'd only lived there a few months—informed us that he'd been out of town for nearly two weeks at the time of Lorraine Cobble's death. He'd barely even met her. Well, at least Smack had gotten that one right. We next checked to see if Sally Joan was still on the premises, but it seems she'd already left to catch her bus. When we descended to the street, we found Tim Doonan, clutching a couple of songbooks and doing his best to flag down a taxi. One whizzed by him without stopping.

He swore pleasantly and turned to us. “There always seem to be swarms of the buggers when you don't need one, but when you finally do, they're scarce as dodo birds. At least Sally Joan managed to catch one, running late as she was.”

“I've a question, young sir,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “What is your assessment of Cornelius Boyle's senses?”

“You mean his wits?”

“Well, those and his sensory skills.”

“Wits-wise, I hope I'm as sharp when I'm half his age. As for his physical abilities, they might not be quite as spiffy as he'd like to believe, but considering how long they've served him, they're still pretty damned good. After all, the man breathed the same air as Abe Lincoln, didn't he now? As Patch put it, ‘If Cornelius were a tree, he'd have more rings than a brides' convention.'”

“An idiosyncratic comparison,” Mr. O'Nelligan noted. (For
him
to label a thing idiosyncratic was really saying something.) “Speaking of your brother, you were starting to tell last night about his relationship with the waitress Ruby.”

Tim stared at him. “Is it gossip you're after, Mr. O'Nelligan? You don't strike me as the type.”

“We're conducting an investigation,” my partner countered in an even tone. “It's helpful to know about those who peopled Miss Cobble's universe. One never knows what facts might prove useful.”

Tim shrugged. “Not much to tell there. Patch and Ruby had themselves a bit of an interlude a couple months back. Briefly, you understand. Ruby has rather a penchant for that—brief interludes. Here in the Village it's not like it is back in old Erin, Mr. O'Nelligan. The young women can be somewhat more … casual, shall we say? Not to shock you…”

“I have spent time in the theater world,” my colleague informed him. “I'm not easily shocked.”

Tim smiled. “No, I suppose you wouldn't be, then.”

The Unshockable O'Nelligan continued. “As to your relationship with Miss Kimla Thorpe…”

Tim raised his hand in another failed attempt to wave down a passing taxi. “Blast it. I'd better walk up to Bleecker Street. More likely to find a free cab there.”

“We'll gladly stroll with you,” my partner offered.

As the three of us walked together, Mr. O'Nelligan returned to his questioning. “Your relationship with Kimla. I presume that it's … more than an interlude?”

“Rather audacious, aren't you, sir? Well, I suppose private eyes need to be. Yes, Kimla and I are fond of each other. She's a darling girl, and I'm lucky to have found her.” Then, seemingly as an afterthought, Tim added, “Of course, if I brought her back to Galway with me, we might have a rough go of it.”

“You mean because of her race.”

“As you know, Mr. O'Nelligan, there aren't many folks of her complexion in Mother Ireland. And you surely wouldn't find a checkerboard couple such as ourselves. Here in the Village, things that'd be uncommon elsewhere are taken in stride.”

As if to illustrate this point, a man with a long, tattery beard, dressed in a Viking helmet and leather cape, crossed the street ahead of us and vanished around a corner.

“Moondog,” Tim said, as if that explained everything.

Mr. O'Nelligan was not to be distracted. “Your young lady seems to have a stillness to her. A notable calm. It was admirable last night how she pacified your brother in all his agitation.”

“Yes, Kimla knows how to soothe the savage Patch,” Tim agreed. “How to soothe me, as well. Not that I fly off the handle like my brother, but I can get churned up in my own way, and Kimla always steadies me. She's studied a bit of Buddhism, and it tells, I think.”

I got in on the conversation. “Your other brother seems a pretty cool customer.”

“Neil? Oh, sure. Neil can't be bothered to let himself get riled up. Too much expenditure of energy, y'know. Besides, as you've seen, Patch provides all the bluster that our family needs.”

We soon reached Bleecker Street, and Tim again raised his hand and began scouring the traffic.

“We'll be stopping by at the Café Mercutio tonight,” Mr. O'Nelligan told him. “Will you yourself be there?”

“I will. I'm meeting my brothers for dinner, then heading over there. Mazzo has a mix of music and poetry on Saturdays, and we're on the bill. A bunch of us are. It's always a bit of a challenge not to stumble over each other and end up covering the same songs. Of course, when we're there, the other singers pretty much stay clear of the Irish tunes.”

The wronged Cardinal suddenly jumped to mind. “Have you ever heard of a musician Lorraine supposedly—”

That's all I got out. Just then, a yellow flash shot out from the traffic and slid over to our curb. The young Irishman jumped into the rear seat of the taxi and gave us a little wave of farewell.

“I'll see you gentlemen later, then. Happy snooping.” He yanked closed the door, and the cab sped off.

Mr. O'Nelligan turned to me. “I prefer the term ‘sleuthing' to ‘snooping.' More dignity, wouldn't you say?”

“You're the one who reads dictionaries for fun,” I answered. “Not me. I don't care if they call it spelunking. Let's just get on with it.”

“Such professional fervor! Lead on, Lee Plunkett. I am ever your liege man.”

I had zero desire to know what that even meant.

*   *   *

A TEN-MINUTE WALK
brought us to our destination. The green canopy bearing the words
ESCOBAR'S GROCERY
was squeezed in between signs for the neighboring businesses, a printer's and a cigar shop. This lineup made for a peculiar (yet strangely appealing) bouquet of ink, tobacco, and fresh produce. Beneath the canopy, several wooden stands presented a colorful array of fruit and vegetables. A pudgy, dusk-toned man in an apron stood there chatting with a woman cradling a bag of potatoes. By his age, accent, and apparel, I figured that this was the store's owner—and Hector's father—Mr. Escobar. When the woman departed, we stepped forward. The grocer turned to us with a good-natured smile, and I revealed our names and occupation. Immediately, the smile took a dive.

“Investigadors?”
He stiffened. “Why do you come here?”

“We'd like to have a little talk with your son Hector,” I said slowly. “He might be able to answer some questions for us.”

His face reddened. “My son is trying to do good! There is no reason why you—”

He stopped abruptly, and I followed his gaze toward the doorway of the grocery. There stood a skinny young guy in a white shirt and black chinos, his hair whipped into a high pompadour. I wondered how long he'd been standing there. Apparently long enough … judging by the fact that he propelled himself out the door, shoved me aside, and took off down the street.

“Hector!” his father called after him, to no effect.

Now, as I've tried to make glaringly clear, I'm not the kind of PI they write hard-boiled novels about. Even if Humphrey Bogart hadn't died a few months back, I don't think he would have been anyone's first choice to play me in a film of my life. Maybe Stan Laurel. No, I was never one of that tough, tenacious breed that my dad had belonged to. So I'm not quite sure what motivated me at that moment to take off in hot pursuit of the fleet young Hector.

The teenager raced down a couple of blocks, then made a hard right turn. I sped up, my homburg flying off my head with the effort. Somehow I managed to keep pace with my quarry, but only barely. The only reason I was able to finally close the gap was that Hector turned down a narrow alley and wound up tripping over a trash can. When he emerged on the other side, I was within striking distance. To my own wonderment, I lunged—yes, lunged—and managed to grab him by the collar. We both fell to the pavement, locked together in an awkward wrestling match. We were on a back street now, not much more than an alley itself, and the few passersby all quickly made themselves scarce. All, that is, except for a quartet of young men who, in response to Hector's cries in Spanish, came running at us from down the street. In the lead was a huge, wide-chested guy in a brown bomber jacket.

From the ground, my captive looked up at them and cried,
“Toro! Ayúdame! Por favor, Toro!”

My
español
pretty much begins and ends with the word
toro,
and since the lead youth was essentially built like a bull, I figured he was the Toro in question.

He stared down at us with a quizzical look. “Hector? Hector Escobar?”

The two of them engaged in a rapid Spanish exchange, which culminated in Toro grabbing me by my shirtfront and roughly hauling me off Hector. Now back on my feet—as was Hector—I took a moment to straighten my crooked eyeglasses. I tried hard to look unintimidated as the half circle of young hombres came a step closer, Toro in the forefront.

“So you guys are his friends?” I hoped I sounded fearless.

Toro, looming and glaring, said, “My sister once dated his cousin.”

“Then that must make you blood brothers.” I sure was choosing a lousy time to find bravado.

“No jokes,” Toro cautioned me. “Why were you attacking him?”

“I wasn't. I just wanted to ask some questions, but he made a run for it.” I pulled out my wallet and displayed my investigator's license. “Look, Toro, I don't have any problems with you and your gang. All I wanted was—”

“My gang?” The bull drew himself up even taller. “Do you think that every bunch of Puerto Ricans must be a gang? Do you think we're the Apaches or the Dragons?”

“We ain't,” one of his pals spat out. “We're just us.”

“I'm an electrician's apprentice,” Toro said, pride evident in his voice. “I'm no gang bopper. I see you jumping one of my own, though, I got to step in. So, what do you want to ask Hector?”

“I'd prefer to talk to him alone.”

“I'd prefer you talk to him with us standing here.”

Since Toro was standing so well and so massively, I decided to comply. I turned to Hector. “First off, why did you run?”

The kid was intent on restoring his pummeled pompadour. “I heard you talking to Papa. Thought you were cops.”

“What if we were?”

Hector avoided my eyes. “Don't like cops much.”

“I got that. But why? You've had problems with the law?”

The kid smirked and shrugged. Toro, again reverting to Spanish, asked him something, and Hector gave what sounded like a guarded reply. That led to an extended, heated response from Toro, which, though I couldn't understand a word, had the noticeable tone of a lecture. Hector dropped his eyes to the ground and again shrugged—but this time sans the smirk.

I pressed on. “You know Cornelius Boyle? He's an old man—very old. A hundred and five. You deliver groceries to him.”

“Yes, I know him,” Hector admitted.

“Well, he told me a little story about you…” I related Cornelius' account of seeing the boy at that unusual hour and of their brief talk in the hallway.

“That wasn't me,” Hector said flatly.

“Really now? Mr. Boyle says it was. This was the night that his neighbor Lorraine Cobble died. You knew Miss Cobble?”

“I brought her groceries sometimes. Not too much. People say she killed herself.”

“Yes, that's what people say. On the same night Mr. Boyle saw you.”

“I just told you!” A new fire filled Hector's eyes. “I wasn't there that night.”

“You'd made a delivery there earlier in the day.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Then you came back after dark.”

“No!” He turned quickly to Toro, and again there was a brisk exchange in Spanish.

Toro gave Hector a little nod, patted his shoulder, and stared down at me. “Hector's a good kid. He says he wasn't there that night. He's answered your questions, mister. Now he wants you to leave him alone.”

“I'm sure he does, but I—”

“We
all
want you to leave him alone.” Toro somehow managed to expand his chest to an even greater width, and I realized the interview was over.

Without further ado, Toro turned on his heel and led the others away, Hector included. I watched them disappear around a corner and swore to myself, softly but vigorously.

*   *   *

RETRACING MY STEPS,
I only got halfway back to the grocery before I saw Mr. O'Nelligan approaching, gingerly bearing my hat.

Upon reuniting me with my homburg, he asked, “Did the youth elude you?”

“Not at all.” I described my interlude with Hector, Toro, and company in as accurate—and face-saving—a way as possible.