The Haunting Ballad (20 page)

Poetry, even at its most concrete, usually left me perplexed. Ruby's verses shot over me like a squadron of jet planes. For the most part, I couldn't tell what the hell was happening. Each line started with the phrase “The billboards of lunacy proclaim…” and then went on to further confound me. For example:

“The billboards of lunacy proclaim that Burbank mates with demons.

The billboards of lunacy proclaim that Sacco ate Vanzetti.

The billboards of lunacy proclaim that malt shops breed new Hitlers.

The billboards of lunacy proclaim that Death's a frantic puppet…”

I whispered to Mr. O'Nelligan, “You're the poetry connoisseur. Do you get any of this?”

“Well, it's certainly not Yeats,” he whispered back.

“Guess not. Tell me, do you think it's true?”

“Do I think
what's
true?”

“That Death's a frantic puppet?” I tried to sound concerned. “Because that would really unnerve me.”

My friend held a firm finger to his lips.

Ruby's second offering was called “Epidermis Enchantress.” Her description of the title character was so lurid that, in comparison, Mazzo's nude cowpoke now seemed like a Puritan. It suddenly occurred to me that since Audrey had recently been partaking of the local nightlife, this sort of fare might have become commonplace to her. A prudish little shudder passed through me as I imagined my fiancée swaying dreamily to the carnal rhythms of beat poetry.

Patch Doonan reached over and poked my shoulder. “Sweet Ruby knows how to titillate, doesn't she now?”

“Sure.”

“At a loss for words, eh? By the way, in case you're interested, there's Loomis Lent standing over there in the corner. He's the little ne'er-do-well I've told you about.”

Patch pointed across the crowded room to a short man half-heartedly watching Ruby's reading. Lent was five feet six at best, probably in his late thirties, with a longish nose, untidy blond hair, and a smudgy mustache. His nondescript clothes looked like they'd been slept in. In fact, everything about the guy seemed rumpled.

“Perhaps we should have a word with him,” Mr. O'Nelligan said.

“If it pleases you, but keep a hand on your wallets.” Patch glanced at Kimla. “Now, don't go bounding madly to his defense, girl. Who knows what manner of mischief that rat's inclined to?”

“Stow it, Patch.” Tim stared warningly at his brother. “I've told you not to harass Kimla.”

The young woman patted Tim's arm. “It's all right. I'm not feeling harassed.”

Patch flashed a toothy grin. “See, Timbo? The lasses always find me charming.”

“I wouldn't go as far as that,” Kimla said with a sly little smile.

Patch laughed loudly. “Oh, you wee provoker!”

“Hush now and listen to the damned poem!” Neil Doonan demanded, though I think he was barely listening himself.

That might have changed once Ruby began screaming out a long string of profanities. At that point, I figure, everyone was listening. I certainly was as she ended with a fiery declaration:

“Kill! Kill! We live just to kill!”

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

As the word “kill” echoed across the hushed room, Ruby yielded the stage to another poet. Patch led us over to where Loomis Lent stood slumped against a wall directly beneath a sideshow poster featuring Yazzy the Astounding Rodent Lad. The gaudy illustration showed an individual with jutting teeth and an impossibly extended nose. In view of Patch's uncharitable references to Loomis, the poster seemed ironic.

Ignoring my partner and me, Loomis fixed Patch with a harsh stare. “What do you want, Doonan?”

Patch grinned tauntingly. “Why the tone of spite, Loomis? I'm only attempting to expand your social circle. These gentlemen here would like to make your acquaintance.”

Loomis eyed us with suspicion. “Who are they?”

“I'll let them handle their own introductions. Just don't be an utter shite, will you now, Lent? That's a good fellow.”

“Go to hell!”

“All in good time.” Patch turned and winked at me. “Remember what I said about your wallets.”

Once Doonan had left us, Loomis tensed and pressed himself deeper into his corner. “What do you people want from me?”

“Just a moment of your time, sir.” Mr. O'Nelligan said.

As my colleague laid out our pedigree and purpose, Loomis listened intently, his eyes widening.

“This is superb!” He seemed weirdly thrilled. “Really superb! Yeah, private eyes … that's just what's needed.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

Loomis glanced furtively around, as if fearing eavesdroppers, then signaled us to follow him. Moments later, the three of us were standing outside in the amber circle of a streetlamp's glow. Loomis ran a twitchy hand across his face in what might have been an effort to smooth his mustache. Instead the gesture left his upper lip looking like an overused toothbrush.

“I told everyone that Lorraine didn't bump herself off,” he said, agitation propelling his words. “Does anybody ever believe Loomis? No they do not! Though maybe they will now, huh? Now that you guys are kicking over stones. What's under them, that's what I want to know. Maybe bones and secrets, yeah? Poor Lorraine!”

I halted his rant. “We're not jumping to any conclusions, one way or another. We're just—”

“This dirty, filthy city!” Loomis raced on. “The Village is part of it. Don't let the so-called hepcats here fool you that they're knee-deep in paradise. Hell no, there's plenty of putridity all around. You guys know what putridity is?”

Mr. O'Nelligan did, of course. “Decay. Decomposition. Corruption.”

Loomis nodded emphatically. “That's it! The earth's depraved with putridity and stinking of violence—the Bible says something like that.”

“Well, yes,
something
like that,” my partner conceded.

“And now Lorraine's dead,” Loomis said in a tone of finality.

Somehow I was missing his point here.

Mr. O'Nelligan got back to business. “Mr. Lent, your name has come up occasionally in reference to Miss Cobble.”

“Sure, why shouldn't it? We were musketeers.”

“Musketeers?”

“Yeah, like in
The Three Musketeers,
only there were two of us. It's that book, you know. By some French guy.”

“I'm well aware of the works of Monsieur Dumas,” my partner sniffed. “Père
and
fils. So you're claiming that your relationship was a close one?”

“Yeah, yeah. Like I say, musketeers. That's what I called us.”

“Right, but did
she
call you that?” I asked. “Or was Lorraine not that gushing about your friendship?”

“Lorraine never gushed about anyone or anything.” Loomis sounded defensive now. “I mean, for example, she and I were out having a drink together this past Boxing Day, when who should walk into the lounge but Zelda Fitzgerald. Yeah, F. Scott's wife! We had a martini with her even, but Lorraine didn't act impressed at all, and this was Zelda Fitzgerald we're talking about.”

Mr. O'Nelligan eyed him carefully. “This past winter, you say?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“Sir, Zelda Fitzgerald died a good number of years ago. Back in 1948, I believe.”

“No, this was her.”

“I think not.”

“Or maybe F. Scott's other wife.”

“There was only one Mrs. Fitzgerald,” my partner stated.

Wisely, Loomis let it go—maybe sensing it was dangerous to play chicken with Mr. O'Nelligan where literary data was concerned.

“Anyway, how did my name come up?” he wanted to know.

Briefly, I recounted the story about Patch Doonan sending the bottle of wine over to Loomis and Lorraine, and her subsequent outburst.

Loomis responded with a scowl. “Yeah, Doonan's a goddamned idiot. Always trying to stir things up and get my goat. Stupid mick.” Then, seeming to remember my colleague's brogue, he added, “I enjoy the Irish for the most part. Especially when they're sober.”

You really haven't experienced a withering look unless you've received one from Mr. O'Nelligan—as Loomis learned at that moment. Properly withered, he dropped his eyes and gave his mustache another rumpling swipe.

My partner continued evenly. “Would you say Lorraine's reaction to Patch was threatening in any way?”

“If it was, he deserved it,” Loomis muttered. “Damned Doonan.”

“Was there menace in her tone that night?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.

Loomis smiled feebly. “There was always a little menace in her tone. That's what was so outstanding about Lorraine. She never let anyone get the better of her.”

In my mind's eye, I saw a sinister phantom hurling a woman off a rooftop. If Mr. O'Nelligan was right, someone had indeed gotten the better of Lorraine Cobble.

“There was another anecdote that concerned you,” my colleague said. “Regarding Lorraine dragging you out of McSorley's one evening.”

“Yeah, that was real gutsy of her!” Loomis seemed fond of the memory. “Everybody knows McSorley's has a strict no-females policy. Lorraine, she didn't give a damn.”

“So what did she want you for?” I asked.

“Want me for?” Loomis wrinkled his brow. “What do you mean? I've told you already—she and I were like musketeers. All for one and one for all.”

“Yeah, we get that,” I said. “What was the urgency that night at McSorley's? Why'd she drag you away from all the other nice boys?”

Loomis' face reddened. “I don't like to be belittled, brother. I hold my own in this town. I know how to navigate, understand? I navigate through all the crap and putridity. Not like some of these poets and perverts around here.”

“I wasn't trying to—”

“I hold my own! Lorraine, she always appreciated Loomis Lent. She knew she could count on me for the truth.”

“For the truth of what?”

“The truth of people's souls! Their lousy, poisoned souls!”

I wanted to ask Loomis who the heck fed him his lines, but he kept barreling on.

“Lorraine was a special person! It was like she was made of music, you know? Like she was some slow sad song that nobody understood.”

“Except perhaps you?” Mr. O'Nelligan suggested.

“I dunno, maybe…” Loomis scrutinized his shoes for several seconds, then reared back his unkempt head. “She needs to be avenged! The cops were completely useless. You get that sonuvabitch who killed Lorraine and nail his head to the wall. Will you do that for me? For Lorraine?”

“Well, head nailing isn't traditionally in our line,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “We will, however, certainly endeavor to find the truth.”

Though not the lousy-poisoned-souls variety,
I longed to add.

My partner moved on. “Mr. Lent, do you have any theories as to who would want to harm your friend?”

“Nah, that's your profession, not mine. You're the ones who get paid to figure things out.”

“By the way,” I said. “What's
your
profession?”

Loomis squared his shoulders in a posture of pride. “I'm a speculator. Like, for example, I can help you guys speculate on the Dodgers' chances of triumphing Tuesday. It's opening day and the Bums take on Philly. Campanella's due for a good season. There's all that talk of moving the team out of Brooklyn, but that's just bull. Pure bull! Campy and the boys are here to stay, and Tuesday looks golden. Want to make a little side profit while you're doing your investigating?”

“No, that's all right,” I said. “We'll just survive on our meager earnings.”

“Suit yourselves. If you change your mind, just come tug on my sleeve. I'll be inside for a little bit more.” Loomis started toward the door but did a double take and turned back to us. “Hey, I just remembered what Lorraine wanted that night.”

“The night at McSorley's?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah. She was pretty heated up and wanted to ask me about a particular musician who was around back then. A guy named Cardinal.”

Cardinal again. “What did she want to know?”

“She'd just gotten a letter from him. A nasty one.”

“When was this?”

“I dunno. February? Maybe March. Anyway, she wanted to see if I'd heard anything about the guy. Because, you know, I'm the kind of person who hears things.”

“Had you?”

Loomis shrugged. “Not much. Only that he was Canadian and played banjo—but she knew that already—and that he was a magician.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said—a magician. Yanking rabbits out of hats, making girls disappear … that sort of stuff. He was a quick-change artist, too. Before he took up the music, he'd had himself a magic act—Cardinal the Conjurer. I think he did it for a year or two.”

“How did you know this, Mr. Lent?” my partner asked.

The prideful look returned. “Like I told you, I'm the kind that hears things.”

“A useful gift, no doubt. How did Miss Cobble take the imparted information?”

“You mean that Cardinal had been a magician? Neither one way or another, I guess. It's not like Lorraine was afraid he'd saw her in half or anything. Anyway, that's what I've got for you. Like I say, if you're up for speculating, don't be shy. I'm taking odds on Sugar Hart over Pineapple Stevenson in the welterweight bout.”

“We'll decline both Mr. Sugar and Mr. Pineapple,” my partner countered. “Still, thank you for the offer.”

“Whatever suits you. Just avenge Lorraine, okay? Get the gruesome creep who killed her. He was a goddamned blue darter, y'know? Aiming right at my poor Lorraine.”

With that, Loomis Lent zipped back into the Mercutio.