The Haunting Ballad (9 page)

“Sure—or a symbol of me being scared utterly shitless.” Mazzo shifted his gaze from my friend to me. “How about you, man? You look the right age. Were you in the big one?”

“I wasn't.” I left it at that, not wanting to haul out the fact that my poor eyesight and unimpressive physique had landed me a 4-F designation.

My partner took on the questioning. “Did you know Lorraine Cobble well?”

“As well as anyone around here, I suppose,” Mazzo said. “Which is to say, not well at all. Lorraine wasn't a lady who cuddled up to whole lot of folks. Kept her own counsel, dig? She was hot for the music, that's for sure. She started showing up not long after I opened the place. We got along well enough, and she steered a lot of singers over to me, which I appreciated.”

“Have you any knowledge, Mr. Mazzo, of her activities on the day she died? Of, for instance, a morning meeting she partook of?”

“A police dick came poking around a while back and was asking the same things, but no one here had seen her for at least a couple days. Which wasn't unusual. She'd just kind of float in and out. Like a phantom, you know?” Mazzo stared off for a moment. “I guess that's all she is now—a phantom. It's a lousy shame.”

“Who else at the café did she have a connection with?”

“Well, the musicians. Byron Spires, the Doonans, Kimla Thorpe, Manymile Simms … those are the ones who've played here a lot, and Lorraine was mainly interested in. If you stick around, most of them should probably be showing up tonight.”

I flashed on Minnie Bornstein's story. “How about a singer named Crimson? We heard that one night at a coffeehouse Lorraine stole all Crimson's songs and performed them as her own set.”

“Crimson? I don't think I know any Crimsons. Is it a cat or a chick?”

I wanted to say
neither fish nor fowl
but settled for “We're not sure.”

“Well, it didn't happen at the Mercutio or I'd know about it.”

“What about your staff? Were any of them connected to Lorraine?”

“My staff tends to be a fairly transient lot. Wandering wenches who put in a month or two of work, then make tracks. None of the girls that were here when Lorraine was alive are still around. That is, except for Ruby Dovavska, the one you saw a few minutes ago. Ruby's been here awhile. She waitresses, but she'll also take the stage now and again.”

“As a singer?” I asked.

“No, Ruby gives out with the verse. Poet girls in black—that's one of our bumper crops here in the Village.”

“Let me ask you this,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Do you know of any individual who would be inclined to take Miss Cobble's life?”

“That's a weighty thing, taking a life.” Mazzo paused. “I know because I've done it.”

That widened my eyes. “Oh?”

Mazzo continued. “When I was in the Pacific, I shot at least two Japanese soldiers that I know of. Shot them dead. Now, maybe they were vicious, bloodthirsty sons of bitches … or maybe they were just poor dumb kids like I was, doing whatever their generals told them to.” Mazzo pushed off from his desk and walked over to one of the shelves. He reached up and took down a statue of a dragon made of shiny green stone—jade, I guessed—and cradled it in his hands.

“This comes from Japan, and all those, too.” He nodded back toward the row of statues behind him. “I was never one of those guys who went in for battlefield souvenirs. I never purloined a pistol or a bayonet, or pried out the gold fillings from a corpse. After I came home, though, I started to collect these Japanese statues. It's sort of my way of saying to those two dead cats, ‘Hey, I'm damned sorry I had to kill you, but I keep a little bit of your world on hand to remember you by.'”

I wasn't sure what the heck to think about that, though I noticed Mr. O'Nelligan was nodding thoughtfully beside me. Knowing something of his history, it suddenly occurred to me that I was the only one in the room who hadn't slain a man in battle. It was a sobering thought.

Mazzo replaced the dragon on its shelf. “Got a little off track, didn't I? You were asking if I knew of anyone around here who could kill Lorraine. Well, my first impulse is to say ‘hell no.' It's one thing to find somebody annoying and aggravating; it's another to actually hurl them off a roof like you're suggesting. On the other hand, if I slap on my philosopher's cap, I'd have to admit that the world can be one cruel, crazy playground—Guadalcanal taught me that—and dark things happen, man.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Dark things do happen. The question here is did they happen in this particular situation.”

“Either way, the answer's yes, isn't it?” Mazzo gave a bitter little laugh. “I mean, whether Lorraine jumped or was pushed, it wasn't exactly a big beautiful moment of splendor, now was it?”

“Of course, you're correct,” my partner said. “The loss of life, in whatever circumstances, is always a regretful affair.”

Mazzo pushed on. “Anyway, I don't buy into the homicide angle. Though, to tell the truth, I'd almost rather it was murder than suicide. I was pretty ticked off at her when they said Lorraine had done herself in. Death will chase you down soon enough, Jack. There's no need to do the bastard's job for him.”

“A sound point of view,” Mr. O'Nelligan said.

Mazzo shifted gears. “Hey, so you're Irish, yeah?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“You'll definitely want to meet the Doonan Brothers. They're like walking shamrocks, those boys.”

“Is that so?” My partner's tone suggested that this image didn't wholly appeal to him. “Then I shall look forward to our imminent encounter.”

Mazzo whistled. “You have yourself a poet's tongue there, don't you, dad? Plus you've got that brogue to back it up. We Italians know food and
amore,
but you Irish trump us with the wordplay.”

“Don't sell yourself short,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “After all, you can boast Dante and Boccaccio as your national treasures.”

“Yeah, those cats could definitely wield a quill pen, but for free-form babbling I tip my hat to you sons of Erin.”

Their ping-pong game of admiration was interrupted by Ruby, who stopped in to announce dryly that the Mercutio was filling up and that Mazzo's presence would be highly appreciated. Or more specifically, “It's getting busy. Don't let me drown out there.”

After she exited, Mr. O'Nelligan turned to our host. “That young lady is certainly no meek subordinate, is she?”

“God no.” The impresario smirked. “Ruby ain't subordinate to nobody.”

“Somewhat like Lorraine Cobble?” I suggested.

“Two entirely different specimens. Whereas Lorraine would combust, Ruby just…” Mazzo searched for a word. “Simmers.”

“In more ways than one, maybe?” I said, hoping I didn't sound too lascivious.

Mazzo narrowed his eyes and grinned at me. “Fancy her,
amico mio
?”

I sputtered out something that was meant as a denial, but it only caused his grin to broaden.

“No shame, man,” he said. “If I went in for chicks, I'd probably fancy her, too.”

“Oh,” I replied.

“Well, I've got to get back to work,” Mazzo continued. “You gents, too, I guess. Just don't nut out my clientele, okay?”

I assured him that no nutting out was planned. By God, we were professionals.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

Returning to the crowded main room, Mazzo told us to find a seat and settle in; he'd introduce us to various musicians as they showed up. As our host went off to his duties, my partner and I nabbed a corner table directly under a large circus poster of acrobats leaping over several enraged lions.

I indicated the gaudy image. “Not the healthiest pastime, is it?”

“Ah, but is it not an allegory for the human condition itself?” Mr. O'Nelligan mused. “Do we not all, at times, find ourselves vaulting perilously over the savage beasts of life?”

“Sure. What's an allegory?”

Mr. O'Nelligan let out one of his patented soul-weary sighs, the ones he seemed to reserve just for me and my denseness. “Oh, lad, you're an astounding fellow.”

I guessed that a “thank you” wasn't the appropriate response.

The same performer as before was still onstage, midway through a song, and I was able to take more note of her now. She had a light brown complexion, a close-cropped halo of dark hair, and a gentle expression—calm and thoughtful, with maybe a touch of soft sadness. In contrast to the black garb favored by many in the room, she was dressed in a white blouse and a lavender gypsy skirt.

Ruby approached our table and asked for our order. I went for coffee since it was, after all, a coffeehouse. Mr. O'Nelligan, of course, had to be different.

“I hope requesting tea is acceptable, dear miss, since coffee is no doubt the paradigm here.”

I winced. Did he really have to use one of his triple-jointed words on this young beauty?

Our waitress ran a hand through her long black locks and smiled mildly. “It's fine. Coffee hasn't been paradigmatic at Mercutio's for eons.”

Obviously, Ruby wasn't intimidated by a flashy vocabulary. She pivoted and resumed her rounds.

After the last guitar strum and the accompanying applause, the singer onstage offered the crowd a Mona Lisa smile. “Thank you so much. Now here's a song from Madrid. It's about love and loss.”

She sang the forlorn ballad sweetly, performing much of it in its language of origin. Next came a Dutch children's ditty about a candlestick maker. As the last note trailed off, a male voice, strident and Irish, called out from near the front door.

“Grand stuff! Sing us another ten or twenty, won't you?”

Heads turned, including my own. The speaker was a barrel-chested man of under thirty with a broad smile and a head full of tight black curls. Flanking him were two other young men who appeared to be his juniors. The youngest-looking I recognized from my last visit—it was Tim, guitar in hand, the kid who'd been onstage when Lorraine Cobble exploded so memorably. The trio clearly shared a common bloodline, and all wore the same dark green turtleneck sweaters. Here, no doubt, were the Doonan Brothers.

The central Doonan called out again. “Keep at it, lass! God knows, no one wants to hear
our
rough-hewn voices.”

The singer onstage answered pleasantly. “Now, Patch, you know that's not true. Everyone's eager to hear you boys.”

“Ah, Kimla, you're the soul of charity,” Patch replied.

The young woman turned back to the audience. “I give you now the Doonans from Galway. Patch, Neil, and Tim.”

She stepped off the stage, and the three Irishmen marched on. Without ceremony, they launched into a rambunctious song that had something to do with whiskey and the devil. Tim handled the guitar work, while the one who had to be Neil added a pennywhistle between stanzas. The raucous Patch contented himself with belting out each and every line and punching the air sporadically.

I whispered to my friend, “Does this bring you back to the old isle?”

“We could well be burrowed into a cozy little pub down some country lane.”

The Doonans delivered a half-dozen songs—some boisterous, some poignant—on a variety of subjects including fair young maids, disrupted wakes, dispersed rebellions, and plucky highwaymen. Their last number was done a cappella with Tim taking on the solo part. As I'd noticed on my previous visit, he had a strong yet angelic voice that rang every drop of emotion out of a slow ballad. He did particular justice to the present lyrics:

“Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;

She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.”

Mr. O'Nelligan seemed transfixed by this song. “Yeats,” he said under his breath, and over the subsequent applause, he could be heard calling out, “Exquisite!”

Announcing that there would be a break, the Doonans left the stage and commandeered a table next to ours that had just been vacated. The young woman singer came over and took a seat beside Tim, who leaned over and gave her lips a brief but tender kiss.

“Nice set,” she said to him.

Tim returned the compliment. “You did a lovely set yourself, Kimla.”

She bestowed on him her gentle smile. “Were you even here for it?”

“Only caught the last song,” Tim admitted sheepishly. “We would have been here for the whole thing if it weren't for Patch.”

“Aye, I fully accept the blame,” Patch said. “I insisted we stop in at the White Horse for a nice jar of ale. As these things go, one jar became three.”

“Only for you,” Tim contradicted. “Neil and I stuck to the one.”

Patch gave a mock scowl. “Well, I'm the oldest. I have to take on the brunt of things, don't I now?”

Neil, whom I took to be the middle brother, rolled his eyes and muttered, “A true saint, this one.”

As crowded as the room had become, our two parties were now almost squeezed together. Up close, the family resemblance among the three Doonans was even more evident. All had pleasant oval faces and thick dark hair, though Patch's mane was curlier and faintly tinged with red. Only in the nose department did each Doonan firmly go his own way. Tim's was slightly upturned, giving him an appropriately boyish look, while Neil's was straight, precise, and practical. As for Patch, his snout was a flat, puggish affair that made me wonder it hadn't been introduced to a well-aimed fist or two.

Mr. O'Nelligan now leaned over and addressed our neighbors. “May I offer you my compliments, gentlemen—and to you, young lady—for your performances.” Then, turning to Tim Doonan, he added, “Mr. Yeats would unquestionably be pleased by your rendition of ‘Down by the Salley Gardens.' A grand poem, and a grand song you made of it.”