The Haunting Ballad

by Michael Nethercott

  Glancing across the street, I noticed a drugstore—a good bet for finding a telephone. “Let’s go get the official lowdown on all this. That is, if the local Dick Tracy’s in a sharing mood.”

  A minute later, wedged in the store’s phone booth, I consulted Sally Joan’s list and dialed up the police station. “Is Detective Wilton in?”

  The cop at the desk shouted out, “Is Smack Wilton here? Anybody seen Smack?”

  Smack? Why did that ring a bell?

  Soon a hoarse, impatient voice came on. “Wilton here. Who’s this?”

  I gave him my name, profession, and home base.

  “Plunkett?” Wilton’s voice lifted slightly. “From Thelmont? Wait, are you related to Buster Plunkett?”

  “He was my father.”

  “Goddammit!” he responded merrily. “Sonuvabitch was a pal of mine. We were flatfoots together back in Hartford before he decided to go solo. Had the right idea, your old man. Shoulda become a private dick myself, but I ended up down here with the dope fiends and bureaucrats. Remember me, kid? Smack Wilton?”

  “Definitely,” I said, by which I meant not really. After all, my father had a small legion of cronies with names like Lefty and Loopy and Bazooka and—sure, why not—Smack. Judging by his sandpaper growl, I imagined Wilton to be one of the big sloppy palookas that Dad so delighted in.

  He plunged on. “Yeah, I used to come over to Thelmont sometimes for Buster’s poker games. Remember those?”

  “Sure do.” In truth, I’d tried to forget those drunken, deafening, borderline violent soirees that Dad had hosted in the years following my mother’s death.

  “I remember you, too, kid. You were a scrawny little runt. Beefed up, have you?”

  “Not so you’d notice. Listen, Detective Wilton—”

  “Make it Smack. You and I go back a ways.”

  “Smack … I’ve been hired by Lorraine Cobble’s cousin to look into her death. She suspects foul play.”

  “Cobble, oh yeah. The dame who went skydiving without a parachute, right?”

  Jesus. “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “Listen, pal, there’s nothing there.”

  “Probably not, but her cousin—”

  “Yeah, I remember the cousin,” Smack said. “Cute little number, sweet disposition and all, but she just couldn’t accept the facts. Believe me, there wasn’t a damn thing that pointed to anything murky. Seems the Cobble dame just decided it was arrivederci time and took the leap. Not unusual with these artsy types down here. They’re all so goddamn high-strung and mopey, with their poetry and black clothes and depressing songs. Christ! You want songs? Listen to some Glenn Miller, for God’s sake. Put on a little ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ and you won’t be wanting to fling your ass off a roof.”

  Clearly, the man was a philosopher. I let Smack ramble on for a minute about music and mental health, then asked him what ground he’d covered in his investigation.

  “We talked to the neighbors, which was a bust,” he told me. “A number of them were away when she made her big exit, including the ones on her floor. Those tenants still in the building that night didn’t notice a thing. I even went down to that coffeehouse where she used to hang out. Again, nobody there had much to give. How she spent her day? Who saw her last? Had anybody threatened her? Nobody I talked to had a clue.”

  “Or they did and weren’t saying.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think that’s the case here.”

  “How about alibis?”

  “Nobody seemed to know where anybody else was the night she died. It was a Sunday, and seems like everybody was off on their lonesome. That would’ve been a headache if I thought there was something that needed alibiing, but this was a clean open-and-shut deal.”

  “There was a letter, right? Something about a morning meeting?”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t die in the morning. She jumped well after dark. Like I told you, there’s nothing to uncover. By all accounts, Lorraine Cobble was a real firebrand—had a temper and knew how to use it. I just figure, in the end, her temper imploded.”

  “There’s been no hint of why she’d want to commit suicide?”

  Smack huffed. “Like I say, these Village types are an oddball lot. Who the hell knows why they do what they do? The silly damned broad has a great big woe-is-me moment, scampers up to the rooftop, and does a swan dive. End of story.”

  Suddenly I felt very uneasy. Wilton’s harsh flippancy had made me ashamed of my own. This was, after all, a human being we were talking about, not an inconvenience or a passing, snide anecdote. No one deserved to end up as a broken rag doll sprawled among the trash. As to the official inquiry into her death, it seemed to have been limply conducted at best. I was about to say as much but held my tongue. Smack might be someone I’d want in my corner one day.

  I tried to sound casual. “Well, guess I’ll just poke around town a little, seeing as I’m already on the time clock.”

  “Sure, kid. I don’t begrudge you making a few bucks on this thing, but I just wanted to give you the heads-up. It’s a fool’s errand, plain and simple.”

  “Understood,” said I, the fool. “Can I get in touch with you if anything comes up?”

  Over the line, I could almost hear Smack shrug. “Sure, why not. Hey, it’s nice to see you’ve taken up your dad’s business. I sure liked that sonuvabitch. I know Buster died a couple years back, but never heard how. Was it on the job? Did he go down swinging?”

  “No, he died over a bowl of beef stew. Heart attack.”

  “Aw, that’s too bad. Tough old bastard shoulda gone down in a hail of goddamn bullets.”

  With that tender image, I said good-bye and rang off. Stepping out from the phone booth, I found Mr. O’Nelligan standing at a magazine rack, reading one of the periodicals. Was he perusing some highbrow literary journal? Looking over his shoulder, I saw that the periodical in question was a copy of Detective Comics, its glossy cover adorned with a picture of Batman surrounded by boomerangs, or, more specifically, “The 100 Batarangs of Batman!”

  “That’s not Moby-Dick,” I observed.

  My colleague continued reading. “True, but it does possess all the elements of high adventure. Not to mention mythology.”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the old scholar engrossed in a comic. In fact, Audrey would regularly set aside a stack of them for him down at the five-and-dime. While my fiancée saw my penchant for pulp novels as juvenile, she found Mr. O’Nelligan’s funny-book fixation downright charming. Not fair at all.

  “I feel I should point out,” I said, “that just because it’s called Detective Comics doesn’t mean it offers practical sleuthing tips.”

  “I’m aware of that. A little recreational reading helps keep the brain limber between bouts of high activity.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan paused in his limbering while I gave a quick rundown of my conversation with Smack.

  “Not very helpful, was he now?” my partner noted. “Well, don’t be dispirited. We’ll just have to do better than the local gendarmerie, won’t we?”

  “Hey, Pops!” From behind the store counter, the big, grumpy proprietor wagged a cigar at us. “Looks like you already read half that thing. How ’bout you buy it?”

  Calmly, Mr. O’Nelligan closed the comic book, marched over to the counter, and plunked down a dime. “I’ll hereby enact the purchase.”

  The big guy grunted and scooped up his bounty. “Kinda old for superheroes, ain’t ya?”

  My partner took a deep breath and intoned:

  “I am of a healthy long-lived race,

  and our minds improve with age.”

  That drew a confounded gape from the proprietor.

  “William Butler Yeats,” Mr. O’Nelligan added as, purchase in hand, he led us from the store.

  Back outside, I asked, “You’re not going to conduct interviews while clutching Batman and Robin, are you?”

  Just then, from around a corner, appeared a scruffy little fellow of perh
aps ten, a shoeshine box tucked under one arm. Without missing a beat, Mr. O’Nelligan pressed the comic into the boy’s free hand.

  “For your leisure reading, young friend.”

  Paused before us, the kid mumbled a surprised thanks. My companion nodded and strode on as I hurried to keep up.

  “Fear not, Lee,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll do nothing to sully our professionalism.”

  I actually felt bad for separating him from his funny book. “I’ll buy you another one later.”

  “No need. I managed to finish the lead story back in the store and now possess a thorough understanding of Batarangs.”

  I grinned. “Great. Maybe that’ll come in handy during our investigation. In case we run into any rough characters. Thugs hate Batarangs.”

  “So goes the common wisdom,” said Mr. O’Nelligan. “Now onward! Onward to adventure!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  We stood in front of Minnie Bornstein’s store, taking in the name on the large gilt-lettered sign: TUNES AND PANTALOONS.

  “What the hell?” I muttered.

  The front door was bordered by two large display windows, each presenting a different assortment of the shop’s wares. The one to our right offered a fanned-out collection of sheet music, as well as several instruments including a tuba and what I think was a cello. The left window featured several male mannequins attired in stylish three-piece suits. Entering the store, we saw that the split-themed motif continued inside: music to the right, men’s clothing to the left. From behind a rack of music books, out popped a rotund woman in horn-rimmed glasses, her brown bangs framing a smiling full-moon face. She was squeezed into a yellow dress studded with blue and red polka dots—a daring choice considering her size and her age, which I put on the flip side of fifty.

  “Oh, hello, fellas!” she said brightly. “We were just closing, but if you know what you want…”

  From the clothing area, another figure appeared—a thin, balding man in a crisp gray suit. “Which is it, Minnie?” he asked dryly. “Songs or garments?”

  “I’m thinking they’re yours, Abe,” the woman called out, her eyes traveling down my rumpled overcoat to the worn cuffs of my pants. “At least the young fella here. Looks like he could use some nice new things. Now, you…!” She had noticed Mr. O’Nelligan, he of the natty coat, vest, and tie. “You look fine! I can tell by your deep eyes that you’re a man of the arts. What do you play? Piano, right? I’ve got all the best music, from Bach to Broadway. How about My Fair Lady? You look like Professor Higgins himself!”

  “Alas, madam, my piano playing is subpar,” my colleague said. “Though, most certainly, I’ve logged my time on the stage.”

  “An actor! An Irish one, right?” Minnie gambled. “If you could make your accent a little more English, I’m sure you could play Henry Higgins.”

  On the likelihood of passing himself off as an Englishman, the former Irish rebel offered no opinion. Instead he noted, “An interesting enterprise you have here. With an even more interesting name.”

  Minnie’s grin widened. “You’re not the first to say that, mister. See, here’s the deal. My Abe here and I came into a bit of money about two years ago, and each of us had always wanted to run a little shop.”

  “But not the same shop,” Abe added.

  “That’s right. I wanted a store where I could sell sheet music and musical instruments. Abe wanted one where he could sell clothes.”

  “Men’s fine apparel,” Abe clarified.

  “Right, but since we didn’t have enough money for two shops, we agreed to go with just one and split it down the middle—trousers for Abe, music for me. Tunes and Pantaloons.Get it? The name was my idea.”

  “And you’re welcome to it,” her husband said in a cranky singsong.

  “Oh, don’t be such a grumbler, Abe. After all, you could have ended up with a wife who didn’t have my creative streak.”

  “I should be so lucky.”

  “You know I bring panache to the business.”

  Abe gestured to his wife’s dress. “Panache? You call all those polka dots panache? They make me dizzy just looking at them.”

  “Hey, you’ve got to have fun in life! That’s why I dress like this. You stick to your grays and browns, Abe. As for me, give me a little razzle-dazzle.”

  Abe gave us the stingiest of grins. “Listen to her! At her age she wants razzle-dazzle.” He tossed up his hands. “What do you do with such a woman?”

  I felt like I was watching a vaudeville show. Seeing the two of them engaged in their easy, pleasant quarreling made me think of Audrey and me. Or, at least, the “Audrey and me” that I’d known. I wasn’t sure exactly what the updated version looked like.

  Just when I’d thought that my partner and I had been forgotten, Minnie turned back to us. “So, like Abe asked, what is it—songs or garments?”

  As succinctly as I could, I laid out who we were and why we’d come.

  Minnie’s natural bubbliness subsided at the mention of Lorraine Cobble. Now, aware of our purpose, she gestured distractedly toward the door. “Lock up, will you, Abe, while I talk to these fellas.”

  Leaving her husband to his duties, she led us to a small back room where stock from the two halves of the business seemed to overlap. Among stacks of pressed trousers and music books, we sat tightly together in a little circle of folding chairs. Minnie Bornstein expelled a deep, weary sigh and rested her hands in her lap.

  “It makes me sad to think about Lorraine,” she began. “Very, very sad. That girl had such promise. I met her when she was still in her twenties, you know, and in a way that’s how I still think of her. It’s hard to imagine her dead and in the ground.” She gave a little shudder. “Lorraine was so full of life. Not to mention chutzpah! God knows she had chutzpah. Way too much for her own good, if you ask me. Now, I know you’re not supposed to badmouth the dead, but honesty’s the best policy, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Mr. O’Nelligan answered for us.

  “I mean, why should we pretend that someone’s personality was all bells and roses just because they’re deceased? I sure wouldn’t want anyone to pretty up my memory. I’ve told Abe, ‘At my service, when you’re standing by the grave, I want you to step forward and declare, My wife was stubborn and flighty, and she ate way too many pastrami sandwiches.’ God love him, I know he’ll do just that.”

  “We understand you share some history with Lorraine,” Mr. O’Nelligan said.

  Minnie gave a knowing little nod. “Oh, right. You’re detectives. Of course you want to learn all about your suspects.”

  I tried to protest. “No, that’s not it. We’re just—”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not offended. You just said that Lorraine’s death could be suspicious. That means you’re looking at people whose feathers she may have ruffled. Certainly, you’d have to put me in that category. Though, to be quite frank, I’m just one among the many.” She paused. “Let me tell you how we met. It was back in ’41, just before the war. I’d moved down to North Carolina and was doing some transcribing work for Olive Dame Campbell. I don’t suppose either of you know who that was?”

  “A prominent collector of American folklore,” said O’Nelligan the Great Know-it-all.

  “That’s right!” Minnie looked glowingly at my partner. “You are a man of the arts. Forty years ago, Mrs. Campbell published a very influential book on Southern Appalachian folk songs. She really was the queen of the songcatchers, so, of course, Lorraine had to ingratiate herself with her. Lorraine had already starting collecting by then. She’d been to Appalachia on her own, and I think Mrs. Campbell saw something of herself in her. She hired her on to work with us.”

  “So were you a song collector then, as well?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’d done some gathering of old Yiddish songs and such, but once I’d started working for Mrs. Campbell, I got this whole different idea. I wanted to head out west and collect work songs from Navaho and Apache women. Now, I know what
you’re thinking—what would a roly-poly Jewish lady from New York do with herself out on the plains? Honestly, I was just really keen to take it on.”

  My partner unleashed his civility. “I’m sure you’d make the best of any environment, Mrs. Bornstein.”

  She dismissed the compliment with a snicker and a smile. “So what happened then is that Mrs. Campbell put me in touch with some well-to-do folks from Arizona who said they’d sponsor my project. I was ecstatic! This was a few months after Lorraine had joined us, and she and I had become friends—or so I thought. She offered to help me follow up on organizing things and ended up being in contact with the benefactors herself. Long story short, Lorraine Cobble somehow talked them into sending her and not me out to the reservations. In the end, she didn’t gather that many songs, but she sure squelched my dreams.”

  “That’s real lousy,” I said, and I meant it. “Did you ever call her on it?”

  “Of course I did, but she just insisted everyone thought she was the best choice for making the trip—because of her collecting experience and her youth. Anyway, that’s the kind of person she was.”

  “Did you have much contact with her after that?”

  “Not at first. I ended up moving back here not long after and didn’t see Lorraine for almost a decade. Then we both found ourselves living in the Village and would run into each other from time to time. I was still dabbling in song collecting, and every once in a while she and I would overlap on some project or other.”

  “You’d still work with her after what she did?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m the forgiving sort—though I made sure never to put my full trust in her again. To be honest, she was one of the few people around who I could talk with about obscure Ozark ballads or the history of Northumbrian pipes.” Minnie laughed and smoothed out her lapful of polka dots. “Oh, don’t get me going on Northumbrian pipes!”

  I didn’t. “You said there were other people Lorraine Cobble had done wrong to. Such as?”

  “Well, you could talk to the gang down at the Café Mercutio. She spent a fair amount of time there and had a number of run-ins, I understand. Talk to Tony Mazzo who owns the place.”