The Haunting Ballad

by Michael Nethercott

  “Mazzo, right.” I remembered him from my last visit.

  “He’s quite a character,” Minnie said. “Fancies himself a big patron of the arts and a renegade, to boot. He likes to brag how three or four years ago he told the anti-Communist committee to take a giant hike. So, yeah, go talk to Mazzo. Talk to the Doonans, Byron Spires—all those people.”

  I revisited my least favorite topic. “About Spires…”

  “Sure, he and Lorraine had a run-in or two.”

  “There was something about him stealing some Scottish song from her. Did you hear about that?”

  “I wouldn’t call it hers really. That song goes way back, but it’s true, she did collect it—at least that particular version. You have to understand that there’s no such thing as a single authentic version of a folk ballad. Each time a different singer gets hold of a traditional song, it just naturally undergoes changes. There’s one theory that song variations are like Darwin. Survival of the fittest, you know? Over the course of time, as a particular ballad passes from one singer to another, the best lyrics survive and the lesser ones drop away.”

  “Leaving the hardiest version?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

  “Yes, that’s it. But despite the changes, the main storyline of the ballad stays intact. What I like to call ‘the spine of the tale.’ You can add whatever meat you want—whatever variations—but the main story, the spine, still remains.” Minnie slapped her knee and offered a satisfied grin. “That, fellas, is my own little contribution to the terminology.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan smiled back at her. “A fine contribution it is, madam. So, Lorraine had quarrels with Byron Spires…”

  Minnie nodded. “Sure. Oh, and ask about … now what was the name? Crimson? Yeah, I think that’s it … Crimson Somebody. Strange name. Funny, I can’t remember if it was a guy or a girl.”

  “Who’s Crimson?” I asked.

  “A folksinger who Lorraine screwed over—pardon my language. Abe says I curse like a stevedore, but I think that’s an exaggeration. Anyhow, the story I heard is that this Crimson person had shared a pile of songs with Lorraine, let her record them and everything. Then one night at one of the coffeehouses—I forget which one—Lorraine signed on to do a set just before Crimson was scheduled to perform. Now, mind you, Lorraine was no virtuoso, but she could strum a guitar and sing a tune well enough. So what she does that night is get up and perform all of Crimson’s set. Each and every song! Of course, that left Crimson nothing to do—didn’t even bother to take the stage. Crimson confronted Lorraine later, and I guess there was hell to pay. Though, like I’ve said, this is all just what I’ve heard. You’d have to ask around to get the full story.”

  “Lorraine Cobble sounds like quite the piece of work,” I said.

  Minnie shook her head ruefully. “Not exactly a mensch, that lady. I will say this much—there is something, in a way, that I owe her. If she hadn’t done me such dirt back with the Arizona fiasco, I never would have ended up returning to New York and meeting my Abe. We wouldn’t have had our three fine boys, each as sweet as their father.”

  Thinking it best not to question the sweetness of Abe Bornstein, I simply nodded. “When was the last time you saw Lorraine?”

  The woman’s brow wrinkled. “Let me think. A month ago was it? She stopped in here to pick up a book she’d ordered.”

  “How was her comportment?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

  “You mean how was she acting? Like Lorraine Cobble—no more, no less. She was in a hurry. Lorraine was one of those people who always seem to be in a hurry, even when they’re not. I do remember she said that she’d just passed someone in the street who looked exactly like Groucho Marx, only much shorter. Funny, isn’t it? You know a person and suddenly they’re dead, and when you think back on your last encounter, all that sticks out is something silly like that—a tiny Groucho.” Minnie Bornstein paused, a look of contemplation crossing her face. “I guess if I up and died tomorrow, all they’d remember about me is sheet music and polka dots.” Then she laughed gaily. “Hell, it could be worse!”

  * * *

  AFTER TAKING LEAVE of the Bornsteins, Mr. O’Nelligan and I grabbed a quick dinner at a nearby cafeteria. My Irish comrade found the corned beef and cabbage “profoundly lackluster,” but my hamburger did me just fine.

  “So, what think you of Minnie’s reflections on Lorraine Cobble?” my partner asked between forkfuls.

  “What think I? I thinketh Miss Cobble did stinketh.” I actually giggled at my little rhyme.

  “Rather cheap.” Mr. O’Nelligan sounded unamused. “Cheap and fairly unkind.”

  “Unkind? Unless I heard wrong, Lorraine Cobble was the unkind one. Like Minnie said, honesty’s the best policy—even where a corpse is concerned. From what we’re learning, Lorraine made a hobby out of unkindness. Where other people collect stamps or seashells or flypaper, she collected nasty deeds.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan paused midbite. “One moment—flypaper? Who collects flypaper?”

  “Just me,” I mumbled. “When I was eight.”

  “Go on … I’m intrigued. Were the flies still affixed?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I grumbled. “Are we discussing the investigation or my childhood?”

  My so-called friend grinned. “When a childhood is apparently as piquant as your own, one does feel compelled to review it.”

  “Lucky for you I don’t know what piquant means. Anyway, Lorraine Cobble seems to have had a knack for making enemies.”

  “True. Which, of course, makes us wonder whether that knack led to her untimely demise.”

  “You mean it makes you wonder. My mind’s still open to the suicide theory.”

  “An open mind is an admirable thing.”

  “Then admire to your heart’s content.”

  After dinner, we reclaimed Baby Blue from her nearly boxed-in parking spot and headed across the Village for the Café Mercutio. In the reddish haze of the deepening sunset, streetlamps had begun to pop on, turning the roadway into a corridor of dappled light.

  “Do you miss the city?” I asked my friend.

  “Well, the Gotham life did have its allure. Although, after Eileen died, I was more than happy to abandon the fast pace for the pleasures of a small town. Thelmont suits me quite nicely.”

  “Still, it must have been—Christ!”

  Suddenly, from my left, a figure dashed into my headlights. Man, woman, child?—I couldn’t tell. All I saw was the swirl of a dark overcoat and the flailing of limbs. I slammed on the brakes, jolting my passenger and myself forward. In a flash, the dark figure had leapt from the road to reach the opposite sidewalk. When I looked around to see who it was I’d almost struck down, all I caught was a glimpse of the overcoat vanishing around a corner.

  I let out a deep groan. “Inches! I missed running them over by inches.”

  A half-forgotten memory came rushing back, one from about seven years before. It wasn’t long after I’d returned to Thelmont from my travels and had gotten back together with Audrey. One summer evening, we were out on a double date with another couple on our way to the movies. I still remember the main feature: Sunset Boulevard with William Holden and Gloria Swanson. I remember it because everyone says it’s a great film, though I never did get to see it because of what happened. Ernie, my counterpart, was the one driving, and even though it was still fairly light out, he just didn’t see that bicycle. It wasn’t really his fault; the boy came barreling across the street out of nowhere, like the overcoated figure just now. Ernie was able to swerve enough so as not to strike him dead-on, but he couldn’t avoid him entirely. I know “sickening thud” is a cliché, but there really isn’t a phrase that works better here. Seconds later, we were all standing on the side of the road gathered around the boy, a pudgy kid of about thirteen, who lay sprawled beside his bike. There was a bloody gash on his head where he’d hit the pavement, and his limbs were twisted at various angles. I knelt beside him and clasped his hand.

  “H
ang on. You’ll be okay.” It seemed the thing to say, even if I didn’t know it to be true.

  Ernie was staggering around like a marionette, cursing and running his hands through his hair. His girlfriend stood next to the car, as glaze-eyed and motionless as a mannequin. I glanced around to look for Audrey, but she seemed to have disappeared. Then I saw her on the front porch of the nearest house, rapping tenaciously at the door. When it opened, a man stepped out and Audrey pointed toward us, giving him quick instructions. The man nodded and vanished back inside.

  Audrey sprinted over and knelt beside me. “Someone’s calling for an ambulance.” She leaned down close to the boy’s face. “Don’t worry, we’re here with you.”

  She asked him his name, where he lived, how he felt—all the time gently stroking his hair and comforting him. I continued to grip the kid’s hand and echo Audrey’s reassurances.

  At one point, the kid whimpered, “I’m scared. I’m so scared.…”

  I squeezed his hand. “It won’t be long now.”

  Audrey managed to summon up a little smile for him. “I know this is kind of scary, but you want to talk real scary? Teeth-chattering scary? You should have seen me yesterday. I’d been swimming at the town pool and forgot to towel my head off afterward. When I got home and looked in the mirror, boy oh boy, I nearly jumped! My hair was all tangled up and sticking out in every direction. I looked like Medusa. Do you know who she is?”

  “Snakes,” the boy said softly, accepting the distraction. “She had snakes for hair.”

  “Exactly! Since my hair isn’t very long, it looked like I had a head full of stubby little baby snakes. Yikes!”

  That actually got a small laugh out of the boy, and he looked grateful for the story. In the course of the ordeal, our companions proved useless, having detached themselves from the ongoing drama, but Audrey was focused and solid throughout. Before long, the ambulance arrived and whisked off the boy (who, we later learned, had sustained a mild concussion and some nasty bruises). As the ambulance was driving away, siren wailing, Audrey and I met each other’s eyes. I think, at that moment, we were both sharing the same thought—we made a pretty good team.

  Mr. O’Nelligan returned me to the present. “Are you all right, Lee?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Shaken but not shattered.”

  “He … she … just came out of nowhere.”

  “Aye. Like life itself, one might say.”

  “Or death,” I said.

  The car behind us began honking insistently, reminding me that we were paused in the middle of the road. I shifted and kicked in the gas, and we shot forward into the twilight, two raddled knights resuming their quest.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After parking, we still had a couple of blocks to walk to the Mercutio. Now firmly in the heart of bohemia, we navigated through a stream of locals, many young and casually dressed. There seemed to be a disproportionate number of them in black, and several were sporting sunglasses—despite the fact that the sun had gone down. We passed bookstores, record shops, magazine stands, restaurants, and cafés. Leaning against one stretch of brick wall, a dozen paintings, framed and unframed, formed a sort of impromptu art gallery. Most of these works were vivid, chaotic explosions of color, all with price tags affixed. A little ways beyond, standing outside a storefront labeled FOLKLORE SOCIETY, one young man was playing a harmonica while another juggled a trio of alarm clocks. Yes, alarm clocks.

  Just as I had a month before, I entered the sawdust-strewn, candlelit Café Mercutio to the strumming of a guitar and the greetings of the Grand Mazzo.

  “A thousand welcomes!” Mazzo called out. “First time for you gents?”

  “Indeed, for me it is,” Mr. O’Nelligan answered, “but not for my companion here.”

  Our host looked at me without recognition. I mentioned my last visit and informed him of the reason for the current one.

  “Ah, Lorraine…” He shook his head slowly. “She could be a jumbo-sized drag at times, but she had a spark, you know? A fairly hep duchess when she wasn’t going all ape.”

  Figuring I got the gist of that, I asked if he could spare a few minutes to talk with us.

  “It’s Friday night and the joint’s starting to fill up. But sure … a few minutes.” Mazzo turned and called across the room. “Hey, Ruby!”

  In response, a bohemian princess appeared before us, one hand balancing a tray of mugs and the other resting on her hip. She was slender but curvy, decked out all in black—sweatshirt, scarf, and tight pants—with straight jet-black hair that hung almost to her waist. Her lack of makeup made for a clear view of dark deep eyes, high cheekbones, a slightly crooked nose, and an old scar that curved under her left eye in a perfect half-moon. Somehow this combination of features worked well for her. If she wasn’t exactly beautiful, she was in close proximity to it.

  “What do you need?” Her voice was languid and compelling.

  “I’ve got to go converse with these gents for a few minutes,” Mazzo told her. “Toss out a welcome to anyone who comes in, will you? I’ll be out back if you need me.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Ruby responded, though her tone suggested anything but.

  As we followed Mazzo past the small stage, I caught a glimpse of the performer—a young Negro woman seated on a stool, swaying gently in place as she plucked her guitar and sang. Her husky voice seemed much larger than her petite frame would contain. The lyrics followed us as we left the room:

  “Who can tame the wild tides?

  Tell, who can brave the storm?

  Oh, if I had the answer, child,

  I’d keep you from all harm.”

  Mazzo ushered us through a small room with a couple of old couches—the musicians’ hangout, no doubt, now empty—into a back room that looked to be a cross between an office and a museum. Surrounding a nondescript desk and a few chairs, the walls were lined with shelves chock-filled with various odds and ends: knickknacks and paperbacks; bells, shells, and gnarled chunks of driftwood; glass bottles filled with marbles, brass buttons, dice, and doll’s eyes; numerous statues that seemed to hail from the Orient; and, most abundantly, old shoes. Lots and lots of shoes—men’s, women’s, and children’s—scattered among the other objects. Somehow, I found that unsettling.

  Mazzo gestured us into two available chairs and perched himself on the edge of the desk. Gazing down at us, he lazily twirled his large, curled mustache, looking every inch the impresario.

  I started things off. “How long have you had this place, Mr. Mazzo?”

  “Going on three years. Before I got here it was a shoe repair shop.”

  That explained the footwear. One mystery solved, my mind could now rest easier.

  He gestured around the room. “I found a bunch of the leftovers in the basement and decided to put them in my little temple of art.”

  “Shoes are art?” I needed to ask.

  “Everything can be art, my friend,” our host informed me. “Shoes, buttons, bow ties, plastic eyeballs … the breath from your lungs and the sweat from your brow. All art. Get it?”

  I hoped my strained smile registered as a resounding yes.

  Mr. O’Nelligan joined in. “How did you arrive at the name of your enterprise here, good sir? I ask because, in my youth, I had the fortune to play Mercutio with a touring troupe. His Queen Mab speech is sublime—

  “She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes

  In shape no bigger than an agate stone

  On the forefinger of an alderman.”

  Mazzo nodded. “Yeah, Mercutio’s my favorite character in Romeo and Juliet. He’s one worthy cat—full of dreams and derring-do. As to how I landed on that appellation, well, not long before I bought this place, Joe McCarthy’s boys came after me…”

  “The House Un-American Activities Committee?” I asked.

  “Not exactly, but it was a couple of McCarthy’s lackeys pressuring me to turn Judas on some friends of mine. Anytime they pushed me for a
name, I’d just give them some character from Shakespeare. Oh, yeah, it’s Mercutio you want. Brutus, Portia, Othello—those are the Commie creeps you’re after. After twisting their brains in knots, I basically told those apes that if they dragged me in front of some Red-baiting committee, I’d cause them havoc and hellfire. I guess I made my point, ’cause they backed off.”

  “Thus sparing your friends further trouble,” Mr. O’Nelligan noted.

  “Unfortunately, somehow they still got at my friends. I take some solace in knowing that Edward R. Murrow finally took McCarthy down. I’ve heard that old Tail Gunner Joe has drunk himself nearly to death and is on his last legs at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda. Anyway, I figured ‘Mercutio’ was fitting for what I wanted to set up here. Fiery and lyrical, you know?”

  “You have a passion for music and poetry, then?”

  “Music, poetry, revelry…” He paused and grinned. “And debauchery when the mood hits me.”

  “I see.” If Mr. O’Nelligan had an opinion on debauchery, his tone didn’t reveal it.

  Mazzo pressed on. “Yeah, these days I’m mingling with the muse—and, be advised, she is one jealous chick. It’s not like I haven’t put in my time on the great American treadmill. Along the way, I’ve been a bread baker, a soda jerk, a machinist, and an encyclopedia salesman. Plus I did my stint with ol’ Uncle Sammy. At Guadalcanal, back in ’42, I had a mortar shell slam into a tree just a foot from my skull. Not long after that, I acquired this little memento.” He pointed to the white shock of hair above his temple. “I always thought it was a myth that a scare could turn your hair white. Apparently not.”

  “You might consider it as a badge of service,” Mr. O’Nelligan suggested.

  “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.