The Haunting Ballad

by Michael Nethercott

  “How long did you all know Lorraine?” I asked.

  “A year maybe?” Tim guessed. “She was in the audience one night when we were just starting to make a go of it. We were seeing, y’know, if we could earn a bit of a living doing what we like to do anyway. This singing thing, I mean. It wasn’t here we were performing, but at a dive across town called the Duckbill.”

  Patch groaned. “Oh, but what a dungeon that place was.”

  “It’s true.” Tim stared off and lapsed into a sort of reverie. “But when I think of that gig, what I most remember is Lorraine Cobble. I can still see her there—a handsome woman, really, with her long blond hair and fine features—sitting up front, watching and listening to us so intently. Truly getting us, if you understand me. Swaying a touch with the gentle tunes and tapping away with the wild ones. After our set, she collared the three of us and wanted to know all about the songs, their origins and all that.”

  “What I remember from that night,” Neil said, “was how intimidating she seemed. With those great piercing eyes of hers.”

  Tim nodded. “Aye, she could fairly nail you to the wall with those eyes, but she always struck me as someone who truly embedded herself in life. Or at least that part of life that interested her. The music, y’know. It was the music that seemed to connect her to the world.”

  Patch slapped the tabletop. “Brilliant, Timbo! Now, aren’t you our own wee Aristotle? You with your deep thoughts and ruminations.”

  Tim frowned. “Oh, push off, why don’t you? I’m just trying to give these fellows a sense of the woman.”

  “Which we appreciate,” I said.

  Ruby returned with our beverages, which she distributed quickly before Patch could get into anything with her. When she’d moved off, Patch dug out a small silver flask from his pants pocket and poured a liberal dose of its contents into his coffee.

  “It curbs the bitterness,” he insisted. “The stuff they brew here is a touch rugged.”

  I tasted my own coffee. It was fine. Patch offered the flask around, but there were no takers.

  I now turned to Kimla, who had kept largely silent since sitting down. “How about you, Miss Thorpe? How long did you know Lorraine?”

  Her reply was unhurried and subdued. “Not as long as the boys here. I’ve only been in the city since last summer. Of course, it’s so very sad.”

  “Most certainly it is.” Mr. O’Nelligan matched the softness of her voice. “A very sorrowful thing. Did you have much of a connection with the woman?”

  “Oh, we talked about music a little. She’d come in and take note of some song I was singing and ask about it later. Like Tim says, music was what she most cared about. I just don’t like to think of how she, well…” She looked down into her cup and went silent.

  Tim reached over and squeezed her hand. “I know, Kimla. It’s not a very nice thought for any of us.”

  Patch lifted his mug of whiskey-fortified java. “To the poor woman’s memory! I drank to her when she died, and I’ll drink to her now.”

  Then he did. I’m pretty sure it was a duty he didn’t mind discharging.

  “Death is a curious creature, isn’t it?” Tim said to no one in particular. “It takes hold of whatever you were and whatever you hoped to be and swallows it all whole.”

  Patch became suddenly solemn. “Aye, it swallows you and, God willing, doesn’t spew you back out. There are tales aplenty of the dead returning, all vapory and restless, to harass the living.”

  Neil gave a grunt of agreement. “Especially when they’ve had a turbulent death.”

  “Right you are,” Patch said. “’Tis said those are the hardest ghosts to put to rest.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan blew the steam off his tea. “Perhaps it’s up to us the living to help such spirits find their repose.”

  “How, sir?” Neil asked.

  “With truth,” said Mr. O’Nelligan. “With simple, unflinching truth.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Doonans took the stage again for a few more songs, mostly loud, raucous ones that precluded any conversation at our table. When they returned to us, I got back on course, trotting out our standard inquiries: Had Lorraine Cobble been seen just prior to her death? Did anyone know about her meeting that morning? Besides her incident with Byron Spires, had there been any other recent altercations?

  Only that last question drew a noteworthy response, as delivered by Patch Doonan, who gave out a long, loud sigh—foghorn loud—and cast his eyes heavenward.

  Tim smirked. “Go on and tell it, Patch. It’s a tale that shows you in all your glory.”

  The dour Neil actually cracked a smile. “Don’t leave out the bit about your trousers.”

  “If I do tell the tale,” said their older brother, “it wouldn’t be for the amusement of you two blackguards. It would be to assist these gentlemen in their investigation.” He indicated my partner and me with a magnanimous sweep of the hand. “By providing a snapshot, as it were, of the deceased.”

  “For which we would be immensely grateful,” Mr. O’Nelligan said soothingly. “Please proceed.”

  Patch leaned back and lit himself a cigarette. “It was last month, about three weeks ago, I’d say.”

  “So, a week before Lorraine died,” I clarified.

  “Maybe only a few days before. We’d just put in a set here, the boys and me, and were kicking back a little. Herself was in attendance, sitting off on her own, giving a good listen to the next singer. Manymile Simms it was. So Lorraine’s there keeping her own company, as was her preference, when this little weasel Loomis scurries over to her table.”

  “Loomis—would that be a person?” I asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Patch said. “A twitchy, toady breed of person, but, yes, technically a human being.”

  “You’re being cruel, Patch,” Kimla said quietly.

  “Oh, come now, girl! Don’t tell me you’d want to cozy up with that sort. Him with his gambling and slick ways and filthy gossip. Always sniffing about for a bit of dirt to dredge up on some poor soul or other. Is that a class of scoundrel you wish to defend?”

  “She wasn’t defending him,” Tim said sternly. “Back off now.”

  Patch softened his tone. “No offense, Kimla. I know you’ve got a good heart, but don’t let it bleed itself out on riffraff like Loomis Lent. The man’s a barnacle. I should know; I had to share the stage with him last winter. He somehow wormed his way into a play I was in. He filled the role of third imbecile, I believe.”

  “He’s awkward,” Kimla countered. “And he’s lonely. Lonely people can be difficult like that.”

  “True enough,” Tim said. “As for the gambling, if I remember right, Patch, you’ve taken a wager or two off him yourself.”

  Neil nodded. “Sure, you’re just bitter because you’ve lost a few dollars to the man.”

  “Blessed Mary!” Patch barked. “Are you going to let me tell the damned story or not?”

  “Tell it and be done,” Neil said.

  “So, as I was saying, Loomis strides on over to Lorraine’s table—”

  I snuck in a question. “Why would a guy like Loomis be hanging around a place like the Mercutio?”

  “He fancies the music, I guess,” Patch said. “Even a barnacle can fancy music. Anyway, he plops himself down beside the formidable Miss Cobble, uninvited and undesired. When Lorraine was intent on listening to a tune, she hated to be distracted. Especially by Loomis.”

  “Though those two did have a bit of an alliance,” Tim added.

  “Sure they did,” Patch conceded, “but only because he provided her with spiteful tales of their fellow beings. Lorraine wasn’t above reveling in gossip herself, God rest her soul. To continue, Loomis starts in to jabbering about some nonsense or other, and it’s more than obvious that Lorraine wants him to vacate. Dense as the man is, he just keeps babbling on like a bloody brook. So here I am witnessing this all when a lovely notion comes to me. Promptly, I get up and find the waitress
…”

  “Ours?” I asked. “Ruby?”

  “Nah, Ruby wouldn’t have put up with it. No sense of high comedy, that one. This was some other girl that’s since come and gone. So I arrange for her to deliver a bottle of wine and two glasses to Lorraine’s table. Plus a little note I jotted off that says Take your leisure, sweet lovers—the night is young.” Patch grinned at the memory. “A nice touch, I thought that was.”

  I looked for clarification. “They weren’t, though? Lovers, I mean.”

  “God, no!” Patch guffawed. “The heavens themselves would’ve cracked open had such a thing transpired. That was the beauty of my jest. Loomis, he’s just befuddled by the note and the wine, but Lorraine clearly comprehends the prank and is none too pleased. She starts scanning the room, looking for who’s responsible, which isn’t too difficult seeing as I’m sitting there dissolving into giggles. She parades herself over and starts lashing me with that sharp tongue of hers, telling me what a famous idiot I am. To my credit, I maintain my good humor and toss up my hands in surrender. I admit to her that I’m a jackass and offer to make amends.”

  “Here’s where things get magical,” Neil said flatly.

  Patch pushed on. “Then I reach into my pocket and pull out this little thingamabob that I’d come by. Something I’d bought earlier in the day, just for the hell of it, from one of the street merchants who are always out peddling their trinkets. It was a little stone slate with a painting on it—a raggedy fellow playing a banjo. I press it into Lorraine’s hand, saying, ‘Here’s a wee gift to ease the tension.’ The thing is, I truly meant it as a peace offering. I’d had my laugh, but I didn’t want any hard feelings.” He looked to his brothers. “I’m not mean-spirited, now am I, lads? You can say I’m a bit daft, but you can’t say I’m mean-spirited.”

  “Well, you are daft,” Tim said. “I agree with you there.”

  Neil gave a straight answer. “No, Patch, there’s not much meanness in you, but sometimes you’re like a damned child poking at a hornet’s nest.”

  “That may be accurate,” Patch said. “So, back to Lorraine, she’s standing there staring down at that bit of slate in her hand. It’s a pretty enough painting, and I’m thinking she sees it for the honest gesture it was. Then, without a hint of warning, she tosses the thing on the table, right into a couple glasses of water that were sitting there. The glasses shatter, the water bursts out, and there I sit with my trousers drenched to the skin.”

  This drew laughter from his brothers. Even the kindly Kimla seemed to be holding back a smile.

  Patch played at looking offended. “It’s fine for you jackals to make merry. It wasn’t you that was nearly drowned.”

  “Can you exaggerate any more wildly, Patch?” asked Tim.

  “I can, but I won’t,” the elder Doonan answered. “So, as you might imagine, I’m perturbed now, and I say to Lorraine, ‘What’s wrong, did the picture remind you of all the poor sods you’ve filched tunes from?’ ’Cause that’s what she’d do, y’know—get some hardscrabble old hobos or dirt farmers to sing her the songs their grandfathers taught them, then swipe ’em and make her money. Well, that sends her through the roof beams. The woman takes to raging, informing me in no uncertain terms that she’s not to be trifled with. Those were the very words—‘I will not be trifled with.’ Rather melodramatic, I thought, but then Lorraine could be the high queen of melodrama when she got her steam up. Truth be told, this wasn’t the first time she blew up so grandly.”

  “So we understand.” I was thinking of her exchange with Byron Spires.

  “Though perhaps it was the last time,” Mr. O’Nelligan said reflectively.

  “What was Loomis doing during all this?” I asked.

  Tim smiled. “Fleeing the premises.”

  “Like a fox from the hounds,” Patch added. “He wasn’t about to stick around to see if Lorraine would turn on him next. Not with all the taunts and threats she was flinging at me.”

  “Threats?” Mr. O’Nelligan stroked his beard. “Is that how you interpreted her words?”

  Patch laughed. “Whatever they were, they surely weren’t prayers for my eternal soul. When I next ran into her a day or two later and tried to offer a kind word, she wouldn’t even speak to me. Anyway, that’s the tale.”

  “What?” Neil look distressed. “You’d leave out the best part?”

  “I’ve told all that’s important.”

  “Has it slipped your mind, then, Patch?” Tim smiled impishly and addressed my partner and me. “We still had to do another full set. Patch tried to beg off, but Mazzo wouldn’t have it. So we take the stage with our brother’s trousers still soggy as a swamp, looking to the whole world like he’d soiled himself.”

  Patch scowled. “Are we done with this nonsense?” He ground out his cigarette, drew out his flask, and took a long pull of the whiskey—not even bothering with the pretense of adding it to coffee. Patch had just removed the flask from his lips when something near the front door caught his attention. “Ah, here comes Byron. Is he playing tonight? I see he’s got his new conquest with him. That perky little brunette.” Sure enough, Byron Spires, with his vagabond good looks and unruly brown curls, was now crossing the room toward us, a female at his side. I adjusted my eyeglasses to better take in this “new conquest.”

  And nearly fell out of my chair. It was Audrey.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Audrey and I saw each other at the exact same moment. Midway across the room, she froze in place, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. Her look of shock quickly shifted to an expression I’d describe as excruciating discomfort. Or maybe mild horror. I’m guessing my own face must have registered a similar look. My brain stumbled over itself, trying to decide what words to push out for the occasion. I was spared a decision by Audrey herself, who spun promptly about and headed back for the front door.

  Byron Spires, looking confounded and put-out, turned and followed, calling after her, “Hey, wait up! What’s going on?”

  Then they both vanished through the door. I sat there for several muddled seconds, waiting for my mind and body to agree on some course of action. Mr. O’Nelligan had had his back toward the entrance, and by the time he turned around, the newcomers were gone. So he hadn’t seen Audrey. Telling him I’d be right back, I got to my feet and rushed across the room, nearly bowling over Mazzo at the doorway as I exited. Out on the sidewalk, I glanced down the lamplit street of tightly packed storefronts and saw two figures retreating around a corner. With absolutely no sense of what I planned to say or do, I gave chase. I found them at once, walking tightly together beneath the glow of a streetlamp. As I came pounding up behind them, they quickly turned around, a look of surprise and fear on their faces. Their elderly Chinese faces.

  “Don’t!” the old woman cried out in a strong accent. “We have no money! Don’t hurt us!”

  The man, well into his seventies, stepped in front of her, fists clenched, prepared to sacrifice himself against me in defense of his wife. I almost wanted to cry. I took a step back and began to stammer out apologies. After a moment, realizing that I was no threat, the couple turned their backs, linked arms, and continued on. I heard them speaking in Chinese as they walked away. No doubt something on the order of What a pathetic crazy man … I started back in the direction of the coffeehouse and, rounding the corner, again caught sight of someone heading off down the street. Now I opted for a brisk trot—rather than a psychotic dash—to pursue my quarry. I only had to get within a dozen yards to realize I’d gotten it wrong again. This time, instead of a huddled couple, it was a single man, albeit one of enormous girth. Deflated, I watched him waddle slowly away.

  I stood there motionless for several minutes, letting darkness and despair wash over me. Why should I have been so shocked to see Audrey walk through the door with Byron Spires? After all, hadn’t I had a strong suspicion that she was drawn to him? Wasn’t that the main reason I wanted to decline this case—because it would place me in his realm and I might d
iscover something I didn’t want to? Had I been in such a state of denial that I never imagined that Audrey might pop up at the Mercutio on a Friday night in the company of Spires? She’d already admitted to me that she’d made the drive down here—the hour and a half drive—several times on her own. An unnerving thought suddenly presented itself: Had Audrey intended to make the ninety-minute trek back home tonight, or was she planning to bunk with her new best pal? That was more than I could bear to consider. Keeping the words “new conquest” at bay, I shook off my inertia and headed back toward the coffeehouse.

  * * *

  AS I APPROACHED the Mercutio, I was met with the sound of loud, agitated male voices. Drawing close, I discovered the source. Just outside the front door, in the amber light of a streetlamp, Patch Doonan was shouting and squaring off against another man.

  “I’ve no fear of you, you big bastard!” The Irishman was half-crouched in a boxer’s stance, fists thrust forward. “Come on and have it!”

  His adversary was a large man with dark ebony skin, dressed in blue overalls and a red checkered shirt. In addition to his height advantage—about a half foot taller than Patch—the guy was wide-shouldered and physically imposing. Even given the fact that he was probably over forty, at least ten years older than Patch, he looked more than a match for him. I now noticed Ruby the waitress standing off to the side, clearly distressed.

  “Patch! Manymile!” she called out. “Stop this now!”

  “I’m trying to stop it,” said the large man in a deep raspy drawl, “but this boy here won’t see reason.”

  “I’ll show you reason, you swarthy brute!” Doonan moved forward a step.

  Manymile’s big hands, unlike his adversary’s, weren’t curved into fists but instead were spread out open-palmed in a gesture of calming. “No need for this, Patch. You’re drunk and mixed up.”

  With a tirade of obscenities, Patch shot forward and landed a blow on Manymile’s jaw. Ruby screamed out something, and the larger man wrapped his arms around the smaller in a tight, unyielding bear hug. Pinned as he was, Patch thrashed about madly, his obscenities growing in violence and volume. At this point, Tim Doonan and Mazzo burst out of the coffeehouse and stopped in their tracks, riveted by the scene before them.