As we’d done the day before, we entered at twilight. The coffeehouse itself seemed to dwell in its own perpetual candlelit dusk—at the moment, a very hushed one. No singing greeted us this time, and the Grand Mazzo wasn’t on hand to provide a welcome in his hepcat lingo. In fact, the only other person in the room besides us and the waitress (not Ruby this time) was Manymile Simms, who sat at a corner table tuning a twelve-string guitar.
Mr. O’Nelligan approached him. “I believe you’re the gentleman called Manymile. May we join you, sir?”
The big man looked up and answered in a smoky rasp, “I am and you can.”
Seating ourselves, we declined the waitress’ passing offer of beverages.
“You two are the detectives,” Manymile stated matter-of-factly. “The ones been scrounging around asking ’bout Lorraine.”
“No denying,” I said.
“Mazzo mentioned you’d been on the prowl.”
“Where’s Mazzo now, by the way?”
“In his office raising up a poem or two. He’s wanting to read some of his stuff tonight, only he’s got to write it first. Says he likes to deliver it so fresh that the ink still stinks.” Manymile chuckled. “Funny man, that Mazzo.”
“We knew he was a patron of the arts,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “We didn’t realize he was a poet himself.”
“Mister, everybody’s a poet in this city, in one damn way or another. Mazzo, I guess he’s a bunch of things. Writer, ringmaster, radical…”
I nodded. “Yeah, we heard about him taking on McCarthy’s people some time ago.”
“Sure, down here we’ve all got our tales.” Manymile’s fingers now danced over the scarred old guitar, plucking the strings swiftly and expertly.
“Impressive,” I said.
“Thank you, my man.” He set the instrument to the side and gave it a little pat. “Me and Philomena here been together a long time. Had me my share of women and a wife or two, but this lady here, she’s been the most faithful. Manymile and Philomena—just like Romeo and Juliet, only nobody’d dare try to pry us apart.” He let go a laugh.
“Your name is a unique one,” Mr. O’Nelligan noted. “How did you acquire it?”
“Well, I done so much traveling and playing that some juke-joint owner slapped the moniker on me. Seemed fitting, so I kept it. I’ve been to all the forty-eight states but one, and that’s Kansas. Kansas! Ain’t that a kick? The state right smack in the middle of the country, and it’s the only one I never happened to step foot in. Life can be a curious thing.”
“It can indeed,” my partner said. “On another note, I must say, sir, that you showed admirable restraint last night when Patch Doonan was trying to incite you into fisticuffs.”
Manymile waved one of his huge mitts dismissively. “Just a misunderstanding, that’s all that was. I gave Ruby a friendly little peck, and Patch got all stupid about it. That boy needs to put some distance between himself and the whiskey, that much I know. I ain’t talking from some high and mighty place, neither. Truth is, booze laid me low in my own life.”
“How so?” my partner asked, rather boldly I thought.
“In a whole pile of ways,” Manymile said. “Hate to tell you how young I was when I started in to drinking. Picked up the bottle around the same time I picked up the guitar—and lost some good opportunities because of it. You know, I was once a lead boy for Blind Lemon Jefferson, the finest bluesman ever there was.”
“Lead boy?”
“Yeah, since Lemon didn’t have no eyesight, he’d hire on kids to lead him around. I was one, and he taught me a few neat tricks on the guitar. As it turned out, the job only lasted ’bout a month. Even at that young age, the liquor was having its way with me. After I misled Lemon into one too many doorjambs, he had to fire me. If I’d stayed on with him, Lord knows what I might’ve learned from that man. Still, there’s no sense lamenting what’s come and gone.”
Mr. O’Nelligan nodded sympathetically. “I take it that, in time, you put yourself on a straighter path.”
“I did, but it took some prison walls to do it,” Manymile said. “One night in Baton Rouge, I got fueled up on some Louisiana moonshine and punched a fella so hard I broke his jaw. Normally, the law wouldn’t be too concerned about one colored man whupping another, but it turns out that fella was Senator Kingfish Long’s chauffeur. I wound up doing three years at Angola. Couple good things come of that, though—I took to studying on the Bible, and I got serious ’bout my playing. Once they let me out I decided either I steered myself clear of hard drink and fighting, or my life wasn’t going to be worth much. I bought me Philomena, started to scrounge up some gigs, and never looked back.”
“An inspiring tale,” Mr. O’Nelligan said.
“That’s why I hate to see someone like Patch Doonan boozing and angering up like he does. Not saying he’s quite the wastrel I was, though he’d best take care or he will be. Anyhow, you fellas ain’t here to hear all my trials and tribulations. You’re here to do what you do—sniff about like hound dogs vexing a rabbit.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” I said.
“’Course, the question is, is there even a rabbit to vex? Word is, you’re thinking someone threw poor Lorraine off that roof. Seems a hard thing to prove.”
“I certainly agree,” I said for Mr. O’Nelligan’s benefit.
“Not saying such things don’t happen,” Manymile continued. “For sure, in my own trade there’s plenty of murder ballads that testify to that.”
“What’s a murder ballad?” I asked.
“Pretty much what it sounds like,” Manymile said patiently. “A song that tells about one person killing another. There’s a heap of ’em—‘Stagger Lee,’ ‘Tom Dooley,’ ‘The Fatal Flower Garden’ … Then there’s hundreds of old English murder ballads, but they ain’t in my repertoire.” He glanced over my shoulder. “What are some of the names, Kimla?”
I turned and now noticed that a number of people had entered the room, Kimla Thorpe among them. She stood just behind my chair.
“Well, there’s ‘The Cruel Mother’ and ‘The Twa Sisters,’” she said. “‘The Bramble Briar’ and ‘Eggs and Marrowbone.’ Oh, there’s a lot of them, but I don’t sing many myself.”
“Me neither,” Manymile said. “I prefer blues to murder songs. A man sings the blues and he don’t need to put harm on nobody else.”
“So, how would you define the blues, sir?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked. “I know that it’s a uniquely American art form.”
“’Specially for Americans of our particular shade.” Manymile lit himself a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “When the blue devils—meaning melancholy and lonesomeness—got their grips in you, mister, then that’s the blues. When you got no home, no money, no lover, you get to thinking dark thoughts, and you got the blues. Here’s the thing, though—if you grab them dark thoughts and put ’em into your music, it’s like taking a spoonful of medicine. Helps you feel better. Did I put that right, sister?”
Kimla, still standing near us, patted the large man’s shoulder. “You always put things right, Manymile.”
The bluesman laughed. “Keep up with the flattery. Now that the gray’s creeping into my hair, a young gal’s sweet talk especially makes my day.”
Mr. O’Nelligan indicated an empty chair. “Please join us, Miss Thorpe.”
Kimla glanced around. “I was just waiting for Tim to arrive.”
“We’d be grateful for your company while you do so,” my partner added.
Kimla slipped in next to us. “Are you on the bill tonight, Manymile?”
“I surely am,” the big man answered. “For two or three songs at least. You, girl?”
“The same.”
“Mazzo gets a bargain out of us on these poem nights, don’t he? Signs up a bunch of us to play for a few bucks each, scattered in with the poetry. Not that I’m complaining. A dollar’s a dollar.”
I thought it was time to get back on track. “Tell us about Lorraine, Mr. Simms
. How much of a connection did you have with her?”
“If you’ve been making your inquiries, then you know Lorraine wasn’t one to do a whole lot of connecting. Unless, of course, it had to do with her song hunting and such. We first ran into each other in Massachusetts a couple years back. She heard me playing up in Cambridge and told me to come here and that she’d find me some gigs. She hooked me up with Mazzo and some other folks, and I was grateful for that, but it ain’t like we’d go paint the town red together.”
“So you weren’t friends,” I said.
“I like to think I’m everybody’s friend, but Lorraine wasn’t someone who craved the company of others. Kind of contrary that way, wouldn’t you say, Kimla?”
The young woman answered softly. “I suppose you’re right. She’s deceased, so I don’t like to speak unkindly.”
“It’s not unkind, just true.” Manymile puffed out several rings of smoke. “Well, maybe now she’s in the company of angels. Hosts of singing angels. That’d be nice for Lorraine, wouldn’t it?”
“It would.” Kimla, in her low-key way, seemed to brighten at the thought. “Angels singing songs that no living soul ever heard. I wish that for her.”
The room was filling now, and the noise level rose accordingly. My partner leaned in toward Kimla.
“Are you a religious person, Miss Thorpe? Your young man mentioned that you study Buddhism.”
“I’ve studied it a little. Dabbled really. Many people down here do.”
“Buddha, bongos, and wild ways!” Patch Doonan was suddenly standing over us; he looked sober. “That’s what makes these bohemians down here tick. How goes your sleuthing, friends?”
“The work progresses, young sir,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “It’s as the old Buddhist writings have declared: Three things cannot be hidden—the sun, the moon, and the truth.”
Patch grinned. “Hear that, Kimla? My countryman here can give you a run for your money with the Oriental ponderings.”
Kimla looked appreciatively at my colleague. “You’re obviously familiar with the Dhamma.”
“Familiar but not fluent in,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “I do try to be aware of the world’s sacred texts.”
Patch smirked. “The only sacred text that concerns me is the beer list at McSorley’s.”
“Dear God, Patch.” Neil Doonan appeared at his brother’s elbow. “Must you add blasphemy to your other sins?”
“McSorley’s Old Ale House is not a sin,” Patch protested. “It’s a place of deep reflection and wondrous moments. At least if you’re a man.”
“It’s a men-only establishment,” Neil put in for our benefit.
“That’s right,” Patch said. “Though, not a month ago, I saw none other than the late Lorraine march in there like Joan of Arc and drag a man outside. It was that wretched Loomis Lent she came for. Grabbed him by the collar and hauled him out the door before the barkeep could protest her presence.”
“What did Miss Cobble want of Mr. Lent?” my partner asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” Patch said. “Apparently she’d seen him enter the bar, desired his company—for whatever unfathomable reason—and made sure she acquired it.”
The third of the Doonan Brothers now came up behind Kimla and rested his hands on her slender shoulders. Kimla looked up and gave him a sweet smile.
“What’s the order of battle tonight?” Tim asked the table in general.
“Mazzo told me I’m up first,” Manymile answered. “Then some poetry, then some more music. Not sure ’bout the exact lineup.”
Over the growing clatter and chatter of incoming patrons, a high-pitched voice cried out energetically from near the doorway, “Detectives! Oh, detectives!”
As I turned toward the entrance, my eyes were snared by a gaudy display of stripes—wide, brash swatches of pink, orange, lavender, and green. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was looking at Minnie Bornstein, squeezed into a dress so vivid that yesterday’s polka dots seemed downright drab. The plump music-shop owner beckoned with an animated wave. Mr. O’Nelligan and I excused ourselves from the table and went to join her.
Minnie downshifted from shout to urgent half-whisper. “Gosh! Dammit! Sorry, guys. Did I blow your cover?”
“We have no cover to blow, madam,” Mr. O’Nelligan told her. “We are guileless and transparent in our endeavors.”
“You betcha,” I more-or-less echoed.
“I was hoping to find you two here,” Minnie said, adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses. “Or just leave a note for you in case you dropped by. I found out a couple things concerning Lorraine that you might want to know.”
My partner pursed his lips. “Have you now?”
“Yeah, last night after you left, I was telling my Abe all about our conversation. I mentioned that I told you about Lorraine stealing Crimson’s set and all that. Now, Abe’s got a mind like a bear trap—once he hears something, he never lets it go—but me, well, I can get a bit scattered in the memory department. Anyway, Abe says, ‘Don’t you remember, Minnie? You told me that story a while ago—it wasn’t any Crimson, it was a fellow named—”
“Cardinal,” I finished.
Minnie Bornstein looked deflated. “You know already? Aw, here I was thinking I’d help crack your case for you.”
Mr. O’Nelligan promised her that any information was helpful and went on to show her Cardinal’s letter to Lorraine.
“Any thoughts on this correspondence?” he asked.
Minnie read the letter over and handed it back. “Only that it confirms the story I heard. This guy sounds pissed off big-time, doesn’t he? Think he’s the culprit?”
“We’re not sure if there’s really a culprit at all,” I said. “As for Cardinal, we don’t know anything about him. Not even his last name.”
“Meriam! It’s Meriam!” Minnie beamed in triumph. “Abe remembered that, too. That’s more info for you. Say, maybe I’m not such a washout after all.”
O’Nelligan, the king of consolation, assured her that she wasn’t, then asked, “Do you happen to know Mr. Meriam’s first name? I presume Cardinal is a sobriquet.”
“Nope, sorry. Ask some of the musicians here. Someone might have the lowdown on him.”
“You said you’d found out a couple of things,” I reminded her. “Is there something else?”
“Yes! Today I heard an interesting thing from a customer of mine, this guy Tucker who stops in occasionally to buy sheet music. He’s a waiter but also an aspiring accordionist.”
“Down here, isn’t every waiter an aspiring something-or-other?” I asked.
“You’re not kidding! Anyway, I mentioned to him about your visit—after all, I don’t get gumshoes stopping in every day—and Tucker remarked that he’d seen Lorraine the very morning she died.”
That got my interest. “Really? No one else seems to have seen her that day.”
“He says she was having breakfast at the restaurant where he works, Horton’s Grill. He was in sort of a hurry today, so he wasn’t able to tell me much, but he’s working the evening shift there now. Here, I wrote the address down in case you wanted to pop in later and talk to him.” Minnie fished a scrap of paper out of her purse and handed it to me.
Mr. O’Nelligan leaned in to read the address. “Ah! That’s a mere two blocks from where I’m meeting my friend tonight.”
“I hope you’ll learn something useful,” Minnie said. “Now, I’ve got to run. It’s Passover in a couple days, and we’re having a small mob over for Seder. I’ve got to clean house and clear a path to the dining room. Abe says I don’t know a broom from a bowling ball, and I wouldn’t deny it! Good-bye and good luck, fellas.”
Minnie spun her sizable self around and headed for the exit. Halfway out the door, she stopped abruptly and hurried back to us.
“You two be careful, okay?” she said earnestly. “I’m sure you know your job and all, but do be careful. Sometimes I get feelings … like my Bavarian grandmother did … odd feelings. I
got one just now.”
“What sort of feeling?” I hated to ask.
“I’m not exactly certain. Something about … about one of you being in harm’s way. Oh, maybe I’m just being foolish.” Minnie Bornstein smiled wanly and patted each of us on the chest. “Just be careful.”
Then she blew out of the room like a bright, bustling storm.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After Minnie left the coffeehouse, Mr. O’Nelligan and I returned to our table. The Doonans had taken our seats, but a couple more chairs were promptly dragged over for us.
“That was Minnie Bornstein, wasn’t it?” Neil Doonan wondered. “The lady who owns the music store.”
Patch laughed. “Jesus, do you need to ask? Who else would be brave enough to jam her girth into such a smock?”
“The room’s crowded,” Neil grumbled lightly. “I didn’t have a clear view of her.”
“She dresses like Fourth of July fireworks!” Patch argued. “You could spot her in a sandstorm, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, sod off,” suggested Neil.
I intruded on this brotherly warmth. “Cardinal Meriam—does that name mean anything to any of you?”
Turns out it did.
“Banjo player,” Manymile said quickly. “Skinny white guy with bright red hair.”
“Hence the name Cardinal,” Patch added. “Hair as red as the bloody bird. Hails from Canada, doesn’t he, Manymile?”
“That’s right. From Ontario, I believe. Good finger picker, that Cardinal.”
“A sturdy voice as well,” Tim Doonan said. “Kimla, what was that song he did about the shipwreck?”
“‘The Loss of the Antelope,’” his girlfriend answered.
“Sure, that’s it. I really like that one. A good shipwreck ballad always does me in.”
“So Cardinal lives here in the Village now?” I asked.
“No, he was just passing through,” Manymile said. “He was only around for a month or so during the winter.”
“He performed here?”
“Not at the Mercutio,” Tim said, “but at a few other places around town. We caught him a couple times, Kimla and the lads and I.”
The Haunting Ballad Page 14
