The Haunting Ballad

by Michael Nethercott

  “He had some style,” Neil added. “Mazzo would have booked him eventually.”

  “Aye, if he hadn’t left town in such a flurry.” Patch added, “Not to speak ill of the defunct, but it was Lorraine who’s to blame for that.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan leaned forward. “Are you referring to the incident in which Miss Cobble stole Cardinal’s set of songs?”

  Patch grinned. “Heard of that business, have you? That was Lorraine at her most conniving. It happened at a place on Bleecker called the Golden Hut.”

  “You were there that night?” I asked.

  “Alas, I was not,” Patch said. “Kimla here was, though, weren’t you, lass?”

  “Yes, I was on the bill,” Kimla answered in her quiet way. “With Lorraine and Cardinal. Well … as it turned out, only Lorraine. Because Cardinal refused to go on after Lorraine performed almost the whole set he’d planned to do.”

  “So Cardinal was visibly dismayed?” my partner asked.

  Kimla sighed. “Oh Lord, yes. I was sitting at the next table and saw him simmering the whole time. Song after song, he’d be mumbling to himself, ‘That’s one of mine, too.’ When Lorraine finally left the stage, Cardinal went up to her and whispered something in her ear. I couldn’t tell what he said, but they ended up swearing at each other and storming out a few minutes apart. I had to perform right after all that, which wasn’t pleasant. I think I flubbed half the lyrics of my first song.”

  “Why would Lorraine have done something like that?” I asked. “Seems pretty underhanded.”

  Manymile gave a little grunt. “Bad behavior on Lorraine’s part, no question ’bout it. I think, in a way, she thought she had a natural claim on any song that ever there was. Didn’t matter what anyone else’s intentions were. After that night, Cardinal made damn sure all the musicians hereabouts heard the story. Testified up and down the street as to how Lorraine Cobble done him wrong.”

  “Does anyone know Cardinal’s actual first name?” I asked.

  A tableful of heads shook in response.

  “Were any of you well acquainted with him?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

  Again all heads shook.

  “He wasn’t here very long,” Patch said. “Just another roving gypsy who tumbles into town, makes a little ripple, then tumbles out again. I had a drink or two with him once, but that was it.”

  Manymile scratched his chin. “Sort of a touchy young guy, wasn’t he? Took himself real serious.”

  “That he did,” Patch confirmed.

  “Didn’t he get arrested once while he was here?” Tim asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Manymile agreed. “Wasn’t much of anything, though. Some rich guy claimed Cardinal leaned on his car and broke the antenna.”

  “Desperado stuff,” Patch said. “Anyway, after the incident with Lorraine, I remember Cardinal declaring that he was done forever with the city and all its shenanigans.”

  “So he went back to Canada,” I guessed.

  “Farther still,” Patch said. “All the way to bloody Australia. Or so I heard.”

  “I heard it was New Zealand,” Neil put in.

  Patch shrugged. “Either way, he set a couple of oceans and a grand sprawl of land twixt us and him. Vanished into the cosmos, he did.”

  “Did he leave before or after Lorraine died?” I asked.

  “Not really sure,” Patch said. “I hadn’t seen him for a while before her death, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’d already left for Australia. Anyone else here see him around then?”

  No one at the table had.

  I let this all sink in. “No one’s heard from him since he left town?”

  “Neither hide nor hair,” Manymile said. “Least no one I know ever mentioned it.” He reached over and picked up his guitar. “Well, Philomena and I best get to work. I see Mazzo just emerged from his dungeon.”

  The Grand Mazzo strode over to our table, waving a fistful of typewriter paper. “The opus is finished!”

  Manymile rose to his full impressive height. “Good for you, maestro. I’ll loosen up the crowd, and you can floor ’em with your fancy rhymes.”

  “Blank verse!” Mazzo declared. “Always blank verse. Should I introduce you, man?”

  The big bluesman smiled. “Nah, if they don’t recognize me by now, they never will.”

  Manymile slapped Mazzo’s shoulder and marched over to the small stage. With a robust strum of Philomena, he jumped into a song about a Mississippi Delta sharecropper pining for a girl called Honeylips: The sweetest thing that I ever done had. His full raspy drawl filled the room like a great wave.

  Mazzo dropped into the vacated chair and spoke loudly over the music. “How’s the investigation going, gentlemen? Anything new and dazzling?”

  I recapped the Cardinal discussion for him.

  “Cardinal? Yeah, I heard about that cat,” Mazzo said. “Banjo plucker. Yesterday you were asking about someone named Crimson, so I didn’t make the connection. Lot of wandering minstrels sliding through these days. Hard to keep track of ’em all.”

  Manymile finished his Honeylips homage and then announced, “I’d like to dedicate this next number to the gentlemen yonder.”

  He gestured toward Mr. O’Nelligan and me, then launched into a tune called “Hellhound on My Trail.”

  My colleague turned to me. “Ah! It seems we’re being serenaded. I’m quite humbled.”

  When Manymile had finished his short set, Mazzo jumped up and replaced him onstage.

  Mazzo gave his ringmaster mustache a whirl. “Friends, I’d like to inform you of a mighty injustice that was perpetrated yesterday. Customs officers of our own fair land seized five hundred copies of the poetic epic ‘Howl’ penned by the beatific young Allen Ginsberg. Seized them because they consider that work obscene and objectionable. Well, I object to their objection! Here’s a poem I just wrote, inspired by yesterday’s events.”

  Consulting his pages, Mazzo rambled out a poem that, as I far as I could tell, had nothing to do with customs officials but everything to do with a swimmer’s well-toned naked body undulating in the ocean. It took me several stanzas to realize that the description was not of a female but of a young man—specifically a cowboy, though how he’d traded the prairie for the seashore I’d no idea. In any case, the portrayal was fairly graphic.

  Patch Doonan leaned over to my partner. “Don’t be too stunned now, Mr. O’Nelligan. The Village can be a scandalous place.”

  “I’m not stunned,” my friend said. “After all, do we not hail from the land of Oscar Wilde? He was the grand emperor of scandal.”

  Patch chuckled. “He was, he was. My, aren’t you cosmopolitan for a Kerryman.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan never got to respond to that, since a loud tide of applause and finger-snapping now washed over the room. His ode completed, Mazzo bowed dramatically and called out, “Next up, the undeniable Miss Ruby Dovavska!”

  Though I hadn’t noticed Ruby in the room before, she now stepped out of the crowd to commandeer the stage. Still garbed all in black, the waitress of yesterday promptly became the poetess of tonight. With a toss of her long midnight hair, she explained that the upcoming poem had been composed after a sleepless night of absinthe drinking.

  “I call this ‘Billboards and Blood,’” she said in a tone that suggested she didn’t much care what it was called.

  Poetry, even at its most concrete, usually left me perplexed. Ruby’s verses shot over me like a squadron of jet planes. For the most part, I couldn’t tell what the hell was happening. Each line started with the phrase “The billboards of lunacy proclaim…” and then went on to further confound me. For example:

  “The billboards of lunacy proclaim that Burbank mates with demons.

  The billboards of lunacy proclaim that Sacco ate Vanzetti.

  The billboards of lunacy proclaim that malt shops breed new Hitlers.

  The billboards of lunacy proclaim that Death’s a frantic puppet…”

  I whispered to
Mr. O’Nelligan, “You’re the poetry connoisseur. Do you get any of this?”

  “Well, it’s certainly not Yeats,” he whispered back.

  “Guess not. Tell me, do you think it’s true?”

  “Do I think what’s true?”

  “That Death’s a frantic puppet?” I tried to sound concerned. “Because that would really unnerve me.”

  My friend held a firm finger to his lips.

  Ruby’s second offering was called “Epidermis Enchantress.” Her description of the title character was so lurid that, in comparison, Mazzo’s nude cowpoke now seemed like a Puritan. It suddenly occurred to me that since Audrey had recently been partaking of the local nightlife, this sort of fare might have become commonplace to her. A prudish little shudder passed through me as I imagined my fiancée swaying dreamily to the carnal rhythms of beat poetry.

  Patch Doonan reached over and poked my shoulder. “Sweet Ruby knows how to titillate, doesn’t she now?”

  “Sure.”

  “At a loss for words, eh? By the way, in case you’re interested, there’s Loomis Lent standing over there in the corner. He’s the little ne’er-do-well I’ve told you about.”

  Patch pointed across the crowded room to a short man half-heartedly watching Ruby’s reading. Lent was five feet six at best, probably in his late thirties, with a longish nose, untidy blond hair, and a smudgy mustache. His nondescript clothes looked like they’d been slept in. In fact, everything about the guy seemed rumpled.

  “Perhaps we should have a word with him,” Mr. O’Nelligan said.

  “If it pleases you, but keep a hand on your wallets.” Patch glanced at Kimla. “Now, don’t go bounding madly to his defense, girl. Who knows what manner of mischief that rat’s inclined to?”

  “Stow it, Patch.” Tim stared warningly at his brother. “I’ve told you not to harass Kimla.”

  The young woman patted Tim’s arm. “It’s all right. I’m not feeling harassed.”

  Patch flashed a toothy grin. “See, Timbo? The lasses always find me charming.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that,” Kimla said with a sly little smile.

  Patch laughed loudly. “Oh, you wee provoker!”

  “Hush now and listen to the damned poem!” Neil Doonan demanded, though I think he was barely listening himself.

  That might have changed once Ruby began screaming out a long string of profanities. At that point, I figure, everyone was listening. I certainly was as she ended with a fiery declaration:

  “Kill! Kill! We live just to kill!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As the word “kill” echoed across the hushed room, Ruby yielded the stage to another poet. Patch led us over to where Loomis Lent stood slumped against a wall directly beneath a sideshow poster featuring Yazzy the Astounding Rodent Lad. The gaudy illustration showed an individual with jutting teeth and an impossibly extended nose. In view of Patch’s uncharitable references to Loomis, the poster seemed ironic.

  Ignoring my partner and me, Loomis fixed Patch with a harsh stare. “What do you want, Doonan?”

  Patch grinned tauntingly. “Why the tone of spite, Loomis? I’m only attempting to expand your social circle. These gentlemen here would like to make your acquaintance.”

  Loomis eyed us with suspicion. “Who are they?”

  “I’ll let them handle their own introductions. Just don’t be an utter shite, will you now, Lent? That’s a good fellow.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “All in good time.” Patch turned and winked at me. “Remember what I said about your wallets.”

  Once Doonan had left us, Loomis tensed and pressed himself deeper into his corner. “What do you people want from me?”

  “Just a moment of your time, sir.” Mr. O’Nelligan said.

  As my colleague laid out our pedigree and purpose, Loomis listened intently, his eyes widening.

  “This is superb!” He seemed weirdly thrilled. “Really superb! Yeah, private eyes … that’s just what’s needed.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said.

  Loomis glanced furtively around, as if fearing eavesdroppers, then signaled us to follow him. Moments later, the three of us were standing outside in the amber circle of a streetlamp’s glow. Loomis ran a twitchy hand across his face in what might have been an effort to smooth his mustache. Instead the gesture left his upper lip looking like an overused toothbrush.

  “I told everyone that Lorraine didn’t bump herself off,” he said, agitation propelling his words. “Does anybody ever believe Loomis? No they do not! Though maybe they will now, huh? Now that you guys are kicking over stones. What’s under them, that’s what I want to know. Maybe bones and secrets, yeah? Poor Lorraine!”

  I halted his rant. “We’re not jumping to any conclusions, one way or another. We’re just—”

  “This dirty, filthy city!” Loomis raced on. “The Village is part of it. Don’t let the so-called hepcats here fool you that they’re knee-deep in paradise. Hell no, there’s plenty of putridity all around. You guys know what putridity is?”

  Mr. O’Nelligan did, of course. “Decay. Decomposition. Corruption.”

  Loomis nodded emphatically. “That’s it! The earth’s depraved with putridity and stinking of violence—the Bible says something like that.”

  “Well, yes, something like that,” my partner conceded.

  “And now Lorraine’s dead,” Loomis said in a tone of finality.

  Somehow I was missing his point here.

  Mr. O’Nelligan got back to business. “Mr. Lent, your name has come up occasionally in reference to Miss Cobble.”

  “Sure, why shouldn’t it? We were musketeers.”

  “Musketeers?”

  “Yeah, like in The Three Musketeers, only there were two of us. It’s that book, you know. By some French guy.”

  “I’m well aware of the works of Monsieur Dumas,” my partner sniffed. “Père and fils. So you’re claiming that your relationship was a close one?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Like I say, musketeers. That’s what I called us.”

  “Right, but did she call you that?” I asked. “Or was Lorraine not that gushing about your friendship?”

  “Lorraine never gushed about anyone or anything.” Loomis sounded defensive now. “I mean, for example, she and I were out having a drink together this past Boxing Day, when who should walk into the lounge but Zelda Fitzgerald. Yeah, F. Scott’s wife! We had a martini with her even, but Lorraine didn’t act impressed at all, and this was Zelda Fitzgerald we’re talking about.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan eyed him carefully. “This past winter, you say?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Sir, Zelda Fitzgerald died a good number of years ago. Back in 1948, I believe.”

  “No, this was her.”

  “I think not.”

  “Or maybe F. Scott’s other wife.”

  “There was only one Mrs. Fitzgerald,” my partner stated.

  Wisely, Loomis let it go—maybe sensing it was dangerous to play chicken with Mr. O’Nelligan where literary data was concerned.

  “Anyway, how did my name come up?” he wanted to know.

  Briefly, I recounted the story about Patch Doonan sending the bottle of wine over to Loomis and Lorraine, and her subsequent outburst.

  Loomis responded with a scowl. “Yeah, Doonan’s a goddamned idiot. Always trying to stir things up and get my goat. Stupid mick.” Then, seeming to remember my colleague’s brogue, he added, “I enjoy the Irish for the most part. Especially when they’re sober.”

  You really haven’t experienced a withering look unless you’ve received one from Mr. O’Nelligan—as Loomis learned at that moment. Properly withered, he dropped his eyes and gave his mustache another rumpling swipe.

  My partner continued evenly. “Would you say Lorraine’s reaction to Patch was threatening in any way?”

  “If it was, he deserved it,” Loomis muttered. “Damned Doonan.”

  “Was there menace in her ton
e that night?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

  Loomis smiled feebly. “There was always a little menace in her tone. That’s what was so outstanding about Lorraine. She never let anyone get the better of her.”

  In my mind’s eye, I saw a sinister phantom hurling a woman off a rooftop. If Mr. O’Nelligan was right, someone had indeed gotten the better of Lorraine Cobble.

  “There was another anecdote that concerned you,” my colleague said. “Regarding Lorraine dragging you out of McSorley’s one evening.”

  “Yeah, that was real gutsy of her!” Loomis seemed fond of the memory. “Everybody knows McSorley’s has a strict no-females policy. Lorraine, she didn’t give a damn.”

  “So what did she want you for?” I asked.

  “Want me for?” Loomis wrinkled his brow. “What do you mean? I’ve told you already—she and I were like musketeers. All for one and one for all.”

  “Yeah, we get that,” I said. “What was the urgency that night at McSorley’s? Why’d she drag you away from all the other nice boys?”

  Loomis’ face reddened. “I don’t like to be belittled, brother. I hold my own in this town. I know how to navigate, understand? I navigate through all the crap and putridity. Not like some of these poets and perverts around here.”

  “I wasn’t trying to—”

  “I hold my own! Lorraine, she always appreciated Loomis Lent. She knew she could count on me for the truth.”

  “For the truth of what?”

  “The truth of people’s souls! Their lousy, poisoned souls!”

  I wanted to ask Loomis who the heck fed him his lines, but he kept barreling on.

  “Lorraine was a special person! It was like she was made of music, you know? Like she was some slow sad song that nobody understood.”

  “Except perhaps you?” Mr. O’Nelligan suggested.

  “I dunno, maybe…” Loomis scrutinized his shoes for several seconds, then reared back his unkempt head. “She needs to be avenged! The cops were completely useless. You get that sonuvabitch who killed Lorraine and nail his head to the wall. Will you do that for me? For Lorraine?”

  “Well, head nailing isn’t traditionally in our line,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “We will, however, certainly endeavor to find the truth.”