The Haunting Ballad (11 page)

“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 discover 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.

“Come get your damned brother!” Manymile shouted to Tim. “He's drunk and crazy.”

Tim and Mazzo moved forward, and Manymile shoved the struggling man into their arms. That didn't put an end to it. Even with Tim and Mazzo each gripping one arm, Patch continued to curse and kick and rail against them. Several more people had now emerged from the Mercutio, Kimla Thorpe and Mr. O'Nelligan among them. After observing the men for a moment, Kimla stepped resolutely forward.

“Stand back, Kimla!” Tim warned. “He'll harm you!”

“No he won't.” The young woman placed a hand on either side of the restrained man's face, holding him in a firm grip and staring directly into his eyes. “That's enough now, Patch.”

This seemed to throw him. “Back off, girl,” he said feebly.

“You need to settle down.” Her voice was calm and mesmerizing. “You're scaring people, and I know you don't want to do that. You need to go home with your brothers now.”

“I was only—”

Kimla shushed him. “Go home.”

The fight seemed to have suddenly gone out of Patch. He moaned and slumped between his brother and Mazzo. Kimla removed her hands from his face and stepped away.

Manymile stood rubbing his jaw. “You heard her, Tim. Take him home and pour some coffee down his gullet. A
whole lot
of coffee. That boy needs some sobering up.”

“I'm not even that drunk,” Patch muttered.

Manymile offered a slim smile. “Drunk enough to face off against a fella my size.”

Patch looked up and eyed the larger man intently. For a moment, I thought he might charge him again. Instead, his voice cracking with liquor-fueled emotion, he sputtered out, “Jesus, I'm sorry I slugged you, Manymile.”

“Okay, Patch.”

“It's just that when I saw you kiss Ruby like that…”

“A little peck. That's all that was.”

“I don't want you thinking it's 'cause you're colored, y'know?”

Manymile sighed. “Sure, Patch. Forget it.”

“'Cause look at my own brother and Kimla here, and I love her like a sister.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“It's just that I fancy that Ruby so much. Now, where is she?”

Patch glanced around until he located the waitress, who stood outside the circle of onlookers, keeping her distance. “Ah, Ruby girl!”

The long-haired beauty gave him a scornful glare and strode back into the coffeehouse.

“I've turned her against me,” Patch said mournfully. “What an ass I am.”

Manymile stepped forward and rested one of his huge hands on the young Irishman's shoulder. “You're talking 'bout the love of a woman, but I've got to say, Patch, sometimes it seems like you don't love but one thing. And that's whiskey. Now, if you'll 'scuse me, I've got me some songs to sing.” With that, he marched into the Mercutio.

Head hung, Patch went off to lean against one of the farther storefronts. The Grand Mazzo made a flourishy announcement that there was still music to be had and led his patrons back inside. Mr. O'Nelligan and I now found ourselves alone on the sidewalk with Tim and Kimla.

“What was
that
all about?” I asked Tim.

“It's about my brother not being able to hold his liquor.”

“How'd he get so drunk so fast? I was gone less than ten minutes.”

“More than enough time to down a flask,” Tim said wearily. “Besides, he'd been topping himself off since noon. That's just how it goes with Patch. Mix whiskey with a perceived cause for fighting, and you get the ugly mess you just witnessed. He's generally the easygoing sort, but, well, that's how he can get.”

“What was the fight about?” I wanted to know. “A kiss?”

Kimla answered that one. “When Manymile arrived, Ruby went over and handed him the guitar pick he'd lost a couple of nights back. It was his favorite, and he gave her a little thank-you kiss for finding it for him. It was nothing, really.”

“Enough for Patch to blow his top,” I observed.

“Well, I don't think he saw the part about the pick,” Tim said. “Though he surely noticed the kiss.”

Mr. O'Nelligan now entered the discussion. “Does Patch have any claims on that young lady? Earlier, their connection appeared to be one of mischievous flirting on his part and firm rejection on hers.”

Tim exchanged a glance with Kimla before answering hesitantly. “Ah, there may have been a bit of something more, well…”

“Substantial?” My partner had the right word for every occasion.

Before any answer could be given, the Mercutio's door swung open and Neil Doonan stepped out onto the sidewalk. For a few seconds, the bluesy plunk of guitar strings reached us from within, accompanied by a deep, resonant voice raised in song. Apparently, Manymile Simms had started work.

Neil was holding Tim's guitar, which he now pressed into his younger brother's hands. “Don't want to forget this, do you?”

“Where the hell were
you
?” Tim demanded. “We could have used you back when himself was going berserk.” He nodded toward Patch, still lingering down the street.

“I'm done playing the nursemaid with that one,” Neil said. “Ma's back in Ireland, so he'll just have to soothe his own damned self over here.”