The Haunting Ballad (18 page)

My partner nodded. “While you were admirably risking life and limb, I took the opportunity to have a few words with the elder Escobar. He told me that his son had been involved recently with some rather iniquitous individuals.”

“In-
what
-itous? Why can't you ever say things plain?”

He gave me an exaggerated smile. “Excuse me, Lee. Should I have said nasty? Naughty?
Bad?
Are those words plain enough for you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. So Hector was hanging out with bad guys…”

Mr. O'Nelligan sighed. “It seems that there was an armed robbery in Gramercy for which two of Hector's friends were arrested.”

“Hector was part of that?”

“He insists he wasn't. Apparently, the police more or less agree—although they did believe his connection to the robbers was perhaps too cozy. Consequently, Hector is on the police's radar, so to speak, which troubles his father a great deal. He says that lately the young man has been rather, shall we say, jittery where the police are concerned. Mistaking us for them might well account for his flight.”

“Do innocent people usually run from the police?”

“They might if they feel they are being unfairly targeted. Be aware, there exists some real prejudice against Puerto Ricans, a prejudice that might even be harbored by members of the police force.”

“Okay, that's one theory,” I said. “Another is that Hector, who was seen on the premises the night Lorraine Cobble died, was involved in her death … and that's why he ran from us.”

“And still another theory is that the antique Mr. Boyle was mistaken about seeing Hector that night. Or…” Here my partner paused and stared off, silent for a long moment.

“Or? Or what?” I prompted.

Mr. O'Nelligan answered quietly. “Or Cornelius Boyle deliberately lied.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

After running a road race with a kid half my age and barely avoiding a street brawl, I wasn't up for any more detective work till I'd put something in my belly. That something proved to be a vendor-cart wiener, murdered with mustard, sauerkraut, and an unidentified purple condiment. Mr. O'Nelligan, frowning at this delicacy, firmly begged off my offer to treat him to one. He reminded me that he had a dinner appointment later (which, I'm guessing, would include no gloppy hot dogs). After I'd wolfed down my all-American repast, we fetched Baby Blue and drove over to the Mercutio.

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.”