The Haunting Ballad by Michael Nethercott

Author:Michael Nethercott
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781466856509
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

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.

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