The Haunting Ballad by Michael Nethercott

that appellation, well, not long before I bought this place, Joe McCarthy’s boys came after me…”
    â€œThe House Un-American Activities Committee?” I asked.
    â€œNot exactly, but it was a couple of McCarthy’s lackeys pressuring me to turn Judas on some friends of mine. Anytime they pushed me for a name, I’d just give them some character from Shakespeare. Oh, yeah, it’s Mercutio you want. Brutus, Portia, Othello—those are the Commie creeps you’re after. After twisting their brains in knots, I basically told those apes that if they dragged me in front of some Red-baiting committee, I’d cause them havoc and hellfire. I guess I made my point, ’cause they backed off.”
    â€œThus sparing your friends further trouble,” Mr. O’Nelligan noted.
    â€œUnfortunately, somehow they still got at my friends. I take some solace in knowing that Edward R. Murrow finally took McCarthy down. I’ve heard that old Tail Gunner Joe has drunk himself nearly to death and is on his last legs at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda. Anyway, I figured ‘Mercutio’ was fitting for what I wanted to set up here. Fiery and lyrical, you know?”
    â€œYou have a passion for music and poetry, then?”
    â€œMusic, poetry, revelry…” He paused and grinned. “And debauchery when the mood hits me.”
    â€œI see.” If Mr. O’Nelligan had an opinion on debauchery, his tone didn’t reveal it.
    Mazzo pressed on. “Yeah, these days I’m mingling with the muse—and, be advised, she is one jealous chick. It’s not like I haven’t put in my time on the great American treadmill. Along the way, I’ve been a bread baker, a soda jerk, a machinist, and an encyclopedia salesman. Plus I did my stint with ol’ Uncle Sammy. At Guadalcanal, back in ’42, I had a mortar shell slam into a tree just a foot from my skull. Not long after that, I acquired this little memento.” He pointed to the white shock of hair above his temple. “I always thought it was a myth that a scare could turn your hair white. Apparently not.”
    â€œYou might consider it as a badge of service,” Mr. O’Nelligan suggested.
    â€œSure—or a symbol of me being scared utterly shitless.” Mazzo shifted his gaze from my friend to me. “How about you, man? You look the right age. Were you in the big one?”
    â€œI wasn’t.” I left it at that, not wanting to haul out the fact that my poor eyesight and unimpressive physique had landed me a 4-F designation.
    My partner took on the questioning. “Did you know Lorraine Cobble well?”
    â€œAs well as anyone around here, I suppose,” Mazzo said. “Which is to say, not well at all. Lorraine wasn’t a lady who cuddled up to whole lot of folks. Kept her own counsel, dig? She was hot for the music, that’s for sure. She started showing up not long after I opened the place. We got along well enough, and she steered a lot of singers over to me, which I appreciated.”
    â€œHave you any knowledge, Mr. Mazzo, of her activities on the day she died? Of, for instance, a morning meeting she partook of?”
    â€œA police dick came poking around a while back and was asking the same things, but no one here had seen her for at least a couple days. Which wasn’t unusual. She’d just kind of float in and out. Like a phantom, you know?” Mazzo stared off for a moment. “I guess that’s all she is now—a phantom. It’s a lousy shame.”
    â€œWho else at the café did she have a connection with?”
    â€œWell, the musicians. Byron Spires, the Doonans, Kimla Thorpe, Manymile Simms … those are the ones who’ve played here a lot, and Lorraine was mainly interested in. If you stick around, most of them should probably be showing up tonight.”
    I flashed on Minnie Bornstein’s story. “How about a singer