The Haunting Ballad by Michael Nethercott Page A

named Crimson? We heard that one night at a coffeehouse Lorraine stole all Crimson’s songs and performed them as her own set.”
    â€œCrimson? I don’t think I know any Crimsons. Is it a cat or a chick?”
    I wanted to say neither fish nor fowl but settled for “We’re not sure.”
    â€œWell, it didn’t happen at the Mercutio or I’d know about it.”
    â€œWhat about your staff? Were any of them connected to Lorraine?”
    â€œMy staff tends to be a fairly transient lot. Wandering wenches who put in a month or two of work, then make tracks. None of the girls that were here when Lorraine was alive are still around. That is, except for Ruby Dovavska, the one you saw a few minutes ago. Ruby’s been here awhile. She waitresses, but she’ll also take the stage now and again.”
    â€œAs a singer?” I asked.
    â€œNo, Ruby gives out with the verse. Poet girls in black—that’s one of our bumper crops here in the Village.”
    â€œLet me ask you this,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Do you know of any individual who would be inclined to take Miss Cobble’s life?”
    â€œThat’s a weighty thing, taking a life.” Mazzo paused. “I know because I’ve done it.”
    That widened my eyes. “Oh?”
    Mazzo continued. “When I was in the Pacific, I shot at least two Japanese soldiers that I know of. Shot them dead. Now, maybe they were vicious, bloodthirsty sons of bitches … or maybe they were just poor dumb kids like I was, doing whatever their generals told them to.” Mazzo pushed off from his desk and walked over to one of the shelves. He reached up and took down a statue of a dragon made of shiny green stone—jade, I guessed—and cradled it in his hands.
    â€œThis comes from Japan, and all those, too.” He nodded back toward the row of statues behind him. “I was never one of those guys who went in for battlefield souvenirs. I never purloined a pistol or a bayonet, or pried out the gold fillings from a corpse. After I came home, though, I started to collect these Japanese statues. It’s sort of my way of saying to those two dead cats, ‘Hey, I’m damned sorry I had to kill you, but I keep a little bit of your world on hand to remember you by.’”
    I wasn’t sure what the heck to think about that, though I noticed Mr. O’Nelligan was nodding thoughtfully beside me. Knowing something of his history, it suddenly occurred to me that I was the only one in the room who hadn’t slain a man in battle. It was a sobering thought.
    Mazzo replaced the dragon on its shelf. “Got a little off track, didn’t I? You were asking if I knew of anyone around here who could kill Lorraine. Well, my first impulse is to say ‘hell no.’ It’s one thing to find somebody annoying and aggravating; it’s another to actually hurl them off a roof like you’re suggesting. On the other hand, if I slap on my philosopher’s cap, I’d have to admit that the world can be one cruel, crazy playground—Guadalcanal taught me that—and dark things happen, man.”
    â€œYes, indeed,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Dark things do happen. The question here is did they happen in this particular situation.”
    â€œEither way, the answer’s yes, isn’t it?” Mazzo gave a bitter little laugh. “I mean, whether Lorraine jumped or was pushed, it wasn’t exactly a big beautiful moment of splendor, now was it?”
    â€œOf course, you’re correct,” my partner said. “The loss of life, in whatever circumstances, is always a regretful affair.”
    Mazzo pushed on. “Anyway, I don’t buy into the homicide angle. Though, to tell the truth, I’d almost rather it was murder than suicide. I was pretty ticked off at her when they said Lorraine had done herself in. Death will chase you down soon enough, Jack.