The Haunting Ballad by Michael Nethercott Page B

There’s no need to do the bastard’s job for him.”
    â€œA sound point of view,” Mr. O’Nelligan said.
    Mazzo shifted gears. “Hey, so you’re Irish, yeah?”
    â€œIs it not obvious?”
    â€œYou’ll definitely want to meet the Doonan Brothers. They’re like walking shamrocks, those boys.”
    â€œIs that so?” My partner’s tone suggested that this image didn’t wholly appeal to him. “Then I shall look forward to our imminent encounter.”
    Mazzo whistled. “You have yourself a poet’s tongue there, don’t you, dad? Plus you’ve got that brogue to back it up. We Italians know food and amore, but you Irish trump us with the wordplay.”
    â€œDon’t sell yourself short,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “After all, you can boast Dante and Boccaccio as your national treasures.”
    â€œYeah, those cats could definitely wield a quill pen, but for free-form babbling I tip my hat to you sons of Erin.”
    Their ping-pong game of admiration was interrupted by Ruby, who stopped in to announce dryly that the Mercutio was filling up and that Mazzo’s presence would be highly appreciated. Or more specifically, “It’s getting busy. Don’t let me drown out there.”
    After she exited, Mr. O’Nelligan turned to our host. “That young lady is certainly no meek subordinate, is she?”
    â€œGod no.” The impresario smirked. “Ruby ain’t subordinate to nobody.”
    â€œSomewhat like Lorraine Cobble?” I suggested.
    â€œTwo entirely different specimens. Whereas Lorraine would combust, Ruby just…” Mazzo searched for a word. “Simmers.”
    â€œIn more ways than one, maybe?” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too lascivious.
    Mazzo narrowed his eyes and grinned at me. “Fancy her, amico mio ?”
    I sputtered out something that was meant as a denial, but it only caused his grin to broaden.
    â€œNo shame, man,” he said. “If I went in for chicks, I’d probably fancy her, too.”
    â€œOh,” I replied.
    â€œWell, I’ve got to get back to work,” Mazzo continued. “You gents, too, I guess. Just don’t nut out my clientele, okay?”
    I assured him that no nutting out was planned. By God, we were professionals.

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    Â 
    Returning to the crowded main room, Mazzo told us to find a seat and settle in; he’d introduce us to various musicians as they showed up. As our host went off to his duties, my partner and I nabbed a corner table directly under a large circus poster of acrobats leaping over several enraged lions.
    I indicated the gaudy image. “Not the healthiest pastime, is it?”
    â€œAh, but is it not an allegory for the human condition itself?” Mr. O’Nelligan mused. “Do we not all, at times, find ourselves vaulting perilously over the savage beasts of life?”
    â€œSure. What’s an allegory?”
    Mr. O’Nelligan let out one of his patented soul-weary sighs, the ones he seemed to reserve just for me and my denseness. “Oh, lad, you’re an astounding fellow.”
    I guessed that a “thank you” wasn’t the appropriate response.
    The same performer as before was still onstage, midway through a song, and I was able to take more note of her now. She had a light brown complexion, a close-cropped halo of dark hair, and a gentle expression—calm and thoughtful, with maybe a touch of soft sadness. In contrast to the black garb favored by many in the room, she was dressed in a white blouse and a lavender gypsy skirt.
    Ruby approached our table and asked for our order. I went for coffee since it was, after all, a coffeehouse. Mr. O’Nelligan, of course, had to be different.
    â€œI hope requesting tea is acceptable, dear miss, since coffee is no doubt the paradigm here.”
    I winced. Did he really have to use one of his