CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

Yet again, with sunset rolling in, I entered the Café Mercutio. Stepping through the door had become a familiar little ritual. Candlelight, sawdust, and circus posters. The same as last night, I found an almost empty room. At one table, Kimla Thorpe sat alone drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. At another, two bearded young men were arguing politics in low urgent voices. Tonight, Ruby Dovavska was again the attending waitress.

She favored me with her thin sardonic smile. “Back so soon? Reconsidering posing for me, maybe?”

“Not at all.” I nodded toward the whiskered debaters. “Why don’t you recruit those guys? You could get two for one.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Ruby said.

I blushed. “Where’s your boss?”

“He probably won’t be in till late. Sunday nights are pretty slow here. No music.”

An elderly woman in a trench coat and beret entered, and Ruby went to take her order.

I approached Kimla. “Anything of interest in the papers?”

She glanced up from her reading. “Only the usual confusion, crime, and sadness.”

“What about Little Orphan Annie? She’s in there, too, isn’t she? Annie always sees the bright side of life.”

Kimla smiled gently. “You’re right, she does.”

“Remember now, that kid’s even an orphan. Say, did Patch ever show up last night?”

“I’m not sure. I left Tim and Neil soon after you saw us. Knowing Patch, he probably staggered home at some god-awful hour, cursing or weeping or possibly both.”

“Have any of the regular musicians been by today?”

“Only Manymile, and only for a second. He stopped by just to say that he’d gotten a series of gigs in the Midwest and was hitting the road.” Kimla took a sip of coffee. “Any updates on your investigation, Mr. Plunkett?”

I nearly blurted out about Lorraine Cobble’s ghost song but thought better of it. After all, Mr. O’Nelligan and I hadn’t yet discussed if we wanted to make that piece of the puzzle common knowledge. Suddenly, one of the intense beards shouted out, “Trotsky, without question!” In response, his friend slapped the table, and across the room the lady in the beret laughed heartily.

The front door now opened, and in walked a young couple, one half of whom—of course—just had to be Byron Spires. Unsurprisingly, he had a lovely young woman on his arm, and, what do you know, it was a brand-new model. Just as Audrey had given way to Coco, Coco had yielded the field to a thin waif with blond bangs. Upon noticing me, Spires halted, spun his girl about, and headed back out the door. I followed.

I caught up with them just down the street and maneuvered to block their way. Spires sighed deeply and turned to his date. “Go back inside and grab us a table, will ya, Nicki? I’ll be right there.”

Nicki didn’t seem too pleased with being yo-yoed around, but she complied. Spires and I were mirroring our dance from the night before. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me. This time he had no guitar and, by the look of it, no patience.

“Okay, so what the hell do you want?” he asked.

It struck me just then that I didn’t really know the answer to that. What was my intention here, anyway? To shove him against the wall again? To apologize for last night’s ambush? To further interrogate him about Lorraine? Or maybe to ask him what the blazes his secret was for enticing women … “So we meet again,” I said for want of anything better.

Spires maintained his stare. “Look, man, I’m just trying to exist. I don’t want no agitation, and I don’t want no enemies. Just trying to live and love like any beast on two legs. Like I told you last night, your girl digs you, not me. So we’ve got no quarrel, you and I, right? You want to drop by here sometime and hear my music, fine. Otherwise, you go your own way and I’ll go mine. Nobody likes being hunted, friend. I’m gonna go live my life now. Happy trails.”

With that, Spires turned and headed for the Mercutio.

He never got there.

The gunshot echoed through the twilight like an angry shout. I saw Spires stagger and clutch his chest, and I caught a glimpse of someone standing just beyond us down the street. It was a man in a slouched hat and long black coat. Something bright flashed in his hand, and another shot rang out.

That’s when the hammer struck the side of my head—at least that’s what it felt like. Next came more sounds: shoes slapping concrete, agitated voices, a shrill whistle, and a low drawn-out moan. It took me a while to realize that the moan was coming from me and that I was lying sprawled on my back on the sidewalk, my face turned to one side. Something warm and wet was sliding down my right temple. My glasses had somehow remained on, and I could make out Byron Spires a few yards from me. He, too, lay crumpled on the sidewalk, the two bearded debaters leaning over him. He seemed very still.

Then a hand was resting on my cheek. Somehow I knew it was a feminine one. Carefully, my head was shifted so that I was now staring upward. What I saw was two sweet, beautiful faces, a single bright halo drifting high above them. I assumed they were angels, one light-skinned, one dark, who had come to guide me away. I felt deeply grateful. For a fleeting second, they took the form of Ruby and Kimla, their concerned faces silhouetted against the ring of a streetlamp. Then they became angels again, wonderfully radiant, and under their loving protection I slipped into blackness.