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Southern Appalachian folk songs. She really was the queen of the songcatchers, so, of course, Lorraine had to ingratiate herself with her. Lorraine had already starting collecting by then. She’d been to Appalachia on her own, and I think Mrs. Campbell saw something of herself in her. She hired her on to work with us.”
    â€œSo were you a song collector then, as well?” I asked.
    â€œYes, I’d done some gathering of old Yiddish songs and such, but once I’d started working for Mrs. Campbell, I got this whole different idea. I wanted to head out west and collect work songs from Navaho and Apache women. Now, I know what you’re thinking—what would a roly-poly Jewish lady from New York do with herself out on the plains? Honestly, I was just really keen to take it on.”
    My partner unleashed his civility. “I’m sure you’d make the best of any environment, Mrs. Bornstein.”
    She dismissed the compliment with a snicker and a smile. “So what happened then is that Mrs. Campbell put me in touch with some well-to-do folks from Arizona who said they’d sponsor my project. I was ecstatic! This was a few months after Lorraine had joined us, and she and I had become friends—or so I thought. She offered to help me follow up on organizing things and ended up being in contact with the benefactors herself. Long story short, Lorraine Cobble somehow talked them into sending her and not me out to the reservations. In the end, she didn’t gather that many songs, but she sure squelched my dreams.”
    â€œThat’s real lousy,” I said, and I meant it. “Did you ever call her on it?”
    â€œOf course I did, but she just insisted everyone thought she was the best choice for making the trip—because of her collecting experience and her youth. Anyway, that’s the kind of person she was.”
    â€œDid you have much contact with her after that?”
    â€œNot at first. I ended up moving back here not long after and didn’t see Lorraine for almost a decade. Then we both found ourselves living in the Village and would run into each other from time to time. I was still dabbling in song collecting, and every once in a while she and I would overlap on some project or other.”
    â€œYou’d still work with her after what she did?” I asked.
    â€œWell, I’m the forgiving sort—though I made sure never to put my full trust in her again. To be honest, she was one of the few people around who I could talk with about obscure Ozark ballads or the history of Northumbrian pipes.” Minnie laughed and smoothed out her lapful of polka dots. “Oh, don’t get me going on Northumbrian pipes!”
    I didn’t. “You said there were other people Lorraine Cobble had done wrong to. Such as?”
    â€œWell, you could talk to the gang down at the Café Mercutio. She spent a fair amount of time there and had a number of run-ins, I understand. Talk to Tony Mazzo who owns the place.”
    â€œMazzo, right.” I remembered him from my last visit.
    â€œHe’s quite a character,” Minnie said. “Fancies himself a big patron of the arts and a renegade, to boot. He likes to brag how three or four years ago he told the anti-Communist committee to take a giant hike. So, yeah, go talk to Mazzo. Talk to the Doonans, Byron Spires—all those people.”
    I revisited my least favorite topic. “About Spires…”
    â€œSure, he and Lorraine had a run-in or two.”
    â€œThere was something about him stealing some Scottish song from her. Did you hear about that?”
    â€œI wouldn’t call it hers really. That song goes way back, but it’s true, she did collect it—at least that particular version. You have to understand that there’s no such thing as a single authentic version of a folk ballad. Each time a different singer gets hold of a traditional song, it just naturally undergoes