Read Online The Haunting Ballad by Michael Nethercott - Free Book Online Page B

changes. There’s one theory that song variations are like Darwin. Survival of the fittest, you know? Over the course of time, as a particular ballad passes from one singer to another, the best lyrics survive and the lesser ones drop away.”
    â€œLeaving the hardiest version?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.
    â€œYes, that’s it. But despite the changes, the main storyline of the ballad stays intact. What I like to call ‘the spine of the tale.’ You can add whatever meat you want—whatever variations—but the main story, the spine, still remains.” Minnie slapped her knee and offered a satisfied grin. “That, fellas, is my own little contribution to the terminology.”
    Mr. O’Nelligan smiled back at her. “A fine contribution it is, madam. So, Lorraine had quarrels with Byron Spires…”
    Minnie nodded. “Sure. Oh, and ask about … now what was the name? Crimson? Yeah, I think that’s it … Crimson Somebody. Strange name. Funny, I can’t remember if it was a guy or a girl.”
    â€œWho’s Crimson?” I asked.
    â€œA folksinger who Lorraine screwed over—pardon my language. Abe says I curse like a stevedore, but I think that’s an exaggeration. Anyhow, the story I heard is that this Crimson person had shared a pile of songs with Lorraine, let her record them and everything. Then one night at one of the coffeehouses—I forget which one—Lorraine signed on to do a set just before Crimson was scheduled to perform. Now, mind you, Lorraine was no virtuoso, but she could strum a guitar and sing a tune well enough. So what she does that night is get up and perform all of Crimson’s set. Each and every song! Of course, that left Crimson nothing to do—didn’t even bother to take the stage. Crimson confronted Lorraine later, and I guess there was hell to pay. Though, like I’ve said, this is all just what I’ve heard. You’d have to ask around to get the full story.”
    â€œLorraine Cobble sounds like quite the piece of work,” I said.
    Minnie shook her head ruefully. “Not exactly a mensch, that lady. I will say this much—there is something, in a way, that I owe her. If she hadn’t done me such dirt back with the Arizona fiasco, I never would have ended up returning to New York and meeting my Abe. We wouldn’t have had our three fine boys, each as sweet as their father.”
    Thinking it best not to question the sweetness of Abe Bornstein, I simply nodded. “When was the last time you saw Lorraine?”
    The woman’s brow wrinkled. “Let me think. A month ago was it? She stopped in here to pick up a book she’d ordered.”
    â€œHow was her comportment?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.
    â€œYou mean how was she acting? Like Lorraine Cobble—no more, no less. She was in a hurry. Lorraine was one of those people who always seem to be in a hurry, even when they’re not. I do remember she said that she’d just passed someone in the street who looked exactly like Groucho Marx, only much shorter. Funny, isn’t it? You know a person and suddenly they’re dead, and when you think back on your last encounter, all that sticks out is something silly like that—a tiny Groucho.” Minnie Bornstein paused, a look of contemplation crossing her face. “I guess if I up and died tomorrow, all they’d remember about me is sheet music and polka dots.” Then she laughed gaily. “Hell, it could be worse!”
    *   *   *
    AFTER TAKING LEAVE of the Bornsteins, Mr. O’Nelligan and I grabbed a quick dinner at a nearby cafeteria. My Irish comrade found the corned beef and cabbage “profoundly lackluster,” but my hamburger did me just fine.
    â€œSo, what think you of Minnie’s reflections on Lorraine Cobble?” my partner asked between forkfuls.
    â€œWhat think I? I thinketh Miss Cobble did