The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish. Allan Stratton

GRACE SENDS HER REGARDS. SHE IS HAVING A SPELL. ALBERT.

      A call from King Features to the Free Press confirmed the article. The paper offered to sell its copy, but the skeptical syndicate opted to send up a staffer for an independent fact check. After all, “Canadian news” was a contradiction in terms.

      Doyle had hit town that morning. Like travelling salesmen and other ne’er-do-wells, he’d checked into The Ceeps because it was cheap, next to the station, and came with a bar. After dropping off his bag — a change of underwear and a toothbrush — he went in search of the gal of the hour. According to the Free Press, Miss McTavish worked at the local private school. Doyle traipsed over, only to be confronted by the headmistress. “That damn Gorgon tore a strip off me,” he sputtered to Floyd. “Her butt’s so puckered, I’ll bet when she farts, she hits high C.”

      From there to the hospital. Doctor Hammond refused comment, but his broken nose told a tale, as did the shaken demeanour of a certain Nurse Judd.

      Doyle had better luck at Bethel Gospel Hall. The pastor was a hayseed with breath that would strip linoleum, but he was four-square behind the miracle; he also tipped Doyle to Tom and Betty Wertz. The couple made shy, but Doyle got past the front door when he said he was a lawyer come to offer his services cheap, on account of he’d heard the good doctor planned to charge Tom with assault.

      Last port of call: Timmy Beeford’s. Aunt Grace had the house sealed up tighter than a nun’s panties. But she’d overlooked Timmy’s upstairs bedroom window. Doyle lured the little nipper onto the verandah roof and got what he wanted with a couple of lemon sours.

      With enough for a column, Doyle skedaddled back to the hotel bar, phoned in what he had to King Features, and tucked into supper: a pickled egg washed down with a pail of suds.

      “You Canucks brew it strong,” Doyle told Floyd. “Then again, you gotta be pissed to live here.” He excused himself for a leak.

      “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

      Floyd looked up into the florid face of the drunk from the far corner. A big guy with a lumpy nose, the drunk slapped Floyd on the back. “Scoop Jones from Scripps-Howard. I got a quart of Four Roses in my room. Ditch the kid, come up for a nightcap. Give Scoop the scoop, get double for your trouble.”

      “Sorry, pal, I gotta hit the hay,” said Floyd, rising unsteadily from his chair.

      “A rain check then. Scoop Jones. Room 202.”

      As Floyd lurched to the elevator by the front desk, he heard the clerk say to the new arrival in the rumpled fedora, “Scratch Micallef, Associated Press? I must say, we’ve been getting a lot of newsmen lately. The bar is that way.”

      Wobbling down the hall to his room, Floyd felt a spot of envy. Some young missy’d grabbed the spotlight he and Perce had dreamed of. She’d be rich. Damn. There was nothing so cruel as the good fortune of others.

      However, Floyd was a visionary, not long for regret. By the time he fumbled his key into the lock, he’d had a flash. By the time the door swung open, it was a full-blown inspiration. And by the time he switched on the overhead light, he saw his career resurrected in glory. He was going to hitch a ride on Mary Mabel’s star, be her manager, be a millionaire.

      “Perce,” he cried, “get your ass in gear. If you want to save that damn ministry of yours, get on your knees and pray for God to bring us Miss McTavish. Tell Him to make it snappy. Given the shit He’s flushed our way, it’s the least He can do.”

      Percy tumbled out of his sheets. If this could save his pulpit, he’d get cracking like eggs at a diner.

      A few hours later, Percy prayed out and Floyd passed out, Herschel MacIntosh of the London Parks Department came pounding on their door, fresh from chasing lovers out of the fairground. “There’s bums in your tent. Any trouble, there’ll be hell to pay.”

      The evangelists got to the site in no time. In the cab of their truck, they found a tramp in a dress. Percy was outraged when Floyd took up flirting. No way is that whoremonger going to fornicate at the foot of my bed with some hoboess, he fumed, as he checked the glove compartment for theft. That’s when he heard Floyd say the magic words: “You’re Mary Mabel McTavish?”

      Mary Mabel McTavish! Lo, the Lord had delivered her unto them, just as Percy’d prayed! The reverend’s eyes filled with tears. He had a direct line to the Almighty after all.

      The Call

      No sooner had Mary Mabel been introduced to the evangelists than they were interrupted by visitors. “It’s the Three Stooges,” Floyd whispered. “Don’t give them your name, or there’ll be trouble.” She decided to trust his advice: better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

      “If it isn’t the gentlemen of the press,” the evangelist called out. “What brings you boys out on a 3:00 a.m. constitutional? The Londonderry air? Or are you after some London derrière?”

      “I’d ask the same of you,” the youngest snorted. “Who’s the doll?”

      Floyd grabbed her by the elbow. “Why, Mr. Doyle, this is a vagrant we caught on a tip.”

      Mary Mabel took her cue. Imagining herself the ruined heroine of The Fallen Shopgirl, she went knock-kneed. “Is you me Daddy?” she asked, clinging drunkenly to his lapels.

      “High on turpentine,” Floyd confided.

      Clucking tongues and shaking heads. How exciting! Mary Mabel decided to go all out. “I’ve been a bad girl, Daddy,” she pouted. “Take me home and spank me!”

      “I’m not your Daddy, child.”

      “We can purr-tend,” she hiccuped, and threw her left arm open to the newsmen. “Which one-ov-you wants to be my Daddy?” She batted her eyes.

      They took a step backwards, half-interested, half-afraid.

      “No takers?” she sobbed prettily. “Then I’m all alone in the big bad world, and me with a bun in the oven.” She shook her fist at the moon. “Curse you Billy Bounder!”

      Floyd stepped hard on her instep. “Shut your trap. Your Daddy’s in the county jail! And that’s where you’ll be headed too, soon as we raid the tent!”

      At word of a raid, the newsmen perked up. Floyd turned to his partner. “Lead the way, while I guard our potted Petunia. En route, you can regale the lads with your conversion stats.”