"Honest John Finds True Love"
by Michael Menser Dell


CHAPTER FOUR

The dilapidated old piano had been rooted along the back wall for years, but Archibald Loomis,
the grandfatherly proprietor of The Workman's Pub, couldn't remember the last time anyone
ventured to play it.  He ran a towel over the dusty keys, recalling how it was procured from a
second-hand music store with the aim of bringing musical life to his dreary little tavern.  
Yes, at the time, glorious visions of joyous sing-a-longs and raucous celebrations warmed 
his heart, with the accompanying clang of the cash register fattening his wallet.  But alas, 
it was not meant to be.  There was one slight problem with Archie's grand scheme: He didn't 
know how to play the piano.  The thought of actually hiring someone to do so sent a shudder 
down his bank account, and musicians were a curious lot, best left for more patient men than 
he.  All attempts to learn the infernal instrument ended in frustrated fits of cursing and, on 
one particularly aggravating occasion, a severely swollen right foot.  So, with no other 
options at his disposal, the piano was left dormant, serving as either a table for the 
friendless or an incredibly dull conversation piece.

But that was all about to change.  Archie gave the box's dull wood finish one final soothing
swipe, preparing it for its long-awaited debut, and triumphantly marched behind the bar just in
time to see the pub's favorite son barrel through the door.                     

"Good news, Arch," announced Churchfield, a surprising smile upon his face and a battered
suitcase in his hand.  "Looks like I'll be able to pay my tab again this month."  

"Did you get a job, Johnny?"

"Just a little something to keep the spirits flowing."  Churchfield exchanged grumbled greetings
with a few of the pub's sparse patrons and joined Archie at the beer taps, swinging his suitcase
onto the bar as he went.  "I'm heading up to Blackpool tonight, could be gone a few days. 
Looking to find someone's husband."

"Anyone we know?"

"You ever heard of Lowry Cain?"

The name's mention snapped Mary to life.  The drowsy barmaid, enjoying the final few moments
of peace and quiet before the evening rush, sat up straight on her stool at the end of the 
bar, her eyes sparkling with interest.  "The singer?"

"The very same," supplied Churchfield, crouching down to inspect the liquor bottles on the
bottom shelf.  

Archie's aged brow wrinkled.  "Is he the lad with the messy hair and mangy clothes who's
always hollering like a banshee?"

"He's a genius!" defended Mary.

"You think a genius would know how to use a comb.  Why, in my day..."  

"Oh, hush!" warned Mary, leaning over the bar to see the still searching Churchfield.  "He's
okay, isn't he, Johnny?  You don't think anything bad happened to him, do you?"

Churchfield stood up, depositing a case of gin next to his suitcase.  "It wouldn't be the first
time."  He flung open the top of his shabby satchel, exposing a cavernous void soon filled with
four bottles of the blue ruin.  

Mary bristled with disgust.  "Sure that's enough?" 

"You're right."  Churchfield crammed a fifth bottle and flipped the straps shut.  "Better 
safe than sorry."

Before Mary could offer more sarcasm, a slender youth in an ill-fitting tweed suit, its 
sleeves too long and its pants too short, emerged from the back store room.  His shiny black 
hair, parted in the middle and perfectly lacquered in place, was in stark contrast to his 
ghostly pallor, which was either achieved through a lifetime of sheltered pampering or 
several thick coats of house paint.  A jaunty bow tie dotted his pitiful excuse for a neck, and 
a pair of large, cumbersome spectacles overpowered his slim nose and almost nonexistent mouth.  
He cleared his meager throat and announced his presence with a fluttering chirp.  "I'm 
ready, Uncle Archie."
                      
Churchfield startled at the sight of the nebbish newcomer.  "Arch, I think those cockroaches are
back early this year."  

Mary swatted Churchfield with a bar towel.  "That's Archie's nephew!"

"Oh, right you are," recovered the detective, even though he struggled to find any evidence
within the youth contradicting insect ancestry.  Archie stepped forward to provide introduction. 

"Johnny, I'd like you to meet my nephew Irving.  Irving, this is John Churchfield, the famous
detective."

Irving held out a gangly limb.  "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Likewise, I'm sure."  Churchfield reluctantly accepted the offer, shaking hands with what felt
like an emaciated dead fish.  "The family resemblance is unmistakable."

"Irving's staying with me for a few weeks," explained Archie.  "While he's here, he's gonna be
the pub's piano player." 

"The pub has a piano?"

"Certainly."  Archie draped an arm around his nephew's sickly shoulders and led him to the
piano in question.  "We've had it for years."

"You just never notice anything without a cork," hissed Mary.  

"Then why don't we try and find one big enough to shove up your..."

"Would you two quit it!" warned Archie, stooping to pull out the long vacant piano bench. 
"We're trying to class up the joint.  Sit down, Irving.  Now, I know things seem pretty quiet, but
the crowd will start pouring in any minute.  So why don't you play us a little something to warm
up?"

"Yes, sir, Uncle Archie.  Would you like to hear one of my original pieces?"

"Did you hear that?  He writes his own music.  Yeah, go right ahead, Irving.  Play us one of your
songs."     

Irving carefully stretched his fingers, the tiny joints popping on both hands, and gently caressed
the waiting ivory.  One final deep inhalation swelled his frail chest.  Its release, 
accompanied by a guttural moan, propelled him into an apoplectic frenzy.  His flailing 
arms flashed in fitful bursts upon the keys.  A menacing cacophony ensued, boasting all the 
charm of a blacksmith's hammer.  The thrashing of disjointed chords and broken notes rattled 
the walls.  Even the most ardent drinkers began contemplating a life of sobriety.

The oratory assault was reaching a crescendo when Archie placed a hand on Irving's brittle back. 
"That's enough, lad!  That's enough!"  The demented din came to an immediate halt, with
Irving's breathless body at once regaining its previous composure.  Astonished onlookers
cautiously uncovered their ears.  Archie turned to face them, beaming with paternal pride.  "And
can you believe it?  He's never had a lesson!"

"How could you teach that?" asked Churchfield, in mocking agreement.

"Uncle Archie, I think I chipped a fingernail."

"Aw, you'll be alright, lad.  Why don't you go in the back and get some rest.  I'll come get you
when it's show time."

Irving dutifully did as he was told, anxiously studying his injured finger as he drifted from the
room.  Archie, completely oblivious to the stunned silence around him, reclaimed his position
behind the bar, continuing to clean the same glass he had started before the impromptu concert.  

"So, Johnny, when will you be coming home?"

"How long did you say your nephew is staying?"

"Oh, probably two weeks." 

"I'll be back in two weeks."  

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you, Johnny?" offered Mary.  "I hear Blackpool is
quiet this time of year." 

"It wouldn't be with you there."  Churchfield, eager to avoid Irving's second show, grabbed his
suitcase and made a hasty retreat.  He stuffed a few paper notes in Archie's front shirt pocket on
his way out.  "That's for you, Arch.  Buy yourself some earmuffs."

"Thanks, Johnny.  I hope you find your man."

"He'll be lucky to find the train," cracked Mary, as Churchfield disappeared through the front
door, embarking on his latest mystery.  "But I certainly hope Lowry Cain is all right.  It 
would be terrible to think something happened to him."

"You really like this Cain fellow, huh?" asked Archie.

Mary blushed.  "I'm afraid I've always had a weakness for musicians."

"You don't say?"

"I'm not sure if it's the creativity or the sense of power, but I find them very attractive."

Archie's towel fell silent.  He placed the glass he was cleaning on the bar, leaned forward, and
assumed a most sincere attitude.  "Ya know," whispered the old man, checking to make sure their
conversation was private, "Irving is single."