Ken Bruen - The McDead

two shots of Sauza Tequila,

and …

lightly carbonated orange juice.

Brant was able to tell this to Roberts with some expertise mainly because the barman had just told him. There’s a tapas bar on the corner where Kennington Road hits Kennington Park Road. Brant had arranged to meet Roberts there.

‘Why?’ asked Roberts.

‘Cos I’m feeling Spanish.’

‘You are a weird person, sergeant but, why not?’

Brant got there first. A barman in near flamenco gear, said, ‘Hi.’

Brant said, ‘ Buenos tardes. ’

‘ Senor, habla espanol? ’

‘Naw, that’s it, I do have another word but I’d like to ration it.’

The barman, not sure if this was humour, smiled. He was sure Brant was el polica. He’d be mucho cautious.

Brant said, ‘I dunno all this stuff from shit. What d’ya recommend?’ And thus he was enjoying his second.

Later, he told the barman he’d try taco, enchillados, cerveza, if he could stand up.

‘ Bueno ,’ said a very nervous barkeep. The waitress was in her late ambitious thirties. Her mileage showed but she’d made the best of it. A raw sexuality danced in her eyes. She said to the barman, nodding at Brant, ‘Now, there is a bull of a man, a real el toro. ’

The barman sighed. He was going to apply for income support.

Roberts tasted his drink, said, ‘You could get a liking.’

‘Good man, that’s the spirit.’

Roberts, the only person who ever got to use Brant’s first name, said, ‘Tom, I hate to worry you but…

Brant was shaking his head, ‘I don’t worry.’

Roberts stood back from the bar, said, ‘My mistake. You’re a warrior, yeah.’

Brant had the grace to look ashamed, said, ‘Oh gawd, do I sound like a horse’s ass?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK … What’s worrying you?’

‘A new sergeant being transferred to us. Starts Monday.’

Brant shrugged. ‘I know.’

‘Do you? Oh shit, you’re still bugging the office.’

‘Course … might I add, they dislike me.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I hadn’t finished, but they outright hate you.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Yeah. The new guy’s named Porter Nash.’

‘All together?’

‘And he’s a good cop.’

Roberts asked for a beer. The barman got it, said, ‘ Una cerveza. ’

Brant lit up. ‘Ah, that’s beer.’

‘It’s Don Miguel, senor, mucho gusto. ’

‘Yeah … later Juan.’

Roberts asked, ‘Are we gonna eat?’

‘Let’s get a bit pissed, then we won’t care what we eat.’

‘That’s your plan?’

‘For the moment. Anyway Porter Nash ain’t going no further than sergeant, despite having a degree in criminology.’

‘Christ, you’re well informed. What’s the matter with Porter Nash?’

Brant smiled. ‘His dance card’s not full.’

‘What?’

‘He’s a poofter, an arse bandit.’

Roberts took a nervous look round, said, ‘Jeez, sarge, keep it down.’

‘They’re Spaniards, they hate pillow-biters.’

They went quiet for a while, got some concentrated drink down, then Brant asked, ‘Any ideas on how to get Tommy Logan?’

‘Nothing feasible yet.’

‘We could shoot him.’

‘If it were anyone else but you, sergeant, I’d think that was a joke.’

Brant raised his hand, shouted, ‘Jose … food please … arriba … don’t worry, guv, I got the lingo covered and I think I’ll get to ride the waitress.’

Porter Nash was finishing up the Sunday papers. Reading about Peter Ackroyd, he noted:

‘There was only the game of living

and the reality of writing.’

‘Hmmmph,’ he said and substituted ‘policing’ for ‘living’ and ‘homosexuality’ for ‘writing’. Not bad but it would be somewhat awkward to slide into conversation. The phone rang.

He lifted the receiver, said, ‘Yes?’

‘Faggots aren’t welcome in Kennington.’

Nash said, ‘Thanking you for your interest.’

And hung up.

He stood up and stretched. He looked a little like Michael York with edge. He was tall with blond hair and that fresh-faced English look that’s often mistaken for weakness. Yet again he wondered why he had asked for a transfer. It wasn’t as if he expected some amazing tolerance in the south-east. But he’d been going stale and ceasing to care. Whatever else happened, he wanted to care.

Monday morning when he entered the canteen, it went completely quiet. Packed to capacity before the week’s mayhem began. He went to the counter and got a tea. They knew he knew the toilets of both sexes had been written on … saying:

SERGEANT PORTER NASH SUCKS ANY DICK

Even the tea lady knew. He avoided her eyes but unlike most of the ill-mannered buggers in there, he said, ‘please’ when he asked for things, and ‘thank you’ when he got them.

As he walked away, she said to the cashier. ‘Well, say what you like about him, he has great manners.’

‘They do, always.’

He walked back down the length of the canteen, then took a sip of tea, put the cup down. As he headed out, conversation began to buzz but he stopped, turned and said, ‘I’m not arguing the basic truth of the toilet graffiti.’ And then he raised his voice, ‘But I do take exception to the word any. Even I draw the line at Sergeant Brant.’

Then he was gone.

A moment later, huge applause erupted. By evening, not a trace of the graffiti remained. Later, when he and Falls had become friends, she asked, ‘Did you ever find out who wrote the graffiti?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Who?’

‘I did it myself.’

Falls would rarely be as impressed again.

Some friendships take a lot of work, others just develop, due to geography and environment. Then, now and again, you get the instant variety.

Even before they got to know each other, the friendship was cemented. Not love at first sight, but out of the same stable. Thus it was for Falls and Porter Nash. A near riot was sizzling in the DSS at the Elephant. Nash and Falls took the call.

Outside the station, he asked, ‘You want to drive?’

‘You’re the rank, I’ll follow orders.’

He could see the spirit in her eyes. He said, ‘I order myself to drive.’ She liked that.

As he drove, he felt her examination, asked, ‘See anything you like?’

‘I was thinking you got a rough reception.’

‘Honest in its way.’

‘Is that how you see it?’

‘You want me to call them rednecks and bigots?’

‘I do.’

He considered, then, ‘That’s because you’re black.’

It hung there till she said, ‘As I’m painted.’

‘Touche.’

Approaching the DSS, she asked, ‘How are you going to tackle this?’

‘Badly.’

‘Uh-uh, should we ask for back-up?’

‘We should get guns but what the hell, let’s make it up as we go along.’

They could hear the disturbance and it sounded bad. He said, ‘Of course there’s always the master plan.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Run.’

‘That’s my favourite.’

Nash strode into the middle of the DSS office. Four or five different fights were happening on the left. Staff were cowering behind protective glass. A chair bounced off it. Falls tried to keep up with Nash. He stopped in the centre, roared, ‘Who wants money-now?’

A chorus of:

‘What?’

‘Eh?’

‘Who’s ’e then?’

‘Wanker!’

He continued: ‘Those who want their money, please gather to the right; those wishing to fight, please await the riot police.’

A stocky figure emerged from the crowd, asked, ‘Who the fuck are you?’