A White Arrest

card, none of yer Ryan Giggs preciousness. Or here, Dave Prouse, a London boy. Played Darth Vader. Didn’t know that, eh? Want some beer?’ Meyer hadn’t known, and yes to the drink. He liked how it made him dizzy. And shit, he could bite ankles, would welcome the chance.

Brant, lost in wonder, said: ‘Jeez, old Dave didn’t know what Star Wars was gonna do, so he took a flat fee. Three large. But Alec Guinness, he opted for a percentage, has got over a hundred million so far. Make you bloody howl, eh?’

Silence descended as man and dog chewed, pondering the sheer awfulness of chance.

Outside, the Umpire kept vigil, his mind in flames.

Brant was washing Meyer in the bath, said: ‘You’re a babe magnet.’ He’d heard that walking a dog was a sure way to meet women. You exchange phone numbers over leashes and later you did it over the doggy bowl. The other way was supermarkets. Jeez, even Falls had scored there. So OK, she got a security guard, which was kinda rolling yer own, but what the hell. Who’s keeping score? The bath didn’t alter Meyer radically. Now he was a clean, balding animal, like a Time Out reader. Meyer stared at Brant with a look of ‘it ain’t gonna work’.

And Brant said: ‘Hold the phones buddy, you gotta have magnetism, draw them in with scent,’ and blasted Meyer with Old Spice. He could almost hear the Beach Boys’ ‘Surfin Safari’, and began to hum it. Not the easiest tune to solo.

As the smell of spice wafted forth, Brant said: ‘Hey, not bad,’ and gave himself more than a generous dollop. When they hit the common you could have smelled them coming. If dogs could strut, then Meyer tried. And sure, the women were out en masse, both dogged and dog-less.

Alas, the boyos didn’t score. In fact, one woman said: ‘You barbarian, ought to be arrested for mistreating that animal.’ But Brant took it well, almost waxed philosophical, said: ‘Might have over done after-shave a tad.’

Babe-less, they headed for the chip shop. The Umpire clocked their progress. Brant might have noticed but he’d already decided it was best they didn’t score. Now he could focus on Fiona Roberts. She might have a dog. She already had a husband.

The eyes of a dog

Brant sat down to his breakfast. He’d prepared a mega pot of tea, a mountain of toast, four sausages, black pudding and a badly fried egg. He’d got a wok from cigarette coupons and used it for everything. All the fry had been blasted together and as he studied the mess, he said: ‘Lookin’ good!’

The dog sat looking at him. William James once said if you want to know about spirituality, look into a dog’s eyes. Alas, William never tried to outrun the Rotweillers in Peckham or stare down the Railton Road pit bulls. What was in the dog’s eyes was love and gratitude. This man had saved his sorry ass, he knew that. Now if he could only train him, and eating from the wok direct would be a great beginning. He tried to communicate this to the man.

Brant forked a wedge of sausage and said: ‘Tell you something, Meyer. I’ve had some dogs in this gaff, but you’re the first bald one.’ In McBain’s 87th Precinct mysteries, Meyer Meyer is a Jewish detective with not a hair on his head.

Meyer Meyer was already a little legend in the nick. It was even suggested Brant had gone soft. True, he’d felt enormous emotions he’d thought were tight locked away. But it was fun, he got a buzz out of it. The ribbing and piss-taking didn’t bother him. Of course it was held in check, since with Brant you never knew. Even Roberts got wind and asked: ‘So, Sarge, what’s the story with the Rin-Tin-Tin?’

‘Meyer Meyer.’

‘What?’

‘See, you’d know if you’d read yer McBain. But oh no, not Nora enough, eh?’

‘That’s noir, N-O-I-R!’

‘Whatever.’

‘Where is it then, I mean during the day?’

‘Out, he goes out, but he’s always waiting when I get home.’

Roberts was quiet and then added wistfully: ‘It must be good to have someone waiting.’

When Brant got home that evening, there was no dog.

Brant was mid pie-man’s lunch when Roberts called him. ‘Can’t it wait Guv, I’m in the middle of me dinner here.’

‘No.’

‘Ah, shit.’

When they got outside Brant asked: ‘Where’s the bloody fire then?’ Roberts gave him a startled look, then said: ‘There’s been an… incident, one of your neighbours called in. The uniforms are at the scene.’

When they got there Brant pushed ahead up the stairs. The stench was appalling. What remained of the dog was barely recognisable, smoke still trailing slowly up. Brant turned back, said: ‘Ah… Jesus!’

Roberts bundled him outside, got him the car, rummaged in the back, produced a thermos, poured a cup, said: ‘Take this.’

‘Don’t want it.’

‘It’s brandy’

‘OK.’ And he let it down. After a moment, Brant produced his Weights, but the tremor in his hand prevented him lighting.

‘Give it ’ere, Tom.’ Roberts lit the cigarette in Brant’s mouth, then said: ‘The dog. I mean your dog… he was covered in a white coat.’

‘So?’

‘A knee-length white coat. It was singed but not burned.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, like we were meant to see it.’

‘Jeez, Guv, so bloody big deal.’

‘Tom, it’s an umpire’s coat.’

A house is not a home

PC tone was also ‘encore une fois-ing’. But like Roberts’ daughter, it wasn’t doing a whole lot for him. He was determined to be cool. But already, even Oasis were on the slide. Never-no-mind, he put on ‘Champagne Supernova’ and felt connected. On the door of his flat was a full-length poster of Clare Danes, his ideal woman. He’d first stumbled upon her in the defunct series, My So-called Life, and he was lost, smitten, entranced. Her part as Juliet in her first full-length movie sealed his fate. Once being interviewed, she’d admitted to listening to ‘Wonderwall’, ‘Like one hundred times.’ And he’d shouted: ‘Me too!’

Then he got dressed, imitating the words of Brant: ‘Let’s rock ’n’ roil.’ Like that.

A pair of tan Farah slacks, tight in the ass and crotch so the babes could ogle. But his courage faltered and he pulled on a Nike long sweat, then a shirt loosely buttoned to highlight the sweat’s logo: No. 1. All right!

Then a pair of market trainers designer-soiled so he wouldn’t appear an asshole, like the new kid on the block or something. Shades of cool. A short denim jacket, black lest he appear obvious. Final touch, the Marlboro Lights in the top right-hand pocket. Looked again in the mirror, said: ‘My man,’ and headed out. Then sheepishly, he had to return a few minutes later to check the gas was off. Worry and cool didn’t blend. Shit, he knew that. If Brant didn’t check the gas, he’d say: ‘Let it blow.’ Tone hadn’t reached that plateau of recklessness yet. Deeply suspected he never would.