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.’