Brant was drinking a Sauza sunrise. A close relation of The Eagles’ ‘Tequila S’, it consists of
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.’