Calibre

10

Brant hammered on Porter’s door and it finally opened to reveal a sleepy Porter, going:

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, I was in the neighbourhood, thought you’d give me coffee. Hey, you’ve got post.’

Brant bent down, picked up an envelope, handed it over. Porter took it, said:

‘Come in, I guess. I’ll brew some coffee.’

And juice, you got some OJ?’

Brant flopped on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, and Porter said:

‘Please make yourself at home.’

Brant was already lighting a cig and Porter had to refrain from comment. He got the coffee and juice, said:

‘I’m going to have a shower, you okay for a minute.’

‘No toast?’

While Porter was in the shower, Brant examined his bookcase. No McBain, but lots of psychology, poetry, and history.

Brant muttered.

‘Heavy shit.’

He was on his second coffee when Porter emerged, smelling of aftershave and dressed in a dark, expensive suit. Brant whistled, said:

‘Nice duds, you got another one of those, you might lend it to Roberts.’

Porter picked up the envelope, noted the typed address, and opened it, read, went:

‘Oh, god.’

Brant was up, asked:

‘What?’

Porter handed him the sheet. He’d gone pale, a tremor in his hand.

Brant read:

To Porter Nash

You are no doubt aware of my mission to restore manners to our manor, excuse the pun. I did caution your chief that the police would not be exempt from my crusade. I’ve had a few drinks in your local watering hole and alas, have to report that the barman, Trevor, has been consistently rude, aggressive to all and sundry.

I know you have a certain attachment, but I must play by the rules and I’m afraid I can’t make exceptions.

Trusting this will not adversely affect our relationship.

Yours regrettably, FORD.

Porter croaked:

‘He’s going to kill Trevor.’

And stormed out the door. Brant caught him at his car, grabbed his arm, said:

‘I’ll drive.’

Trevor’s place was just off Clapham Common and Brant got there in record time. They didn’t speak. Porter gnawed at his thumb till he drew blood. When they got there, Porter was out of the car and inside the building, Brant behind him.

He began to pound on a door and Brant wanted to ask:

‘He didn’t give you a key?’

But maybe not the time to discuss the dynamics of their affair. No answer. Brant said:

‘Stand back.’

And launched himself, taking the door down in one. They piled into the tiny space, a bed in the corner. A figure rose up, going:

‘What the fuck?’

Porter went:

‘Trevor, are you okay?’

Before Trevor could answer, another head surfaced from the blankets and asked:

‘Are we in trouble?’

Without another word, Porter turned and walked out. Brant stared at the two, then said:

‘Nice morning for it.’