The McDead

Check up

Roberts had been diagnosed with skin cancer. For eighteen months, he’d undergone radiation therapy. The treatment left him bone weary and with a mega thirst. Being a policeman had the same effect. Now, he was in the doctor’s surgery awaiting results of a checkup.

The doctor was at his desk doing medical stuff and looking grim. Which told him zilch. Finally, the doctor asked, ‘Do you smoke?’

‘What?’

‘It’s not a difficult question.’

Roberts thought, Oh ch-err-ist, what have I now?

‘No I don’t.’

‘Good man. Don’t start.’

‘What?’

The doctor smiled, not a pretty sight, said, ‘Though on this occasion, you might indulge in a small celebratory cigar.’

‘I’m OK?’

‘Yes, you are and, with care, there’s no reason you shouldn’t live another six months.’

When he saw Roberts face, he said, ‘Just kidding, a little medical levity. How often do I get to deliver good news?’

Roberts couldn’t quite take it in, had lived with bad luck, bad news, for so long, asked again, ‘And I’m OK?’

‘Just stay outta the sun.’

‘In England … a tall order.’ Now they both laughed. A weather joke always broke the ice.

On his way out, Roberts said, ‘Thank you. I’ll do my damnest now to stop the malpractice suit.’

‘What?’

‘Just kidding, doc.’

After Roberts had left, the doctor lit a cigarette and hoped to hell it was a joke. You never could tell with cops.

Roberts said to Brant, ‘Let me get those, I’d some good news today.’

‘Sure thing, guv, though I’d ’ave ’ad a sarnie if I’d known you were paying.’

Roberts took the drinks, said, ‘Good news, not magnificent news.’

Brant looked longingly at the food cabinet, said, ‘They sure are tempting.’

They took a corner table at the back of the pub. A police position, to see and not be seen.

Brant said, ‘Your boy, the Scot, is hoping to shaft me.’

‘McDonald?’

‘Yeah, him.’

‘You’re getting paranoid, sarge, he’s all right.’

‘I heard the Super tell him.’

Roberts took a sip, then, ‘Oh sure what did you do … bug his office?’

‘Yes.’

It took a moment to sink in. Then incredulity, ‘No … not even you would be that crazy!’

‘The Super says I’m too Celtic.’

Roberts took his drink in a gulp, shook his head. Brant said, ‘Over on the Tottenham Court Road there’s a shop called Total Surveillance. A Spy Supermarket.’

Roberts put Up his hand, ‘Tell me no more. Good God, they’ll hang you out to dry.’

‘That’s what they want to do, guv, this way, I’m a jump ahead.’

‘You’re a flaming lunatic is what you are.’

Brant signalled to the barman. Then he roared, ‘Same again … before the holidays.’

The drinks came and Brant said, ‘He’s paying. He’s had good news.’

The barman didn’t appear too pleased but said, ‘How nice.’

‘And I’ll have one of them sarnie jobs. Pop it in the toaster, let it near burn.’

The barman said, with dripping sarcasm, ‘Would there be any other jobs?’

‘Naw, you’re doing too much as it is.’

Roberts sulked till Brant asked, ‘Wanna know what they said about you?’

‘No I bloody don’t.’

Then a few minutes later, ‘Go on then.’

‘That you’re out on yer ass.’

‘Never.’

‘Would I lie? It’s on tape.’

‘Bastards, keep buggin’ ’em.’