We walk, and the smell of street is raucous. It shoots through me and I enjoy it. The city buildings in the distance are holding up the sky, it seems. The sky is blue and bright, and the strides of Rube and I walk towards it. We used to languish when we walked, or sidle down the street like dogs that have just done something wrong. Now Rube walks upright, because he’s on the attack.

We get to the track and it’s about one o’clock.

‘Look,’ I point. ‘It’s Mrs Craddock.’

As expected, she’s sitting in the stand, holding a hot dog in one hand and balancing a coldie and a cigarette in the other. The smoke smothers her and divides either side.

‘Hi fellas,’ she calls to us, moving the cigarette to her lips. Or is she taking a chug on the beer? She has brown-grey hair, purple lipstick, a scrunched nose and wears an old dress and thongs. She’s big. A big woman.

‘Hey Mrs Craddock,’ we greet her. (It was the beer she was after, then a quick inhalation.) ‘How y’ goin’?’

‘Beautifully, thanks. Nothin’ better than a day with the dogs.’

‘That’s for sure.’ But I’m thinking, Whatever y’ say, love. ‘Who do y’ like in the next one?’

She grins.

Oh man. It’s not pretty. Those falsies …

‘Number Two,’ she advises. ‘Peach Sunday.’

Peach Sunday. Peach Sunday? What sort of person calls a greyhound Peach Sunday? They should get together with whoever called that other dog You Bastard.

‘Can she gallop?’ I ask.

‘That’s horses, love,’ Craddock answers. See how infuriating she is? Can she really think that I think I’m at the horse track? ‘And it’s a he.’

‘Well?’ Rube asks. ‘Is he a certainty?’

‘Sure as I’m sittin’ here.’

‘Well she’s sittin’ here all right.’ Rube nudges me on our way. ‘All three hundred pounds of her.’

We turn and bid her goodbye.

Me: ‘Bye Mrs Craddock.’

Rube: ‘Yeah, see y’ later. Thanks for the tip.’

We look around. Our cop mates aren’t here, so we have to hunt for someone else to put the bet on for us. It won’t be hard. A voice finds us.

‘Hey Wolves!’

It’s Perry Cole, holding his customary beer, as well as a grin. ‘What are a couple of respectable young lads such as yourselves doin’ down here?’

‘Just puttin’ a few on,’ Rube replies. ‘Can y’ slap a bet on for us?’

‘Of course.’

‘Race three, number two.’

‘Right.’