Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

Heard a shout, an answer, then,

“Ron is off till noon tomorrow.”

“Could I see him then?”

“He’ll be here.”

Click. Enough detective work for one day; time to party. Checked my wallet and headed out. Five minutes to Nestor’s, how easy does it get? Decided to cut through St Patrick’s Church, shake a few memories. Stopped at the grotto. If I was to pray, it should be for Kiki. Heard,

“Well, I never. Jack Taylor in prayer.”

Fr Malachy, in all his smug glory. Even if I didn’t like priests, I wouldn’t like him. Ever. He was sucking the guts out of a dying cig. I said,

“Still smoking.”

“I was just with your mother.”

“Gee, that’s a shock.”

“Shock, is it? The poor woman is in deep trauma since she met you. To give her…teeth.”

“My teeth.”

He was raising his eyes in that “Lord give me strength” deal they learn at priest school. He said,

“She’ll never be the better of it.”

“Mmm, I’d say she’d recover.”

“What on earth possessed you?”

“The drink, Father, the drink made me do it.”

His right hand came up, automatic reflex when they’re crossed. So many years they could safely lash out without repercussions. I smiled and he fought back the urge. I turned to look at the statue, asked,

“If I claimed it moved, would it help business?”

“You’re a pup.”

He pulled out the Majors, got one lit, dragged madly as if he could inhale the rage. I said,

“I have some good news for my mother.”

“You’re leaving town?”

“No, I got married.”

“What?”

“But she’s leaving town. In fact, she’s already gone.”

“You have a wife and she’s gone already?”

“In a nutshell.”

He flung the cig into the grotto, said,

“You’re stone mad.”

“But never boring, right, Malachy?”

“To hell with you.”

And he stomped off, I called,

“That’s not a blessing.”

A local woman, passing, said,

“Good on you. That fellah’s got too big for his boots.”

I said the prayer for Kiki, albeit a short one.

In Nestor’s, Jeff asked,

“Did you find her?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone.”

“Back to London.”

“Jeez, Jack.”

“Where’s Cathy?”

“She’s angry with you. Give her a few days.”

He put up a pint, said,

“On the house.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

“What’s the plan?”

“I’m meeting Keegan.”

“Who?”

“Detective Sergeant Keegan, London Metropolitan Police.”

“In London?”

“No, in The Quays, in about an hour.”

“Is it work?”

“He’s a piece of work.”

“Forget I asked, forget I asked anything.”

The sentry was in place and he glared. I asked,

“What?”

“I liked your missus.”

“Oh, God.”

Heading down Shop Street. It was cold, but that didn’t stop the street theatre. Muted. Dented but there. A juggler outside Eason’s, a busker at Griffin ’s bakery, a Charlie Chaplin near Feeney’s. A German couple asked,

“Where can we find the Krak?”

I waved my hands in the direction I’d walked, asked,

“What do you call that?”

The Quays was jammed. Above the tumult I could hear an English accent with,

“A hot toddy, love, and a pint of the black stuff.”

Who else could it be? Chaz, my Romanian friend, came out of the crowd before I could call Keegan, said,

“Remember the fiver I lent you yesterday?”

“No, Chaz, I lent you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, but did you want another?”

“You’re the best, Jack.”

“Tell my wife.”

Keegan was wearing a white sweatshirt with the logo “Póg mo thóin”, bright red golf pants and a Blackpool souvenir hat which begged,

“Kiss me quick.”

He shouted,

“Jack Taylor, me best mate.”

Shoved a pint in my hand, said,

“There’s hot ones on the counter and drink, too.”

I thought,

“Am I up for this? Is anyone up for this?”

I asked,

“Where’s your luggage?”

“In Jury’s.”

“You booked in there? But I have a place.”

“Yea, that’s great, mate, but I might be shagging.”

Argue that. I went with the flow. Keegan is a force of nature, raw, ugly, powerful and unstoppable. There’s a nightclub on Eyre Square called Cuba. I don’t think there’s a Gaelic translation. Two o’clock, I’m there with Keegan and two women he’s cajoled. They appear to love him. He puts his arm round one, says,

“Jack, I love this country.”

“It sure loves you.”

“Too true, son; I’m a Fenian bastard.”

To hear that in an English accent is to have lived a very long time. The manager came over and I thought,

“Uh-oh.”

Wrong. It was to offer complimentary champagne. Keegan said,

“Bring it on, squire. We’ll have black pudding for breakfast.”

I’d resigned myself to the Twilight Zone. Over the next hour I told Keegan the events of the past weeks. He said,

“You mad bastard, I love you.”

Whatever else they label him, judgemental he wasn’t. He flashed a wad of notes at the girls, said,

“Trust my instincts, but you’d like sticky drinks with the umbrellas…am I right?”

He was and they adored him. He turned back to me, said,

“The dark-haired one, I want to ride the arse off that…OK?”

“Um…yes.”

“The quiet one, you have her, OK?”

“Thanks, I think.”

Then he got serious. All the yahoo-ism, vulgarity, the Hunter S. Thompson shenanigans dropped in a second. He said,

“Jack, I’m a good cop, only thing I can do, but the bastards are trying to get rid of me. Only a matter of time till they bounce me.”

“I’ve been there.”

“So, I’m only going to say one thing, mate.”

“OK.”

“Stick with the case. Nothing else matters.”

“I will.”

Then he clicked back to John Belushi, said to the girls,

“So, who wants to lick my face first?”

Next morning, opened my eyes, did a double take. A girl beside me. Last night came flooding back, at least as far as Cuba. She looked about sixteen. I moved the sheet, and oh fuck, she was naked. Jail bait. She stirred, woke and smiled, said,

“Hi.”

I’ve had worse beginnings. I answered,

“Hi, yourself.”

She cuddled into me, said,

“This is lovely.”

Then pulled back, said,

“Thank you for taking advantage.”

“Um…”

“You’re a real gent.”

Go figure. The heat from her was stirring me, and I said,

“Let me get some tea, toast.”

“Can we have breakfast in bed?”

“Course we can.”

“Jack, you’re the greatest.”

Out of bed, I was starkers. Bad idea. As beat up, as old as I am, nude doesn’t work. Grabbed a shirt and undies, and she said,

“You’re not in bad shape, you know.”

“Thanks, I think.”

Where was my hangover? I deserved a classic. Hadn’t hit yet. Downstairs, I found her handbag, went through it. Tissues, lighter, lipstick, keys, condoms. Jeez, these girls travelled ready. Her wallet with ID revealed her to be Laura Nealon, twenty-eight, and she worked in phone sales. A fresh pack of Benson & Hedges; I tore them open, got one primed. Did the breakfast stuff. Found a tray, it had the wedding of Diane and Charlie. I even located serviettes. Shunted that up the stairs. She said,

“Oh, Jack, a picnic.”

She patted the bed beside her. I declined and sat on the side. If she’d a hangover, it wasn’t showing. Ate that toast with vigour, asked,

“May I use the shower?”

“Of course.”