Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“Want to join me?”

“Ah, no, thanks.”

“You’re nice, Jack, I like you.”

Hard for me to get a handle on all this good energy. Man, I’m so used to grief. It’s familiar, almost comfortable. She returned, swathed in towels. I asked,

“Where did your friend go?”

“With Mr Keegan. She’s crazy about him. We were so lucky to hook up with you guys.”

I had to know, asked,

“Are you serious?”

“Completely. You wouldn’t believe the animals out there. I’m going to hang on to you, Jack.”

Then she was in my lap, doing things. Next thing, I’m having the blow job of my life. After, she asks,

“Was it good?”

“Brilliant.”

“I’ll make you happy, Jack, you’ll see.”

Heard the front door and thought,

“Oh, shit, Kiki’s back.”

Pulled my pants on and shuffled down. Sweeper was in the kitchen. I said,

“You’re going to have to pack in this coming and going as you please.”

“I rang the bell.”

“Oh, I must have been in the shower.”

Then he was looking behind me. I turned. Laura was there, in one of my shirts, said,

“Sorry, are my cigarettes here?”

Sweeper asked,

“Is this Kiki?”

“No…um, this is Laura.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

I gave her the cigarettes, and she said,

“I better get ready, I’ll be late for work.”

When she’d gone upstairs, Sweeper asked,

“That’s not your wife?”

“No.”

“I see.”

But he didn’t and neither did I. I said,

“I’ve a definite lead.”

“Tell me.”

I did. He said,

“You’re going to see this Bryson, I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

We argued this for a while. Eventually he agreed and offered to give Laura a lift to work. I headed downtown. Went to the Vincent de Paul and bought a suit, sweater, shirts, jeans, blazer. Grand total: £35. The assistant said,

“Did you know each item is dry cleaned?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“The shops provide it free for us.”

“Pretty good.”

“It is.”

Got a cab back to Hidden Valley with the gear. The driver said,

“Nice bit of clobber there.”

“Dry cleaned, too.”

“That’ll do it.”

I was a man with a new girlfriend, new wardrobe, the least I could provide was attitude. Wore the blazer with a crisp white shirt, grey slacks. I crackled in freshness. Coming outside, my neighbour said,

“You’re like a new penny.”

Heady praise.

The Simon is located at the top of the Fair Green. To the west is the train station, the coach depot to the south. Perhaps they like to hear the engines roar. Simon has saved countless lives from the Galway streets. It’s clean, tidy, efficient and always available. In a city where most people have a bad word about most things, only Simon gets praise from all. I went in and a receptionist said,

“Howyah.”

“Hello, I’m hoping to see Ronald Bryson.”

“Hang on a sec.”

There were no bad vibes. In a place that bears witness to such misery, you’d anticipate an air of depression. Not a hint. A tall lanky guy, over six feet two, in jeans, black T-shirt and suede waistcoat came ambling along. A ponytail and sharp acned features. An energy, like an Indian on the trail. No hurry, as he knew where you’d be. He drawled,

“I’m Ron.”

I stood up, held out my hand, said,

“Jack Taylor. Appreciate you seeing me.”

He waved a hand, ignoring my outstretched one, said,

“No sweat, Jack. Let’s get some privacy.”

English. That certain London inflexion of cool ease. I could dig if not grasp it.

He asked,

“Coffee?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

We went into a small office. He went behind the desk, got comfortable in a chair and swung his legs up. Old battered moccasins, definitely bought in Nepal. I sat on a hard chair. He began to hand roll from a leather pouch, raised his eyebrows, an offer. I shook my head, got a red going. I leant over, gave him a light, he said,

“Nice lighter.”

“Yes.”

“Before we begin, Jack, let me tell you my position here. I’m not with the Community. I’m a trained social worker, fully qualified.”

He paused and let me appreciate the full “weight” of this. I gave the appropriate half smile…too awed to speak. He resumed,

“So though I’m available to them, I’m not part of the organisation.”

He stopped, so I said,

“Like a consultant.”

Sour laugh.

“Hardly. Think of it more as an adviser.”

“I have it now.”

“Good, so what’s your problem, Jack?”

I took out the list of travellers’ names, laid it on the table, said,

“My problem is someone is killing the tinkers, these tinkers.”

Legs swept off the table. All business now, he scanned the list and said,

“I know…knew these guys. I don’t understand why it’s your problem, Jack. You’re not a guard and I’m sure you’re not family.”

Big grin here, to tell me he was a fun guy. That even though he’d terrific qualifications, he could banter with the guys. Like that. I said,

“I’ve been asked to check it out.”

Note of incredulity in his voice, he said,

“Like a private eye, twenty a day and expenses? I love it; only in Ireland. I’ve seen the movies. Why’d you come to me, fellah?”

“You knew them.”

“That’s it! Wow, you’re going to have to talk to a whole lot of people. They were tinkers. Man, they knew half the country.”

“If there’s anything…”

“Whoa…slow down, partner, and pad out those expenses. I want to see if I understand this correctly.”

“What’s to understand, Ron? Can you help…or not?”

“There’s that gumshoe steel. Love it. No, what I’m trying to understand here is…have you any legal standing?”

“No.”

“So, if I bounce you out of here like a bad cheque, you’ve got to bounce.”

Ron was having a high old time.

“That’s it, Ron. I’m appealing to your better nature.”

Something crossed his face then. Not even a shadow, too fast, too insubstantial for that, but definitely from a dark neighbourhood. He said, teeth edged,

“You wouldn’t want to make that mistake, Jack. I don’t do appeals. That is not…never the way to conduct your dealings with me.”

“Sorry, Ron, I guess I got carried away. I forgot you were a social worker.”

The flicker again. I had no idea what button I was pressing, but it was jackpotting all over the place. I did, of course, know why I was doing it. To rattle the sanctimonious prick. Still edged, he said,

“You don’t do well with authority, Jack. Let me see, you never had a real job, am I correct?”

This was more like it. This I could play, said,

“I was a guard.”

Got him, but he rallied.

“Not to any degree of note, I’d say. Didn’t burn up that ladder of success, did we?”

“You’re very perceptive, Ron.”

Preened, said,

“I’ve been doing this rather a long time, Jack.”

“It shows. My trouble was they expected us to be social workers, too. Me, I had hoped to be human.”

Didn’t bite. The moment had passed, and Ron was back in mode. Gave me a full smile, said,

“I may have misread you, Jack. To be honest, I’d classed you as a wet brain. I’ve seen so many alkies, few are coherent.”

“Hasn’t dented your compassion though.”

Nope, game over. He began the dismissal spiel, flicked the list with a nail.

“Those young men, all alkies. That life, it doesn’t take many hostages. I’m a tad astonished you’ve survived so long yourself.”

He stood up, added,