Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“Don’t waste your time, Jack. They’re just casualties of an indifferent war. It happens every day.”

He put out his hand and I ignored it as he said,

“Leave your phone number. If something occurs to me, I’ll call.”

“Thanks, Ron. It’s been educational.”

“Not for me, Jack. In fact, it’s been a shocking waste of my valuable time.”

On the way out, I said to the receptionist,

“Thanks a lot. Ron was great.”

“Everybody says that.”

Outside, took a deep breath, shook off the creepiness whispering at my neck. Looked back. Pressed right against the window was Bryson. The panes distorted his features and gave the smile an eerie malevolence. His hand was at his groin, moving back and forth, mimicking masturbation. I only hope it was mimicry. What was I supposed to do? I did what any upright Irishman would do. I gave him the finger. Then I got the hell away from there.

I headed for The Quays. Keegan had said he’d be sussing out their lunchtime trade. He was. In full flow, telling an American couple that, yes, fields are still green in December. Then he sang the rest, truly hideous. He handed me a pint. I said,

“Jeez, that was fast.”

“It’s a fast country.”

U2 were on the speakers – “Angel of Harlem”. Keegan said,

“Fuck, how traditional is that?”

“To some, the most.”

“But where’s the diddley-do, all of them bodhrans and uilleann pipes?”

“Well pronounced.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“It shows.”

“Come on, Jack, is that hummable?”

“Well, of all the things you could say about U2, and George Pelicanos has said most, I don’t think hummable has been mentioned.”

“Who’s Pel…ican…os?”

“One of the best crime writers.”

“Aw, shite talk; there’s only Ed McBain.”

He took a huge swallow of his pint, half in one swallow. Even the barman’s jaw dropped. Keegan waited, then belched, said,

“My black pudding’s near repeated.”

“You ate that?”

“Oh, yea. Jury’s give the full Irish job, including sausages, fried tomatoes, two eggs, bacon…”

“Rashers?”

“What?”

“In Ireland, we call bacon ‘rashers’.”

“Why?

“Because we want to.”

“I was thinking of getting a tattoo.”

“What?”

“With Éire and a shamrock, do you think?”

“Jeez, Keegan, it’s hard to keep up with you.”

“Drink up, that’s my boy.”

We got a table and he asked,

“How did you get on with that chick?”

“Come on…chick. Nobody calls them that except Terry Wogan.”

“And?”

“It went good; it went brilliant.”

“Me, too. I was riding half the night.”

He spoke in a loud London boom so all the pub knew about the “ride”. He looked like such a pig nobody challenged him. He asked,

“Didn’t you go to see that social worker?”

“Bryson.”

“The name sounds familiar.”

“There is Bill Bryson the travel writer.”

“I only read McBain. So how did it go?”

I ran it down. When I’d finished, he asked,

“What’s your instinct?”

“He did them.”

“Whoa, that’s a jump, laddie.”

“It’s him.”

“So now what?”

“I’ve got to find out all I can about him.”

He took a pen out. To my amazement, it looked like a gold Parker. He said,

“It was a present from Unsworth.”

“Unsworth?”

“A black woman cop, on my patch.”

I was surprised, said,

“You’re friends with a black person, with a black woman?”

He looked up, said,

“I have some moves. I’m not what I front…bit like you, Jack.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

We did. I gave him all I knew about Bryson. He said,

“I’ll get on the blower to my DI. If this monkey’s a London boy, we’ll dig him up.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Yea, so how come you’re not getting the drinks in?”

Later he said,

“What’s the plan in the immediate?”

“Soon as I find out where he lives, I’ll go and burgle him.”

“Count me in.”

“You sure?”

“B and E is my speciality, OK? I’m going to get my tattoo…saw it on Home and Away .”

“You watch that?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

In that moment, I don’t know why, but I felt a surge of affection for him. He was standing there, like a fucked Popeye Doyle, sweating and heaving. Luckily he was gone before I said anything. The barman said,

“Jack.”

“Yea.”

“The Spice Girls have their ninth No. 1.”

“Christ, why are you telling me?”

“Don’t you like to stay informed?”

“Jesus.”

The last time I saw the Spice Girls, I was coked to the far side of the moon. Posh looked uncannily like the young Cliff Richard. I still don’t know which of them that’s the worst news for; Beckam definitely.

When I got to Hidden Valley, I was in the bag. Finally took the clothes out of the dryer. They weren’t so much dried as baked. The leather could stand up on its own, which was definitely the jump on me. I ironed it. They don’t suggest, they bloody roar,

“Don’t ever iron leather.”

Fuck them.

The day before Cemetery Sunday, I finally went to visit my dead. Sweeper had lent me the van. He’d come early in the morning and asked me my plans for the day. I said,

“At Rahoon, those I have loved best and treated worst are lain. Over a year and I have not said Kaddish.”

“Ka…what?”

“Respect.”

He nodded solemnly; this he understood. If the clans comprehend one thing better than us, it’s grief. God knows, they get enough practice. He asked,

“Do you wish me to keep you company?”

“No, I better do this alone.”

“I will give you the van.”

“Is it taxed?”

Big smile.

“Now, Jack Taylor, you sound like a guard. They say you were a fair one.”

“I’ll take the fifth on that.”

The van was left in the lane within the hour. Chock-a-block with flowers. No more than Keegan, Sweeper had some moves. I wore the suit from Vincent de Paul. Fit fairish. In other words, you knew it hadn’t been bought with me in mind. Sweeper had listened to my Bryson encounter, asked,

“You think it’s him?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll kill him.”

“Jeez, hold on. I have a few more checks to make.”

“Then I’ll kill him.”

“Sweeper, for Christsakes, will you stop saying that. You asked me to help, you have to trust me.”

“I trust you.”

Begrudging.

“So no killing?”

“I’ll wait.”

“OK.”

I drove the van up to Rahoon gates, took an armload of flowers. Two kids were kicking a ball just outside. One asked,

“Mister, you a tinker?”

“What do you care?”

“That’s a tinker’s van.”

“How do you know?”

“No tax.”

“Oh…should you be playing here?”

The second kid jerked a thumb at the dead, said,

“They don’t care.”

I levelled a look right at his eyes, asked,

“You sure?”

They left. First I said hello to my dad. I can say with my hand on my heart that he was a real gentleman. In the old sense of that. A woman once told me,

“Your dad, he was gallant.”

What a great word. He deserved it. Further on, I found Padraig’s grave. The head wino for a brief glorious reign. He led his pack with flair and humour till he was run over by the Salthill bus. Some terrible irony in that, but it escapes me. I poured a small Jameson into the soil. That’s a prayer he’d appreciate. Then Sean, the erstwhile owner of Grogan’s. His delight in my once brief period of sobriety was too much to recall. He was murdered because of me. Guilt overload. I put roses there and I didn’t say anything. While I was drinking, he wouldn’t want to hear it. Nor could I possibly utter it.