Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“With good reason.”

I’d arranged to meet Keegan in Garavan’s, go basic if not ballistic. He was wearing a green wax jacket, Aran sweater and a tweed cap. He asked,

“What do you think?”

“Synge.”

“Sing what?”

“The Playboy of the Western World.”

“I went to the Aran Islands.”

“I’d never have guessed.”

“Yo, barkeep, two pints of the black.”

He roared this, said,

“They know me in here.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He whipped off the cap, said,

“Read this.”

“The cap?”

“Inside they have a message.”

The message read, “Good health to all who wear this.”

The pints came and we worked on those. Then he said,

“I learnt a new word.”

“And you’re going to share?”

“It’s shook .”

“Useful little word.”

“Well, Jack, you look shook.”

“Thanks.”

I told him about the swans. He asked,

“How much was your fee?”

“Twenty quid.”

“What! He was paying you per swan?”

“I fucked up, Keegan.”

“So…put it right.”

“I’ll try.”

He went quiet for a while. A quiet Keegan is a worrying animal. I said,

“Don’t go silent on me.”

“I have a solution for the gypsy thing.”

“Tinker, not gypsy.”

“Whatever? Fit him up.”

“A frame?”

“Sure. Get some personal stuff from the victims, stash it in his place, he’s gone.”

I shook my head. He said,

“Come on, Jack, he’s garbage, definitely a bad one. Get the scum off the street.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Are you sure you were a cop? OK, I’ll do it for you. Your mate, the Sweeper bloke, he’ll go along.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“What?”

“He’s got integrity.”

Keegan was disgusted, said,

“Here’s another word I learnt: bollocks .”

Third drink in, he tells me,

“I’m off.”

“Clubbing?”

“No, I mean I’m going back to London.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Ah.”

“My job’s on the line. I’m already a week late.”

“Don’t go.”

“It’s all I have, Jack. Without it I’m nothing.”

I knew what he meant. All those years later, I clung to my guards persona. The only reality check that would fly, one of the reasons I kept the regulation coat. Like the song, “I, I who have nothing.”

He reached in his coat, said,

“You’ll need something for the swan gig.”

Palmed me an object. I went to look and he said,

“Not here; put it in your pocket.”

I did, asked,

“What the hell is it?”

“A stun gun.”

“Feels like a cattle prod.”

“Same deal with a tad more voltage.”

“Aren’t they illegal?”

“Course they are, and should be.”

I didn’t think he’d bought it in Galway, said,

“Surely you didn’t bring that through Dublin Airport?”

He drained his glass, gave me a stone look, said,

“You can talk? A bloke who bought coke in.”

I was astonished, asked,

“How did you know?”

“I’m a cop, remember? You have a heavy habit going, it stands to reason.”

“You never said.”

“Hey, that’s your affair, crazy as it is. Trust me on this, Jack: that shit will bring you down.”

“Thanks for the tip. How does this stun thing work?”

“Point and push.”

“Is it effective?”

He gave a demonic laugh; heads turned at the sound. He said,

“Oh, yeah.”

Then a thought struck me. I asked,

“Wait a minute, you hadn’t planned on giving it to me, had you?”

“No.”

“So, Jesus, I mean, you carry it with you as a matter of course?”

“What’s your point, Jack?”

“This is Galway. What were you expecting?”

“Your town, boyo, where they behead swans, kill gypsies; you tell me.”

I’d no answer so asked,

“What else do you carry?”

He gave a big smile, said,

“Oh, I don’t think you want to know, not really.”

He was right.

I’d offered to see him off, but he was having none of it, said,

“No, I don’t do goodbyes.”

The end of the evening, we were standing outside Jury’s. I didn’t want to let him go. He said,

“You have that look, Jack, like you’re going to hug me or something.”

“Would I do that?”

“You’re Irish, so anything’s possible.”

I wanted to say “I’ll miss you” or something with a bit of weight. I settled for “Take care.” He seemed on the verge of emotion, too, but then he aimed a punch, said,

“Stay wired, Jack.”

And was gone. I felt a profound sense of loss, turned into Quay Street and began to walk. Four o’clock and the street was hopping. An African combo walloping the bejaysus out of bongos, then a new-ager playing air guitar. He caught my eye. I said,

“Good riff.”

“It’s for Oasis, man; they’re fucked.”

I’d gotten as far as Kenny’s when two guards approached. I nodded and one said,

“Empty out your pockets.”

“What?”

“You’re causing a disturbance.”

“You’re kidding. Look, there’s the United Nations of music down there and you’re hassling me?”

The second one did a quickstep and they had me pinned. I thought of the stun gun in my pocket and thought,

“I’m screwed.”

The first one leant in close, said,

“Superintendent Clancy says you’re to watch your step, Jack.”

Then he hit me in the kidneys, with a punch I’d delivered myself in my time. It is a bastard. Drops you like a stone; you can’t breathe with the pain. As they sauntered off, I wanted to shout,

“Is that your best shot?”

But I couldn’t manage the words.

Next morning, I examined the bruise in the mirror. As if a horse had kicked me. It was over a week since I’d done coke and my nerves were raw. Add the hangover to the list and I was but a shout from the mortuary. Heard a parcel come through the door. One of those padded envelopes. My name was typed, so that told me nothing. The postmark was Belfast. Moved over to the table and opened it slowly. Then, holding the bottom, shook it. A hand fell on the table. I staggered back against the sink, bile in my stomach. Tried to focus as my heart rip-roared against my chest. Looked again, then approached. It was plastic. A note on the palm read,

Need a hand, Jack?

Sweeper arrived at lunchtime, said,

“What happened to you?”

“The guards.”

“Now you know what it’s like.”

He’d bought sandwiches and a thermos of tea. I said,

“There’s tea here.”

“Tea bags, they’re shite.”

He laid the sandwiches out, said,

“Rhubarb.”

“In sandwiches! It’s a joke, right?”

“Try them, you’ll be surprised.”

“I’d be bloody amazed. No, thanks.”

He ate two rounds, wolfed them down. I said,

“Bryson’s gone.”

“Tell me what he looks like.”

I ran down the description. He said,

“We’ll find him.”

“How?”

“The clans are scattered all over.”

“He might be in England.”

“More of us there than here.”

“What if he didn’t do the murders?”

“Why did he run?”

“That’s a point.”

Sweeper stood, asked,

“How’s your English friend?”

“He’s gone.”

“You keep strange company, Jack Taylor.”

If there was a rebuttal to this, I didn’t have it. After he left, I tried to read:

“The wind had blown the summer flies away. God had forgotten his own.”

This was from Nelson Algren, The Man with the Golden Arm .