Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

The phone went.

“Yes,”

“Jack, it’s Cathy.”

“Hi, Cathy.”

“Jeff is gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“He’s drinking.”

“Oh.”

“Did you know he hasn’t drunk for twenty years?”

“No.”

“Will you find him?”

“I will.”

“Promise, Jack.”

“I promise.”

Raymond Chandler in an essay, “The Simple Art of Murder”, wrote,

The modern detective is a relatively poor man or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in.

These words were ringing in my ears as I set out to find Jeff. I went to Nestor’s. A guy behind the bar I’d never seen before. I asked for Cathy and he said,

“You’re Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“Go on up, she’s expecting you.”

She looked terrible, her face wrecked from crying. I gave her a hug, said,

“It will be OK, I’ll find him.”

“If anything happens to him, Jack…”

“It won’t. Where would he go?”

“I don’t know, I never knew him drinking. At least he didn’t take his bike.”

The bike was a Harley. Jeff had told me of his two passions, motorbikes and poetry. He’d showed me the bike, said,

“It’s a Soft Tail Custom.”

I’d nodded sagely as if it meant anything. I sat Cathy down, asked,

“What set him off?”

“People have been sympathising about our damaged baby.”

“Jesus.”

“I let him down, didn’t I, Jack?”

I was no good at this but had to try, said,

“He loves that little girl and you.”

“So why did he drink?”

I didn’t know, said,

“I don’t know.”

What I wanted to do was sleep for six months and wake up to good news. Asked,

“Who’s the guy behind the bar?”

“From an agency.”

“If you’re stuck, I could do a turn.”

She gave me the look and I said,

“Yea, right, I better get going.”

“Tell him I love him.”

“He knows that.”

“Does he?”

The rain was hammering down. As if it was personal. I tightened my all-weather coat and thought,

“Set a drunk to find a drunk.”

Made sense.

Trawled through the likely suspects first. Decided I’d have a drink in every second pub. If I hadn’t found him after ten pubs, I’d be beyond caring. Such was a plan, awful as it sounds. In fact, I did five pubs without a drink as nobody should willingly have to endure them. They were bright, noisy, expensive and hostile. I jostled through the crowds of Celtic tiger prosperity. Money had bought a whole new attitude, one of mercenary yahooism. It dawned on me that Jeff wouldn’t waste a hot minute in these places. He’d been a musician, so next I hit the series of music venues. Advertising “Craic agus Ceol”. Loosely translated, this spells cover charge. To enforce it, the microphone bouncers are on the doors. I said,

“I won’t be staying long.”

The biggest bouncer grins at his mate, says,

“You got that right.”

No Jeff.

I said to myself,

“Think! You were a cop, you’re supposed to be an investigator, where would he go? What pub would he have heard of often? Bingo! Yes.”

Grogan’s, my old stamping ground. I practically lived there when Sean had it. Then he got killed and his asshole son took over. I was no longer welcome. Going in the door was not like going home. It had been renovated. What had been a place full of atmosphere was now just another slice of plastic garbage. Worse, there was musak. That tape which is either Karen Carpenter or the Bay City Rollers or Ronan Keating covering both. Jeff was in a corner. Shot glass and pint on the table. I walked over, said,

“Hey.”

“What kept you?”

“I took a wrong turn.”

Small smile and,

“Didn’t we all.”

Sean’s son wasn’t around so I ordered a pint. Jeff said he’d have a double Paddy. I didn’t comment. When I sat down, he asked,

“Got a smoke?”

Course I wanted to say, “You’re smoking again,” but how redundant was that? Fired him up. He said,

“Wow, this tastes like shit.”

“Why do we do it? You don’t think we enjoy it, do you?”

He drained the double, took a moment, then,

“Are you going to read me the riot act?”

“Me! I don’t think so.”

“Good. Did you ever hear of Phil Ochs?”

“Um…no.”

“A folk singer in the early sixties, he was revered in Greenwich Village, bigger than Dylan. Then he lost it, tumbled into alcoholism. Finished up sleeping in the boiler room of the Chelsea Hotel, where upstairs Leonard Cohen was putting the make on Janis Joplin. Ochs finally hung himself in the bathroom of his sister’s house.”

I had no idea where this was going so asked,

“And this tells me what exactly?”

“He wrote three great songs, ‘An Evening with Salvador Allende’, ‘Crucifixion’ and ‘Changes’. Man, those had it all: humour, politics, compassion. Do you know how many great songs I wrote?”

“No.”

“None.”

We let that circle above our heads, then he said,

“A woman said to me yesterday, nodding at the baby, ‘They love music,’ as if they were fucking pets.”

Jeff never, and I mean never, ever cursed. He continued,

“Another one says, ‘They bring great blessing to a house’; and my absolute favourite, ‘They’re all love.’ Jesus, I can’t get my mind off Mongoloid . Is it me or is that an ugly word? What happens when she gets to school? She’ll be bullied, taunted as a retard?”

He stopped, and I said,

“That happens, we’ll burn the school.”

“They say she won’t be able to marry.”

“Jeff, buddy, whoa, she’s what? Three weeks old and you’re worried about marriage? Trust me, marriage isn’t so hot.”

“I can’t handle it, Jack.”

“OK.”

He stared at me with rage writ large, said,

“I’m serious, Jack. I can’t raise a handicapped child.”

“So don’t.”

“What?”

“Raise her the best you can, as Serena May.”

“You think?”

“Sure. Don’t get lost in the world of mental disability. You don’t have to go down that road. You think Cathy and the baby will survive if you’re gone?”

He took that, asked,

“What are you planning to do with me?”

“Buy you a drink, then get you home.”

“And if I resist?”

“I’ve got a stun gun.”

“You probably do.”

The awful thing now was, I wanted to continue drinking. The demons were roaring in my soul, and I thought Jeff would be good company. But I locked down, said,

“If you’re ready?”

“Jack, the drinking, how do you keep at it? I’m walloped already.”

“Truth is, I don’t know.”

On the way up Shop Street, he staggered a little but otherwise wasn’t too ripped. He said,

“You know she can’t be a nun?”

“Serena May?”

“Yea, they don’t take Down’s syndrome.”

“Gee, that’s a tragedy, I’m sure you had your heart set on a nun.”

“Makes you think, though.”

“Jeff, it makes you think they’re as black as they’re painted.”