Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“I need tea.”

He got up, and I nodded at the gun. He said,

“If you’d been carrying this, you wouldn’t be toothless.”

“I was carrying chips. If I’d had that, they’d have made me eat it.”

“They surprised you?”

“They bloody amazed me.”

He went to do tea things, and I got cautiously out of bed. Woozy but functional, I moved slowly towards the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. I’ve never been an oil painting, but without teeth, I was the total descent into ugliness. Told myself,

“Gives character to your face.”

Sure. That and a 9mm, maybe people wouldn’t fuck with me. When I finally got downstairs, I had on an NUI sweatshirt, faded 501s. My balls were black and blue and swollen. Managed to drink some tepid tea, skipped the toast. Sweeper passed over some red and grey capsules, said,

“Keep the pain at a distance.”

I was thinking coke, possible with a broken nose? He said,

“I removed the cocaine lest the guards come.”

When I didn’t answer, he said,

“Tiernans.”

“What?”

“Brothers, the ones who did you. They hate tinkers. They’ve gone to ground, but when they surface…I’ll let you know.”

Apart from a visit to the dentist, I didn’t venture out much over the next few weeks. Stayed home, stayed semi-pissed. The dentist went,

“Argh…”

This wasn’t good. He asked,

“What happened?”

“ Rugby scrum.”

He gave me the look but let it slide. An hour and a half in the chair as he did horrendous things. My mouth was so full of instruments, I could have started a DIY. When we took a break, I said,

“Don’t tell me any of the procedures.”

“I’ve gotten most of the fragments out and…”

“Whoa, Doc…trust me, I truly do not want to know.”

Back in the chair, more excavation. Finally he did the impressions, said,

“Should be able to fit you in a fortnight.”

“Can’t you dance something temporary in there?”

Shaking his head, he said,

“Trust me, Mr Taylor, when the anaesthetic wears off, even your tongue is going to seem too much.”

As I prepared to leave, he asked,

“Have you medical insurance?”

“Nope, that and no teeth: the Irish male in all his glory.”

“Well, at least you’ve kept your sense of humour. I think you’re going to need it.”

“Thanks, Doc, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.”

“I’d ease up on the rugby for a bit.”

During my last case, I’d been involved with a guard named Brendan Flood. He’d kicked the bejaysus out of me, broken the fingers of my left hand. That was the first time I met him. Then he got religion and a massive change of allegiance. Actually solved the case and led me to killing my best friend. What they call a colourful relationship. I’d kept his number and rang him that evening.

“Hello?”

“Brendan, it’s Jack Taylor.”

Long pause, then deep intake of breath.

“You’re back.”

“I am.”

“They never found your friend.”

“No, no, they didn’t.”

“What can I do for you, Jack?”

“Your information was gold before: I wonder if I might prevail on you further?”

“As long as it concurs with the Lord.”

“Still a believer, eh?”

“Yes, Jack, the Lord believes in you, too.”

“Glad to hear it.”

I told him about the killing of the tinkers. He asked,

“The guards are not actively pursuing this?”

“That’s why I’m calling you. Can you help?”

“Give me your number, I’ll ask around.”

“Great, but be discreet.”

“The Lord is my discretion.”

Click.

I was drinking Robin Redbreast. Christ, if that isn’t a blast from the fifties. My father would have a glass with his slice of Christmas cake. God knows, as my mother baked it, you’d need all the help available. He was a good man. My mother is a walking bitch, then and now. I hadn’t heard light nor hair of her in over a year. Maybe she was dead. She adored my one outstanding credential: my failure. With such a son, she could be seen to endure. The woman was born to martyrdom, but only with an audience. Pay per view.

My expulsion from the guards, my drinking, my non-starter life: she couldn’t have wished for more. Bit down hard on this line of territory. Shit, what was I playing at? Picked up the phone, rang Kiki. This number I had memorised.

“It’s Jack.”

“Jack, how are you? Why haven’t you called? When can I come?

“Jeez, slow down, I’m fine and…I miss you.”

“So, can I come?”

“Of course, but give me two weeks.”

“Why, Jack?”

“Cosmetic reasons.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look, good news, I have a house and a job.”

“But, Jack, you know I need my own space.”

I wanted to shout,

“If you need your own space, why the fuck come to Ireland?”

But stayed with it, said,

“Stay here for a few days till you get acclimatised.”

“ Ireland is so different?”

“Trust me, after fifty years, I’m still adapting.”

“I can come in two weeks?”

“Absolutely.”

“And, Jack, do you love me?”

“Sure.”

“I love you, too.”

Put the phone down and pondered the conversation. No, I didn’t love her. Blamed the Robin Redbreast.

The morning of my new teeth, I was one happy private investigator. Remember Dire Straits? They’d been doing fine, cooking, pulling the hip and the straight alike. No mean feat. Then Lady Di announced they were her favourite band and wallop. Sayonara , suckers. Now they got bracketed with Duran Duran, and there’s no coming back from there. “Money for Nothing” sounded what it was – smug. Like many rock stars, Mark Knopfler paid tribute to humility and started The Notting Hill Billies. Yes, we’re just ordinary blokes. That group went down the ordinary toilet. I was running all this trivia to keep my mind distracted as the dentist slotted in my new molars. He said,

“They’ll take a little getting used to.”

“Like the new Ireland.”

He smiled and told me the cost. I went,

“Jeez, could I just rent them, you think?”

He didn’t.

All along Shop Street, I smiled, giving those teeth exposure. I heard a wino say,

“That ejit has drink taken.”

Nearly went into Grogan’s, my old favourite pub. Sean, the grouchy proprietor, had owned most of my heart. He’d been murdered, too, and because of me. That fair dented my smile. When I got to Hidden Valley, Sweeper was waiting at the kitchen table. I said,

“Be free, drop in or out of my place anytime, don’t feel you have to phone ahead.”

He gave the turned-down mouth expression, said,

“Teeth, eh?”

I gave him the full neon. He nodded, asked,

“How’s your balls?”

“The swelling’s gone.”

Head shake, then,

“I didn’t mean the actual set.”

“Oh, you meant metaphorically. Give me my coke back, I’ll fight legions.”

“Just two, the Tiernans; they’ve surfaced.”

My gut tightened. He reached in his suit pocket. Sweeper always wore a dark suit, white shirt. Most times, he appeared more Greek waiter than traveller. He produced a small leather pouch. Leather thong to fit round the neck. I asked,