The Killing of the Tinkers (7 page)

“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,

“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.

The sheer bastardry of alcoholism. I wanted a drink so badly, I could taste it.

The fourth and final grave: Sarah Henderson. A teenage girl, her grave was immaculate, weeded, tidied and laden with framed poems and fluffy toys. Everyone from Britney through Barbie to a Barney doll. Her mother had come to me, pleading I prove her daughter was not a suicide. A number of young girls had died in an apparent “suicide epidemic”. The case got solved. The girls had been murdered. The awful kicker was, Sarah did kill herself. Of course, I never told her mother. By then I was madly in love with her. I blew it all to hell and gone. A voice said,

“Jack.”

For a moment, I thought Sarah had called. Then a shadow fell across me. Ann Henderson, looking radiant. Her face glowing, those eyes looked at me. Summoning all my repartee, I said,

“Ann.”

She looked at her daughter’s grave, said,

“You brought six white roses.”

“Well.”

“You remembered, how wonderful.”

I had no idea what to do. Tried to get my mind in gear, but would it help? Would it fuck. She was examining me closely, said,

“Your nose has been broken again. Oh, Jack, what are we going to do with you?”

We!

She, however, could do whatever her heart desired. Am I weak? Oh boy…and she was saying,

“But you have lovely teeth; are they crowns?”

“Mmm…sort of.”

You’d think I’d have settled, got some bearings. No way, José. She asked, in that awful concerned fashion exclusive to those you’ve lost,

“How are you, Jack?”

I was giddy and, worse, reckless. Call it punch drunk. Said,

“I’m married actually.”

Wouldn’t that actually blow your head off? It did mine. I prayed she wouldn’t be happy for me. She gushed,

“Oh, Jack, how wonderful. Is she a local girl?”

“No…um…she’s left me.”

“Jack.”

I had to know about her life, and even though I dreaded knowing, I asked,

“What about you, still seeing, um…?”

“Yes, we’ve set a date for June. You’ll have to come, promise you will.”

I don’t know what I said. I stumbled away, bumping into headstones, cursing, near weeping. On the side of the van, one of the kids had glow scratched,

“
TINKER
.”