The Killing of the Tinkers

I met Keegan later in the day. I craved non-judgemental company. My clothes I had to dump. I was getting through wardrobes like a minor Elton John. Spent an hour in the shower, trying to erase the smell of the blood. A time was, like all Galwegians, I’d regularly feed the swans. It was part of your heritage. Course, like all the best parts of my life, it was long gone. Seemed highly unlikely now I’d ever be able to reenact the habit again. In Stone Junction by Jim Dodge, he says,

“I don’t know a fucking thing. That must mean I’m finally sane and that’s an excellent place to start going crazy again.”

Yeah.

Recently opened beside Hidden Valley were Lydl and Argos and, of course, the mandatory luxury apartments. I met my neighbour, wheeling a trolley, crammed with goodies from both stores. I said,

“That’ll see you through the winter.”

“As long as I don’t eat for six months.”

He stared over at the new buildings, said,

“I finally figured out the difference between flats and apartments.”

Now this I wanted to hear, said,

“Yeah?”

“Sure, if the Corpo give you a place, it’s a flat, but if you buy one, it’s an apartment.”

“Works for me.”

“Do you want to hear a joke?”

“Um…”

“Guy goes into the library, asks for burger and chips. The assistant says, ‘This is the library.’ ”

I knew the punchline. But in Ireland, never, like never, spoil a story. He was laughing already, in readiness to deliver. I said,

“And?”

“The guy whispers, ‘Burger and chips, please.’ ”

Chances were, he’d get to tell it six more times and be fresh enchanted with each telling. One of the reasons I came home. The English tell jokes with a blend of apology and cruelty. It’s not the laughter they enjoy but the derision. Kiki had once asked me about Irish jokes. The English fondness for them and the total lack of English ones in return. I said,

“They laugh at what they’re afraid of. We, however, have no fear of them.”

She was astonished, asked,

“The English are afraid of the Irish?”

“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.

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.”