The Killing of the Tinkers

I ended up staying in Nestor’s for a few more days. Mainly because I couldn’t get it together to move. It was round noon, I was levelling out. Shouted Jeff for a pint. He asked,

“Bit early for it?”

“Jeez, I’m up since eight.”

He glanced at my eyes, said,

“You’re up all right.”

I was sliding on a downer, snapped,

“Forget it.”

Jeff doesn’t do retaliation, began to pour a pint, said,

“What’s your hurry?”

I eased, said,

“Time I checked into Bailey’s.”

“Take a few more days. Cathy is glad of the company.”

I watched him cream the pint before I ventured,

“And you, Jeff, what’s your take?”

“I’m your friend, I don’t have a take.”

Is there a reply to this? I don’t know it. The door opened and Sweeper came in. A blue suit and a bluer shirt, wool tie. Except for a gold earring, he could have passed for a guard. The temptation to pun was ferocious.

Like,

“Look what the car swept in.”

Instead I said,

“Join me.”

“A mineral, please.”

Jeff checked.

“Club Orange?”

“Yes, please.”

We studied each other for a moment, then Sweeper took a swallow of the drink. Crunched the ice, revealing strong white teeth. I said,

“What’s on your mind?”

“You are in need of digs?”

“No…no, I’m not. I’m up to my eyes in accommodation.”

He gave the brief smile, said,

“You have the sharp tongue.”

“I like to cut to the chase.”

He produced a set of keys, placed them on the table, said,

“You’ll know Hidden Valley.”

“Of course…John Arden lives there.”

“Who?”

“Booker Prize nominee, highly respected dramatist…”

He put up his hand,

“I’m not a bookish man, Mr Taylor.”

“Never too late.”

“I didn’t say I’m unlearnt…I said something else entirely.”

Saw the flash in his eyes. Cautioned myself not to fuck with him.

Fucked with him anyway, said,

“Hit a nerve, did I?”

He ignored that, said,

“Some of my people bought a house there. They…didn’t settle. I’d like to offer you the house. It’s small but adequate.”

“And you’ll give me this if I help.”

“Yes.”

“What if I don’t find anything?”

“The house is yours for six months.”

My instincts said,

“No.”

I said,

“You’ve got a deal.”

Picked up the keys, said,

“Tell me what happened.”

He produced a scrap of paper, laid it down. I looked at it.

Jan. 3rd…Christy Flynn (Óg)

Feb. 19th…Cionn Flaherty

April 2nd…Seaneen Brown

June 9th…Blackie Ryan

I asked,

“All dead?”

“Aye, found in the Fair Green, near the Simon House.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“Did they die?”

“Their heads crushed with a hammer.”

He got up abruptly, went to the bar, asked Jeff,

“A small Jameson and a pint for my friend.”

I looked at the list. A weariness came whispering at my soul:

“You are so tired.”

A line I’d once heard came to mind:

“He drank, not because of the darkness in him but the darkness in others.”

Sweeper returned, asked,

“Payment?”

“What?”

“How much cash do you want?”

“Aren’t you giving me a bloody house?”

“You’ll need money, everybody does.”

Argue that.

He’d given me a fat envelope, stuffed with notes. I said,

“Wish it had been brown.”

He was lost, said,

“I’m lost.”

“A brown envelope, we could have been TDs.”

The quip was not to his taste. He sipped at the Jameson like a man who’s been badly burnt. Whiskey had scorched me more times than I want to recall. A look between us and he said,

“I have to ration it.”

“Hey, I’m the last guy who needs an explanation.”

“I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ann Henderson told me of your affliction.”

Rage burned. I asked,

“Affliction…she said that?”

He waved his left hand, vague in his dismissal.

“My people suffer similarly.”

I let it go…fuck it.

Time to pack. I said,

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready.”

Upstairs, I packed my holdall, nicked the bottle of Harley. Jeff smelled fine. I, however, needed all the assistance available. Put on my London leather. Creaked a bit, but I could call that character. Down to the bar, put out my hand to Jeff, said,

“It’s been fun.”

“Where are you going?”

The sentry raised his head, shouted,

“He’s going with the tinker.”

Jeff clipped him, said,

“Hey.”

Sweeper nodded, went outside. I said,

“I’ve got a house in Hidden Valley.”

“From yer man?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the catch?”

“I’m going to look into a bit of trouble he’s had.”

“Jeez, Jack, I thought you packed in that business…after last time.”

“This is different.”

“Yea, you’re in even worse shape. Cathy! Jack is going.”

She came running.

“Aw, Jack.”

“I’ll be near, literally round the corner.”

“But I had a fillum.”

She pronounced it thus. When the English go native, they go bananas.

“What film?”

“Julien Donkey-Boy by Harmony Korine.”

I gave her my best blank look. She continued,

“It’s the Dogme #6 one. He made Gummo, remember?”

“Um, not offhand.”

“Jack, you have to see it. He takes the piss with Lars von Trier.”

Jeff was pissing himself behind the counter. Even the sentry was smiling. I decided to come clean, said,

“None of that makes the slightest sense to me.”

Crestfallen, she produced a small package. I could see “Zhivago Records” on the front. She said,

“This was to welcome you home.”

I opened the package, a CD titled “You Win Again” by Van Morrison and Linda Lewis. I mustered all my enthusiasm, muttered,

“Wow.”

Cheered now, she gushed,

“I knew you’d be happy. Remember before you went away, you gave me her album.”

I didn’t, said,

“Sure.”

Outside, Sweeper said,

“I’ve a van.”

“Me, too.”

It was a Ford Transit, beaten to a pulp. When he saw my reluctance, he said,

“The engine is hyped.”

Slid the door and threw my bag in. The white suited singer from my homecoming approached, asked,

“Price of a cup of tea, sir?”

Handed him the CD. He asked,

“What the fuck is this?”

“New material.”

I was arrested my first night in Hidden Valley. They came for me at eight, rousing me from a power nap. I’d fallen asleep by an open fire. Hidden Valley is a steep incline running from Prospect Hill to the Headford Road. A haven of rare quiet in a city gone ape. From the hill, you can see out over Lough Corrib, wish for children you never had. To the north is Boher-more. Round the corner is Woodquay and Roches Stores. The house was a modern two up, two down. And hallelujah, wood floors, stone fireplace. Fully furnished with heavy Swedish chairs and sofa. Even the bookcase was full. Sweeper said,

“The fridges and deep freeze are stocked. There’s drink in the cupboard.”

“You were expecting me?”

“Mr Taylor, we’re always expecting someone.”

“What can I say? Let me get you a drink?”

“No, I must be away.”

I’d once come across a letter written by Williams Burroughs to Allen Ginsberg.

I was first arrested when I beached, a balsa raft suspected to have floated up from Peru with a young boy and a toothbrush. (I travel light, only the essentials.) One night, after shooting six ampoules of dolophine, the ex-captain found me sitting stark naked in the hall on the toilet seat (which I had wrenched from its mooring) playing in a bucket of water and singing “Deep in the Heart of Texas ”.

I looked round my new home and thought, I’ve beached pretty well. I had a long bath, put my clothes away and rummaged about. The coal bunker was out back, and I got a fire going. Intended to sit for a few minutes, drifted off. Banging on the door pulled me awake. Wiping sleep from my eyes, I fumbled to the door, opened it and said,

“The guards.”

In uniform. Looking about sixteen. But mean with it. The first said,

“Jack Taylor?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

The second said,

“We’d like you to come with us.”

“Why?”

The first smiled, said,

“To help us with our enquiries.”

“Can I grab some coffee?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The squad car was parked right by the door. I said,

“Thanks for the discretion, lads. I wanted to impress the neighbours.”

Just like the movies, the guard put his hand on my head as he put me into the back. Almost looks like care, managed to bang my head, went,

“Oops.”

At Mill Street, as we got out, Mike Shocks, the local photographer, rushed over, asked,

“Anybody?”

“Naw, he’s nobody.”

Inside, I was brought to the interview room. Rubbed my wrists as if I’d been cuffed. A tin ashtray sat centre on a graffiti surface: a logo, “Players Please”. I shook loose a red, cranked the Zippo. Deep drag and tried to guess where the camera was. Door opened and Clancy entered. Superintendent Clancy. Man, we had history, none of it good. He’d been present at the action that cost me my career. Then, he’d been skinny as a wet greyhound. We’d been friends. During the events before my exile, he’d been a bastard.

Dressed in the full regalia, he’d leaped into middle age. His face was purple, blotches on the cheeks. The eyes, though, sharp as ever. He said,

“You’re back.”

“Well detected.”

“I’d hoped we’d seen the last of you.”

“What can I tell you, bro?”

“I only hope that other yoke, Sutton, won’t show up.”

“I doubt it.”

Sutton was dead. I’d killed him, my best friend. With, as they say, malice afterthought. Clancy walked behind me. The old ritual of intimidation. Rule one of interrogation. Not in the training manual but laid in stone. I said,

“Fair cop, guv; I’ll spill my guts.”

Sensed his hand raised, tensed as I waited for the wallop. It didn’t come. I shook another red loose, fired it up. He asked,

“What are you doing with the tinkers?”

“Tinker.”

“Don’t give me cheek. I’ll run your arse up to Mountjoy before you can scream barrister.”

“Oh, you mean Sweeper.”

Rage exploded from him. He went,

“He’s a blackguard.”

“I don’t think he’s fond of you either.”

He plonked himself on the edge of the table, his pants riding up. A white hairless leg was visible above his navy sock. He leaned right into my face. His breath stank of onions. He said,

“Listen to me, laddie. Stay away from that bunch.”

I ground out the cigarette, asked,

“You won’t be investigating the murders of four of their men?”

Spittle lit the corners of his mouth. He spat,

“Fecking tinkers, they’re always killing each other.”

He stood up, adjusted the tight tunic, said,

“Get out.”

“I’m free to go?”

“Watch your step, boyo.”

On my way to the door, I said,

“God bless.”

On release from Mill Street, I walked towards Shop Street. Radiohead’s Thom Yorke said,

Every day you think, well maybe, we should stop. Maybe there’s no point to this, because all the sounds you made, that made you happy, have been sucked of everything they meant. It’s a total headfuck.

I stood on the bridge for a few moments. Across the water, over near Claddagh, I could see Nimmo’s Pier. Sutton’s body had never been found. His paintings were now collectable. The French have a word for nightmare…cauchemar. Man, that is evocative. An alcoholic has dreams to rival that of any Vietnam vet. Closing your eyes you mutter, “Incoming”…and kidding you ain’t. Initially, like the worst irony, alcohol dispels them. Leastways you don’t remember. Then, of course, it fuels and powder-kegs them to the ninth level. Not a level on which to linger. The Irish for dreams is broinglóidí, a beautiful gentle sound. Of the many impossibles, a drinker prays most in that direction. In vain. I never dream of Sutton. Sure, I think about him most days, but he remains in the daylight hours. Thank Christ.

I needed Merton and a pint. Not necessarily in that order. Headed for Charlie Byrne’s, a second-hand bookshop. It is the bookshop. During my apprenticeship with the librarian Tommy Kennedy, as he shaped and nurtured my reading, he told me about Sylvia Beach. In Paris, in the true glory days, her bookshop held court to

Joyce

Hemingway

Fitzgerald

Gertrude Stein

Ford Maddox Ford

Mr Kennedy’s voice would get such a sound of longing in the telling. As he recounted the near mythic atmosphere, I could smell the Gauloise, the aroma of pure French coffee. Being young, naturally, I asked,

“Did you go there, Mr Kennedy?”

With such loss in his eyes, he said,

“No, no…I didn’t.”

One of my embracing poems is Howl by Ginsberg. Nobody I ever told ever seemed surprised. I guess they’d heard me howl too often. It travelled back from London in the pocket of my jacket. The other travel book was The Hound of Heaven. It had been a collectors’ item, bound in calf with gold trim. When I told Tommy Kennedy of my career choice – the guards – he’d been bitterly disappointed. My farewell present from him was the Thompson book. Nights of drunkenness had marred that beautiful volume.

Charlie Byrne’s comes close to Tommy’s ideal. Some years before, I’d been lurking in the crime section. A student had a beautiful American edition of Walt Whitman. He was peering at the price. Charlie, passing, said,

“Take it with you.”

“I haven’t enough.”

“Ary, settle it some other time.”

AND

Handed him The Collected Robert Frost, adding,

“You’ll want this, too.”

Class.

Vinny Brown was surfing the net, looked up, said,

“You’re back.”

The hardcore team: Charlie, Vinny and Anthony. I’d introduced Anthony to Pellicanos, and in return he’d given me the complete Harry Crews. An American, he seems to understand the pace of Galway. I still don’t. Vinny asked,

“How was London?”

I’d recently ploughed through London: The Biography by Peter Ackroyd. Trying not to sound too smart-ass, I said,

“ London is chaos, an unknowable labyrinth.”

Took Vinny a time, then he ventured,

“Ackroyd?”

I don’t know about serendipity. I don’t mean Sting’s atrocious song but coincidence. When God is playing a lower profile. There was a travelling woman in the children’s section. Weighing the difference between Barney and The Velveteen Rabbit. I nodded and she said,

“Mr Taylor?”

That “Mr” is a killer. I asked,

“You doing OK?”

“There’s the replay on Sunday.”

“There is?”

“I said a prayer we’d beat the Kingdom. Do you think that’s all right?”

“Against Kerry, I’ll go and light a candle myself.”

She gave me the full look. It’s no relation to inquisitiveness, but it has everything to do with concern. She said,

“You grew the beard.”

“I did.”

“Suits you.”

Thomas Merton in his journal, written six months before his Asian journey:

I realise that I have a past to break with – an accumulation of inertia, wrong, foolishness, rot, junk. A great need of clarification, of mindfulness, or rather, of no mind. A need to return to genuine practice, right effort. Need to push on the great doubt. Need for the spirit. Hang on to the clear light.

A freak electrical accident in Bangkok would kill him, midway through the trip.

Aura of the lost.

In London, I tended to hang with the fallen. My aura of eroding decay was a beacon to those travellers of the road less survived. The drunks, dopers, cons, losers, dead angels. Come to me, all ye who are lost, and I’ll give you identification. Two people I cultivated most. They belong on the fringe of the group I’ve outlined. Detective Sergeant Keegan was a pig. Worse, he was proud of it. Of murky Irish ancestry, he was based in south-east London, Brixton and Peckham being his beats of choice.

A loud vulgar bigot, he was coasting on dismissal from the force.

I was drinking on the Railton Road, nursing a hangover and the need to coke connect. The clientèle was predominantly black. Some whites, of course, who’d taken a wrong turn. The choice of booze was black rum with coke or without. Bob Marley was giving it large. A dreadlocks had offered to sell me a Rolex. I said,

“I don’t do time.”

“Yo, man, y’all be giving it to yer lady.”

“No lady.”

He threw back his locks, joined with Bob in “No Woman, No Cry”.

I love that song.

Through the smoke, over the music, I’d heard guffawing. Glanced over my shoulder, saw a fat large man standing over a group of people. His suit jacket was lying on the floor, a pot belly had burst the buttons on his shirt. He’d a scarlet face, ruined in sweat. Mid-joke, he was gesturing obscenely. I muttered,

“Redneck.”

Maybe louder than I intended, as the dread caught it, said,

“Yo no be messing with dat man.”

I was a rum past caring, asked,

“Why’s that?”

“Dat be Keegan. Dat be mujo trouble.”

“Looks like a fat fuck to me.”

The dread looked into my eyes, said,

“Yo be Irish, mon.”

And fucked off. I signalled for more drink. It was a tad sweet for my taste, but went down like a smooth lie. I looked again at Keegan. He was singing now, “Living Next Door to Alice ”. I definitely heard the words blow job in there, which is some achievement, albeit a pointless one. I figured, he’s one of two things, connected or cop. Not that they’re mutually exclusive.

In my head, I was trying to remember the words to “Philosopher’s Stone”. Later, in my shitty bedsit, I’d attempt Marianne Faithful’s version of “Madame George”. Now that’s a torch song.

A shoulder knocked against me and I spilled my drink, went,

“What the fu…?”

Heard,

“Sorry, pal.”

Turned to look into Keegan’s face; sorry he wasn’t. His actual words carried the sense of “screw you”. He gave me the look, calculated, said,

“You’re a cop.”

“Not any more.”

“An Irish cop. Well, fuck me…the Garda Chikini.”

“Síochána.”

“You what?”

“The pronunciation, you have it arseways.”

For a horrible moment, I thought he was going to hug me. The thought danced round his eyes, faded, then,

“I love the Irish; well, some of the buggers anyway.”

“Why?”

He gave a huge laugh. Heads turned, then away. Everything about him shouted animal, redneck, ludrimawn. But the laugh, you could forgive him lots on that. Came from way down and was sprinkled with graft and pain. He said,

“I had a holiday in Galway once, it was the races, but I never saw one bloody horse.”

“I’m from Galway.”

“You’re having me on.”

No one claims to be from there; you either are or you aren’t. I knew I could shut down the whole deal right there and then, simply say,

“We don’t like the English.”

Maybe it was his laugh or the rum or even blame Brixton. I put out my hand, said,

“I’m Jack Taylor.”

He shook, said,

“Keegan.”

“Nothing else?”

“Unless you count Detective Sergeant.”

He whistled to a woman; she sashayed over. No amount of rum would ever call her pretty. What she oozed was sex, lashings of it. He put his hand on her arse, asked,

“What’s your name again, darling?”

“Rhoda.”

“Rhoda, this is Jack Taylor, on undercover work for the Irish guards.”

She gave an encompassing smile. She’d heard every tired line a parade of tired men ever pedalled. He slapped her arse, said,

“Go powder your nose, hon. This is guy stuff.”

He watched her walk away, then asked,

“So Jack…want to ride that?”

London offers nigh on most things a person could crave. E.B. White wrote of New York,

“Above all else, it offers you the chance to be lucky.”

London doesn’t quite make the same pitch, but it’s in the neighbourhood. It never ceases to surprise. I wanted education.

My reading, expansive if not exhaustive, was haphazard. I wanted it formalised. Enrolled in night classes at London College. Taking literature and philosophy. At least I had a beard. Got a scarf in Oxfam and I was in the student mode. I wasn’t the oldest, but I certainly appeared the most battered. London in November is a rough deal. Walking up Ladbroke Grove with that wind howling in your face, you are deep frozen. My bedsit was the last word in forlorn. A bed, a chair, electric heater and a shower. Oh yes, a hot plate. It had flock wallpaper, I kid you not. To compound the misery, I’d been reading Patrick Hamilton, Hangover Square. Grim fare. He wrote, “To those whom God has deserted is given a gas fire in Earls Court.” I could have hacked Earls Court.

There is a magical Irish word, sneachta. Pronounce it “shneackta”, heavy on the guttural. It means snow. My first night of college, there were shitfuls of that. Harsh and unyielding. I was wearing black 501s, thermals, work boots, plaid shirt, denim jacket. Over that, I’d the leather coat and a watchcap. Still I was cold. Remember Hill Street Blues, the undercover guy who yelled “dogbreath” at perps? That’s how I looked. Hardly enticing, yet I scored. Leastways, I thought I did. Nothing was further from my mind. Ann Henderson, in Galway, had crushed my heart. I didn’t believe I had the mileage for another woman.

The lecturer was a prick. Bearded, too. He treated us like shite. I could care. He was mouthing about Trollope and I tuned out. At least it was warm. I’d clocked a dark-haired woman to my left. Aged in early forties with a strong face, sallow skin. Beneath a heavy parka, I surmised a rich body. She’d caught my eye, lingered, moved on. Class over, the guy was handing out assignments. The woman turned to me, said,

“Guten Tag, Gedichte und Briefe zweisprächig.”

“What?”

“Emily Dickson, her poems.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She put out her hand, said,

“Kiki.”

You immediately betray your age if you think “Kiki Dee”. I said,

“Jack Taylor.”

“So, Jack Taylor, would you join me for a drink?”

“I’ll try.”

She had an accent like a European who’s learnt English in America. Not unpleasant.

There’s a certain grandeur about English pubs. It’s entirely different from the Irish animal. I hate to be the one to voice it, but they seem cosy. They did after all give us the term snug. Battened against the cold, we didn’t speak the short distance to the pub. Once inside, we thawed in every sense of the word. She stood before an open fire, began to unwrap. I began to unravel. I hadn’t had a line in four days. Not abstinence but my dealer got busted. The sniffles had nothing to do with temperature. I was cold, within and without, asked,

“What’ll it be?”

“Oh, hot toddies, am I correct?”

“Are you ever?”

The barman/governor was elephants. The giveaway: blasted face, tired suit and too tight sovereign rings. He bellowed,

“And a good evening to you, sir.”

“Um, right, couple of hot ones, better make them large…Oh, and whatever you’re having yourself.”

The beauty of the English system, drinking on duty. Had cost me my career. He had a large brandy, saying,

“I don’t mind if I do.”

Kiki was sitting almost in the fire. I said,

“You’re hot.”

“You wish.”

I’m too old for powerhouse sex. But right there, right then, I felt the ghost of it. Handed her the drink, said,

“Sláinte.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Irish.”

“It’s lovely.”

Usually I don’t fuck with whiskey. No ice, no water, straight as an angel. Those hot ones though, they were good. We got another round, could feel the warmth to my toes. I asked,

“Where are you from?”

“ Hamburg.”

I’m sure there is a wise, not to mention pithy, reply, but I couldn’t summon it. My mind locked on Fawlty Towers with “don’t mention the war”. I said,

“Ah.”

She studied me closely, then,

“Fifty-three.”

“What?”

“You are fifty-three.”

Now I could hear the German, almost, you will be fifty-three. I said,

“Forty-nine.”

She didn’t believe me. The oddest thing was happening. In my head, I could hear the Furey Brothers with “When You Were Sweet Sixteen”. Not just a snatch, the whole song. For a moment, it drowned out everything. I could see Kiki’s lips moving but hear nothing. Shook my head and it ebbed. She was saying,

“Would you sleep with me?”

Another tinker was killed. I’d slept late, woke in disorientation. Where the hell was I? A comfortable bed, clean room, chintz curtains. Hidden Valley. Shit, I was a home owner. I liked the feeling. Took a slow shower, and with a tolerable hangover, I wasn’t hurting. Dressed in trainers, Brixton Academy sweatshirt. Went barefoot to get the benefit of those wood floors. Did some eggs over easy and, bonus, real coffee. The kitchen smelled good. I’d splashed on some Harley and blended in.

Got the radio tuned in and it was an old rock hour. Heard Chicago and Supertramp. Did me.

The doorbell went. Opened it to Sweeper. Rage writ large, he shouted,

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Another one of our people has been killed.”

“Oh, God.”

He stormed in. I closed the door, resolved to proceed with caution. He was staring at my eggs. I asked,

“Get you something?”

“Tea, please.”

He took a seat and produced a cigarette. Not a packet, just one crumpled fag. I passed him the Zippo and he said,

“Took me six months to quit.”

Then he lit up. I got him his tea, fired up a red. My eggs had congealed. He said,

“I spoiled your breakfast.”

“No worries, I hate eggs.”

I didn’t push for details, let him come to it. He said,

“Sean Nos was my nephew. I bought him his first van. Last night, he was found naked in the Fair Green; his hand was chopped off.”

“Jesus.”

“Left him to bleed to death.”

He reached down and touched an Adidas holdall. I hadn’t noticed it. He slid the bag along the floor, said,

“Open it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Open it, Mr Taylor.”

I hunkered down, took a deep breath, then pulled back the zip. Saw the bloodied hand. The awful curse of observation. Even as my stomach churned, my mind ticked off details. The nails were clean, a thick wedding band on his wedding finger, black hair near the savage incision. I stood up, the kitchen spun. Turned round, got the cold tap going, put my head under it. How long I don’t know. Then Sweeper was handing me a towel, asking,

“Need a drink?”

I nodded. Saw the bag was closed and back by the chair. Sweeper pushed a mug into my hands. Took a slug. Brandy. The last time I had that, I woke up in the mental hospital at Ballinasloe. If I could get upstairs for a moment, I’d follow it with a line of coke. Fuck, lots of lines. My stomach warmed and I felt the artificial calm spread. Sweeper shook one of my cigarettes free, lit it and put it in my mouth. I said,

“OK, thanks, I’m all right.”

Sweeper made more tea and said,

“It was left on my doorstep. One of my children could have opened it.”

I knew it was pointless but made the play, asked,

“The guards, have you called them?”

He made a hissing noise through his teeth, like a spit articulated, asked,

“Did you yourself not meet with the top man himself only yesterday?”

“How did you know?”

“You work for me, it is my business to know how you conduct that work.”

I wasn’t real hot on “You work for me”, no better opportunity to get that squared away. Put the mug down, said,

“We better get something straight, pal. I’m helping you out. I don’t work for you; you are not my boss; I am not an employee. Are we clear?”

He gave a thin smile.

“You are a proud man, Jack Taylor. I understand pride. Here, take this.”

He produced a cloth bundle. I said,

“You unwrap it.”

He did. It was a 9mm Browning, Hi-Power. He said,

“It’s the push-button release, see?”

He flicked his hand and the clip popped out. He continued,

“There are thirteen shots, one in the chamber. Here is the safety. To check it’s on, cock the hammer.”

He put it down on the table. I asked,

“And I’m supposed to do what exactly with it?”

“For protection.”

“No, thanks, I don’t do guns.”

He rewrapped the weapon, moved to the sink and opened the press beneath. Reaching behind the pipes, he inserted the package, said,

“You never know.”

“Have you any idea who’d want to kill your people?”

“Watch the news. Everybody hates the tinkers.”

“That’s a help.”

I needed a suit and I needed to connect. Oxfam has priced itself out of the market. In London, once, I’d gone to their branch at High Street, Kensington. Jackets were chained like the most paranoid Regent Street outlet. What’s that about? No, thanks. Went to Age Concern, found a dark blue, looked too big but I could bulk up. Pack the gun and any suit would fit. The price was a fiver with a navy shirt and worsted tie. The assistant, English of course, said,

“Sorry it’s so expensive.”

“Are you serious?”

She was.

“It’s brand new, you see, so we had to make it a little dearer.”

I considered. Sure she was English, but they can do humour. I said,

“Daylight robbery.”

Huge smile then.

“Tell you what, I’ll add a new hankie.”

“My cup overflows.”

Shoes I had. Kiki had bought me a pair of Weejuns. Next, it was time to score. I hated what I had to do, but the devil drives. Rang Cathy. She answered with a breezy,

“Jack.”

I said,

“I need your help, girl.”

“Of course, Jack, what do you need?”

“A name.”

“Oh, Jack.”

She knew. I guess she’d been through the hard station. I let some plead into my voice.

“I’m hurting, Cathy.”

I waited, what else could I do? Standing in a phone box, holding my blue suit, like a guard on holidays. Then,

“Stewart.”

And gave me the address. I asked,

“Will he be home?”

“He’s always home.”

Click. I held the dead phone. She wouldn’t tell Jeff, but I had trod on our friendship. We’d survive, but I had seriously tarnished it. Went to the place, near the canal. The house looked normal. No shingle outside proclaiming “Drug Dealer”. I rang the bell. The door was opened by a bank clerk. Leastways, he had the moneyed eyes. I asked,

“Stewart?”

“Cathy rang; come in.”

An ordinary sitting room. There weren’t flying ducks on the wall, but you get the picture. There was a framed Desiderata. Stewart said,

“Get you anything?”

“Yes, a gram of coke.”

He gave a polite laugh, so I had to ask,

“You’re not with the Bank of Ireland by any chance?”

“Hardly. I know you though.”

“Yes?”

“Jack Taylor, ex-cop…you were in the papers last year.”

“Stew, where are we on the coke?”

He excused himself, then returned with a brown envelope. The country was awash in them. He said,

“There’s one and a half.”

“Great, what’s the damage?”

It was steep. As he let me out, he said,

“Call any time.”