The Killing of the Tinkers

If I dreamt, it was of nothing good. Woke in a coke sweat, muttered,

“Incoming!”

Horror of horrors, reached for Kiki and touched the Bally boots, whispered,

“Och, ochon.”

Which is Irish for “Oh sweetfuck”. Is it ever? The old Jackie Gleason Show, in black and white, he’d begin each episode with “How sweet it is.” I crawled into the shower, got it to scald and burned my way up. Checked the wardrobe and heard the refrain the drugs used to whisper to Richard Pryor:

“Getting a little low, Rich.”

Wore a white T-shirt – well, whiteish – the 501s, and pulled on the new boots. Perfect, which was a pity as that made me so guilty about Kiki. Alkies have to be the strangest animals on the planet, like the song says, a walking contradiction. Kris Kristofferson wrote the best lines of drinking despair. He was the personification of De Mello’s “Awareness”. If you really listen to “Sunday Morning Coming Down”, it’s the alky anthem. Particularly when you get the smell of someone frying chicken. That’s close to the loneliest line I’ve heard. London, wet Sunday afternoon, the pubs are shut, you’re battling that wind off Ladbroke Grove and, for an instant, a whiff of a home-cooked meal. You are seriously fucked.

Down to the kitchen, checked the time: eight forty-five. Brewed up some tea and dry toast, managed that. An impulse nagging at me. Figured I better make an attempt. Good old yellow pages. I began phoning.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Imperial Hotel, how may we help you?”

“Do you have a…Mrs Taylor registered?”

“One moment, sir, I’ll check.”

For one awful moment, I feared my mother might come to the phone. Then,

“Sorry, sir, we don’t have anyone by that name registered.”

Click. I trawled through half a page. My tea got cold and the toast curled. Now there’s a country song. Was phoning by rote when,

“Yes, sir, we did have a Mrs Taylor, but she checked out.”

“Did she leave a forward?”

“I believe a cab took her to the airport.”

I missed her. Loaded the wet clothes into the dryer, including the leather, said,

“Melt, see if I care.”

My only other coat was Item 8234, my all-weather issue. They kept writing, demanding it back. The Mounties might always get their man, but the guards do not get their coat, not yet. Wrapped the coat tight. Didn’t do the coke, didn’t have a drink, but I could taste them. One final call; dialled, got,

“Simon Community, can I help?”

“May I speak to a Ronald Bryson?”

Heard a shout, an answer, then,

“Ron is off till noon tomorrow.”

“Could I see him then?”

“He’ll be here.”

Click. Enough detective work for one day; time to party. Checked my wallet and headed out. Five minutes to Nestor’s, how easy does it get? Decided to cut through St Patrick’s Church, shake a few memories. Stopped at the grotto. If I was to pray, it should be for Kiki. Heard,

“Well, I never. Jack Taylor in prayer.”

Fr Malachy, in all his smug glory. Even if I didn’t like priests, I wouldn’t like him. Ever. He was sucking the guts out of a dying cig. I said,

“Still smoking.”

“I was just with your mother.”

“Gee, that’s a shock.”

“Shock, is it? The poor woman is in deep trauma since she met you. To give her…teeth.”

“My teeth.”

He was raising his eyes in that “Lord give me strength” deal they learn at priest school. He said,

“She’ll never be the better of it.”

“Mmm, I’d say she’d recover.”

“What on earth possessed you?”

“The drink, Father, the drink made me do it.”

His right hand came up, automatic reflex when they’re crossed. So many years they could safely lash out without repercussions. I smiled and he fought back the urge. I turned to look at the statue, asked,

“If I claimed it moved, would it help business?”

“You’re a pup.”

He pulled out the Majors, got one lit, dragged madly as if he could inhale the rage. I said,

“I have some good news for my mother.”

“You’re leaving town?”

“No, I got married.”

“What?”

“But she’s leaving town. In fact, she’s already gone.”

“You have a wife and she’s gone already?”

“In a nutshell.”

He flung the cig into the grotto, said,

“You’re stone mad.”

“But never boring, right, Malachy?”

“To hell with you.”

And he stomped off, I called,

“That’s not a blessing.”

A local woman, passing, said,

“Good on you. That fellah’s got too big for his boots.”

I said the prayer for Kiki, albeit a short one.

In Nestor’s, Jeff asked,

“Did you find her?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone.”

“Back to London.”

“Jeez, Jack.”

“Where’s Cathy?”

“She’s angry with you. Give her a few days.”

He put up a pint, said,

“On the house.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

“What’s the plan?”

“I’m meeting Keegan.”

“Who?”

“Detective Sergeant Keegan, London Metropolitan Police.”

“In London?”

“No, in The Quays, in about an hour.”

“Is it work?”

“He’s a piece of work.”

“Forget I asked, forget I asked anything.”

The sentry was in place and he glared. I asked,

“What?”

“I liked your missus.”

“Oh, God.”

Heading down Shop Street. It was cold, but that didn’t stop the street theatre. Muted. Dented but there. A juggler outside Eason’s, a busker at Griffin ’s bakery, a Charlie Chaplin near Feeney’s. A German couple asked,

“Where can we find the Krak?”

I waved my hands in the direction I’d walked, asked,

“What do you call that?”

The Quays was jammed. Above the tumult I could hear an English accent with,

“A hot toddy, love, and a pint of the black stuff.”

Who else could it be? Chaz, my Romanian friend, came out of the crowd before I could call Keegan, said,

“Remember the fiver I lent you yesterday?”

“No, Chaz, I lent you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, but did you want another?”

“You’re the best, Jack.”

“Tell my wife.”

Keegan was wearing a white sweatshirt with the logo “Póg mo thóin”, bright red golf pants and a Blackpool souvenir hat which begged,

“Kiss me quick.”

He shouted,

“Jack Taylor, me best mate.”

Shoved a pint in my hand, said,

“There’s hot ones on the counter and drink, too.”

I thought,

“Am I up for this? Is anyone up for this?”

I asked,

“Where’s your luggage?”

“In Jury’s.”

“You booked in there? But I have a place.”

“Yea, that’s great, mate, but I might be shagging.”

Argue that. I went with the flow. Keegan is a force of nature, raw, ugly, powerful and unstoppable. There’s a nightclub on Eyre Square called Cuba. I don’t think there’s a Gaelic translation. Two o’clock, I’m there with Keegan and two women he’s cajoled. They appear to love him. He puts his arm round one, says,

“Jack, I love this country.”

“It sure loves you.”

“Too true, son; I’m a Fenian bastard.”

To hear that in an English accent is to have lived a very long time. The manager came over and I thought,

“Uh-oh.”

Wrong. It was to offer complimentary champagne. Keegan said,

“Bring it on, squire. We’ll have black pudding for breakfast.”

I’d resigned myself to the Twilight Zone. Over the next hour I told Keegan the events of the past weeks. He said,

“You mad bastard, I love you.”

Whatever else they label him, judgemental he wasn’t. He flashed a wad of notes at the girls, said,

“Trust my instincts, but you’d like sticky drinks with the umbrellas…am I right?”

He was and they adored him. He turned back to me, said,

“The dark-haired one, I want to ride the arse off that…OK?”

“Um…yes.”

“The quiet one, you have her, OK?”

“Thanks, I think.”

Then he got serious. All the yahoo-ism, vulgarity, the Hunter S. Thompson shenanigans dropped in a second. He said,

“Jack, I’m a good cop, only thing I can do, but the bastards are trying to get rid of me. Only a matter of time till they bounce me.”

“I’ve been there.”

“So, I’m only going to say one thing, mate.”

“OK.”

“Stick with the case. Nothing else matters.”

“I will.”

Then he clicked back to John Belushi, said to the girls,

“So, who wants to lick my face first?”

Next morning, opened my eyes, did a double take. A girl beside me. Last night came flooding back, at least as far as Cuba. She looked about sixteen. I moved the sheet, and oh fuck, she was naked. Jail bait. She stirred, woke and smiled, said,

“Hi.”

I’ve had worse beginnings. I answered,

“Hi, yourself.”

She cuddled into me, said,

“This is lovely.”

Then pulled back, said,

“Thank you for taking advantage.”

“Um…”

“You’re a real gent.”

Go figure. The heat from her was stirring me, and I said,

“Let me get some tea, toast.”

“Can we have breakfast in bed?”

“Course we can.”

“Jack, you’re the greatest.”

Out of bed, I was starkers. Bad idea. As beat up, as old as I am, nude doesn’t work. Grabbed a shirt and undies, and she said,

“You’re not in bad shape, you know.”

“Thanks, I think.”

Where was my hangover? I deserved a classic. Hadn’t hit yet. Downstairs, I found her handbag, went through it. Tissues, lighter, lipstick, keys, condoms. Jeez, these girls travelled ready. Her wallet with ID revealed her to be Laura Nealon, twenty-eight, and she worked in phone sales. A fresh pack of Benson & Hedges; I tore them open, got one primed. Did the breakfast stuff. Found a tray, it had the wedding of Diane and Charlie. I even located serviettes. Shunted that up the stairs. She said,

“Oh, Jack, a picnic.”

She patted the bed beside her. I declined and sat on the side. If she’d a hangover, it wasn’t showing. Ate that toast with vigour, asked,

“May I use the shower?”

“Of course.”

“Want to join me?”

“Ah, no, thanks.”

“You’re nice, Jack, I like you.”

Hard for me to get a handle on all this good energy. Man, I’m so used to grief. It’s familiar, almost comfortable. She returned, swathed in towels. I asked,

“Where did your friend go?”

“With Mr Keegan. She’s crazy about him. We were so lucky to hook up with you guys.”

I had to know, asked,

“Are you serious?”

“Completely. You wouldn’t believe the animals out there. I’m going to hang on to you, Jack.”

Then she was in my lap, doing things. Next thing, I’m having the blow job of my life. After, she asks,

“Was it good?”

“Brilliant.”

“I’ll make you happy, Jack, you’ll see.”

Heard the front door and thought,

“Oh, shit, Kiki’s back.”

Pulled my pants on and shuffled down. Sweeper was in the kitchen. I said,

“You’re going to have to pack in this coming and going as you please.”

“I rang the bell.”

“Oh, I must have been in the shower.”

Then he was looking behind me. I turned. Laura was there, in one of my shirts, said,

“Sorry, are my cigarettes here?”

Sweeper asked,

“Is this Kiki?”

“No…um, this is Laura.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

I gave her the cigarettes, and she said,

“I better get ready, I’ll be late for work.”

When she’d gone upstairs, Sweeper asked,

“That’s not your wife?”

“No.”

“I see.”

But he didn’t and neither did I. I said,

“I’ve a definite lead.”

“Tell me.”

I did. He said,

“You’re going to see this Bryson, I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

We argued this for a while. Eventually he agreed and offered to give Laura a lift to work. I headed downtown. Went to the Vincent de Paul and bought a suit, sweater, shirts, jeans, blazer. Grand total: £35. The assistant said,

“Did you know each item is dry cleaned?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“The shops provide it free for us.”

“Pretty good.”

“It is.”

Got a cab back to Hidden Valley with the gear. The driver said,

“Nice bit of clobber there.”

“Dry cleaned, too.”

“That’ll do it.”

I was a man with a new girlfriend, new wardrobe, the least I could provide was attitude. Wore the blazer with a crisp white shirt, grey slacks. I crackled in freshness. Coming outside, my neighbour said,

“You’re like a new penny.”

Heady praise.

The Simon is located at the top of the Fair Green. To the west is the train station, the coach depot to the south. Perhaps they like to hear the engines roar. Simon has saved countless lives from the Galway streets. It’s clean, tidy, efficient and always available. In a city where most people have a bad word about most things, only Simon gets praise from all. I went in and a receptionist said,

“Howyah.”

“Hello, I’m hoping to see Ronald Bryson.”

“Hang on a sec.”

There were no bad vibes. In a place that bears witness to such misery, you’d anticipate an air of depression. Not a hint. A tall lanky guy, over six feet two, in jeans, black T-shirt and suede waistcoat came ambling along. A ponytail and sharp acned features. An energy, like an Indian on the trail. No hurry, as he knew where you’d be. He drawled,

“I’m Ron.”

I stood up, held out my hand, said,

“Jack Taylor. Appreciate you seeing me.”

He waved a hand, ignoring my outstretched one, said,

“No sweat, Jack. Let’s get some privacy.”

English. That certain London inflexion of cool ease. I could dig if not grasp it.

He asked,

“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.