The Killing of the Tinkers

Christopher McQuarrie, The Usual Suspects screenwriter, turned director with The Way of the Gun, said,

“I was afraid of hiring James Caan because I’d heard stories. Then the first thing he said to me was, ‘You sick fuck.’

“I guess he’d heard stories about me, too.”

I was telling Keegan this as we approached Merchants Road, but a trawler away from the docks. I asked him,

“How do we play this?”

He gave a sardonic smile, said,

“Straight.”

He produced keys and got us through the front door. Up one flight to 107, the apartment. Keegan again with the keys and we were in. The first sensation was smell, reek of incense. Keegan said,

“Our boy likes to smoke dope.”

“He smokes incense?”

“Cop on.”

I tried.

A large living room, looking like a garbage tip. Throw rugs on the floor, items of clothing scattered everywhere. Keegan said,

“Not a tidy lad.”

The kitchen was a mess. Discarded cartons of junk food on every surface. Dishes piled high on the sink. Keegan ordered,

“You do the living room, I’ll toss the bedroom.”

I found a stack of Time Out’s, the gay listings particularly well-thumbed. On the table was Fred Kaplan’s Gore Vidal. I shouted that in to Keegan and added,

“Shit, it’s signed.”

“By Fred or Gore?”

I was impressed by the question. He came out of the bedroom with a stack of mags, said,

“Hard-core S and M, gay, fetish and the perennial favourite, pain.”

“Not proof though, is it?”

“Proof’s overrated.”

“Not in court.”

“That’s what you think. Do you never watch The Practice?”

We rummaged some more but found nothing further. As we left, I put the Vidal book in my pocket. Keegan said,

“He’s going to miss that.”

“I know.”

“And the half weight of grass?”

“You took the dope?”

“Or vice versa.”

That evening, I was stocking the bookshelf. I’d been on another visit to Charlie Byrne’s and come away laden. I wasn’t anal retentive, didn’t need those volumes alphabetically or in neat alignment. No, I liked to stir it. Put Paul Theroux beside St Vida. That was wicked. Line Pellicanos with Jim Thompson, Flann O’Brien with Thomas Merton. Over the past six months, I’d read House of Leaves, Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and discovered David Peace.

To hand was Anne Sexton’s poems To Bedlam and Partways Back. Another writer whose suicide and life of derangement threw shadows of dark identification. The doorbell went. Sweeper nearly fell in the door. His eye was blackened, bruising on his face, suit torn and blood on his hair. He limped to a chair, said,

“A whiskey please, Jack Taylor.”

I made it large. He gulped it down and I gave him a cigarette. I said,

“You fought in your suit?”

“This was not a challenge.”

“Something else, was it?”

“Something else, you might say that.”

He fixed those dark eyes on me, asked,

“How do you feel about us tinkers?”

“You have to ask?”

“Today…yes.”

“I’m working with you and glad to do so.”

Those eyes unwavering.

“And if we lived next door, Jack Taylor, how would that be?”

“Lively.”

Gave a short smile.

“Let’s see how true that is.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Come on.”

The van was parked in the alley, huge dents on its surface. I asked,

“Jeez, what happened, people hurl rocks or something?”

“Exactly.”

He put the van in gear, asked,

“You know what a halting site is?”

“Where they place the clans, like a camping ground.”

That amused him. He muttered,

“Camping ground, how ordinary that sounds.”

The stench of condescension leaked from the words. I said,

“Hey, Sweeper, ease up with the tone. Whatever happened, I’m not part of it. I’m with you, remember?”

A bitterness worked its way down from his eyes to his mouth, caused a tic to vibrate above his lips. He scratched at it, said,

“You’re from the settled community. No matter how outlaw you think you are, you’re part of them.”

I let it go but I didn’t fucking like it. Shook out a cig. Sweeper ordered,

“Light two.”

The child in me wanted to roar,

“Buy your own.”

I lit them, handed one over. He said,

“I’ve offended you, Jack Taylor.”

“Don’t sweat it, pal.”

He concentrated on his driving. The nicotine joined the cloud of tension. He pulled up at Dangan Heights and we got out. He nodded towards the valley, said,

“Look.”

Mainly I could see smoke. I said,

“Fires, bush fires. So what?”

“That’s the…camping ground.”

Focusing, I could see people, wandering stunned through the haze. Men, limping, were vainly ferrying water in a futile effort to douse the flames. Children, barefoot, were crying, clinging to mothers. Not a caravan was untouched. Those not aflame were overturned or charred. I asked,

“Where are the guards?”

He snorted with derision, asked,

“You listen to the news, right?”

“Sure.”

“Did you hear anything about this?”

“No.”

“Because it’s not news.”

“Who did it?”

“The upright citizens you’ll find in church.”

I thought of my mother, didn’t argue. I looked at his hair, his clothes, said,

“You were there.”

“Yes, but I arrived late. Not that it made any difference. I did stop two from castrating one of my cousins.”

“It sounds like Soldier Blue.”

“It sounds like Ireland today.”

“What will you do now?”

“Rebuild. It’s what we always do.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He clapped my arm, said,

“Come on, I’ll drive you back.”

“Could I go down, help somehow?”

“A settled person would not be welcome today or for many days.”

We drove back in silence. At the house, I said,

“Call me if you need anything.”

“I need one thing, Jack Taylor.”

“Name it.”

“Find whoever’s killing my people.”