The Killing of the Tinkers

by Ken Bruen

  The morning of my new teeth, I was one happy private investigator. Remember Dire Straits? They’d been doing fine, cooking, pulling the hip and the straight alike. No mean feat. Then Lady Di announced they were her favourite band and wallop. Sayonara, suckers. Now they got bracketed with Duran Duran, and there’s no coming back from there. “Money for Nothing” sounded what it was – smug. Like many rock stars, Mark Knopfler paid tribute to humility and started The Notting Hill Billies. Yes, we’re just ordinary blokes. That group went down the ordinary toilet. I was running all this trivia to keep my mind distracted as the dentist slotted in my new molars. He said,

  “They’ll take a little getting used to.”

  “Like the new Ireland.”

  He smiled and told me the cost. I went,

  “Jeez, could I just rent them, you think?”

  He didn’t.

  All along Shop Street, I smiled, giving those teeth exposure. I heard a wino say,

  “That ejit has drink taken.”

  Nearly went into Grogan’s, my old favourite pub. Sean, the grouchy proprietor, had owned most of my heart. He’d been murdered, too, and because of me. That fair dented my smile. When I got to Hidden Valley, Sweeper was waiting at the kitchen table. I said,

  “Be free, drop in or out of my place anytime, don’t feel you have to phone ahead.”

  He gave the turned-down mouth expression, said,

  “Teeth, eh?”

  I gave him the full neon. He nodded, asked,

  “How’s your balls?”

  “The swelling’s gone.”

  Head shake, then,

  “I didn’t mean the actual set.”

  “Oh, you meant metaphorically. Give me my coke back, I’ll fight legions.”

  “Just two, the Tiernans; they’ve surfaced.”

  My gut tightened. He reached in his suit pocket. Sweeper always wore a dark suit, white shirt. Most times, he appeared more Greek waiter than traveller. He produced a small leather pouch. Leather thong to fit round the neck. I asked,

  “What’s with the suits? It’s not as if you have to be at an office.”

  Sad smile then.

  “I have to stay respectable. They expect us to be tinkerish, but I give the lie to their assumptions.”

  “OK, but don’t you ever want to just kick back, hang loose?”

  With his hand he dismissed this nonsense, tapped the pouch, said,

  “Open it.”

  “You’re kidding. Knowing you, it’s probably a shrunken head.”

  Now finally he laughed, said,

  “You’re in the neighbourhood.”

  Turning the pouch up, he shook it. Four bloodied teeth rolled on the table. I went,

  “Ah, fuck.”

  “In case you need motivation for the brothers.”

  He scooped them up, put them back and handed me the bag. Reluctantly, I pulled the thong over my head, settled the thing inside my shirt, said,

  “Now I’m Brando, Apocalypse Now.”

  He stood up, said,

  “I’ll collect you at seven. Bring the weapon.”

  “What will I wear, it being a revenge number?”

  He considered, then,

  “Something cold.”

  That lunchtime I got parcel post. No stamp and unfranked, opened it up. The coke. I said aloud,

  “Good on you, Sweeper.”

  Laid out a line. My nose was healing but still hurt like a bastard. Managed three hits. After a two and a half week layoff, it hit like thunder. Thank God. My gums froze, and I could feel that icy tingle down my throat, froze my brain. Now I could face a mirror. Not good. The nose was tilted to the left. Perhaps the next breakage might realign it. There would be another, always was. Deep blue shadows under my eyes, they’d accessorise a guard’s uniform. New ridges along the corner of my mouth. How frigging old was I getting? Not old enough to ever like George Michael. Flashed the smile, solid. A 100-watt beacon in the wasteland. Maybe my teeth could go out alone. A jingle from my childhood:

  “You’ll wonder where the yellow went/when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.”

  Ah.

  The coke was cranking hard. I had to go out. Show my twenty-year-old smile in the face of fifty. Almost a haiku, it was definitely a shame. Put on a white shirt, slacks and the Weejuns. Next the London leather, and I was the oldest swinger in town. The pouch bounced against my chest like the worst of bad news. Coming out into the light, I couldn’t believe the sun was bright. No warmth but I could fake that. A neighbour said,

  “We lost the replay.”

  “We did?”

  “Can’t beat them Kerry bastards.”

  “Maybe next year.”

  “Maybe shite.”

  My kind of neighbour. I went to Zhivago Records. Declan looked up, said,

  “You’re back.”

  “How astute.”

  “How what?”

  “Never mind. I need the King.”

  “Elvis?”

  “Is there another?”

  “Greatest Hits?”

  “Exactly.”

  “CD?”

  “Declan, far be it from me to tell you your business, but if the customer’s over forty, it’s not a CD.”

  “You need to get digital.”

  “I need to get laid. Now can I have the record?”

  “Jeez, Jack, you’re a touchy bastard. What happened to your nose?”

  “I told a fellah to get digital.”

  He knocked a few quid off, so I forgave him most.

  I knew I should visit the cemetery, back all this time and not one visit. Did I feel guilty? Oh God, yes. Guilty enough to go? Not quite.

  Met an Irish Romanian named Chaz. He used to be fully Romanian but had gone native. He asked,

  “Fancy a pint?”

  “Sure.”

  We went to Garavan’s. Unchanged and unspoilt. I took a corner seat and Chaz got the round. I took out my cigs and fired up. Chaz came with the pints, said,

  “Sláinte.”

  “Whatever.”

  He helped himself from the Marlboro pack, used the Zippo. He examined it, said,

  “This is hammered silver.”

  “So?”

  “A gypsy made this.”

  “Got that right.”

  “Sell it to me.”

  “It’s on loan.”

  “Lend it to me.”

  “No.”

  The pints went down easy, and I ordered a fresh batch. I took a good look at Chaz; he was wearing an Aran sweater with army fatigues. I asked,

  “How’s it going?”

  “I’m hoping for a grant from the Arts Council.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something.”

  “How can you lose?”

  “You know, Jack, in Ireland, the people are not fond of Romanians.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “But in Galway it’s different.”

  “Good.”

  “No, in Galway they hate us.”

  “Ah.”

  “Lend me a fiver, Jack.”

  I did. Said “See you soon” and headed off. Walked slap into my mother. She looked above my head, which read pub. Hardly a halo. Her skin was, as ever, unlined, as if life never touched it. Nuns have the same deal. Estée Lauder take note: check out nuns. The eyes, you look into hers, you see the Arctic, ice blue. Always the same message:

  “I’ll bury you.”

  She said,

  “Son.”

  Aware of my Guinness breath, broken nose, I said,

  “How are you?”

  “You’re back.”

  “I am.”

  Then silence. Her type thrive on it. Reared on the game, backed by the booze, I could play. Waited. She caved. Said,

  “I could buy you a cup of tea.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The GBC, they do lovely scones.”

  “Not today.”

  “You
didn’t think to write?”

  Same old tune, whine on. I said,

  “Oh, I thought to write. I just didn’t think to write to you.”

  Landed home. She sighed. They ever put together an Olympic event for that, she’s a shoo-in. All the time people hurrying by, oblivious to us. I said,

  “I have to go.”

  “That’s all you have for your own mother?”

  “No, actually, I have this.”

  Ripped the pouch from my neck, put it in her hand. I was going to add,

  “You can put it with my father’s heart.”

  Why gild the lily?

  “Summer sang in me.”

  Edna St Vincent Millay

  Sweeper collected me on time. In a white van, spotlessly clean. I got in the passenger seat, four young men in the back wearing black tracksuits. I said,

  “Lads.”

  They said nothing. Sweeper put the van in gear, eased into the late evening traffic. I said,

  “I got you a present.”

  He was well surprised, went,

  “What?”

  I passed over the package. He undid the bag, one eye on the road, said,

  “Elvis Presley!”

  “Like you, he’s the boss.”

  Chorus of amused approval from the back. We were turning at Nile Lodge. He said,

  “They live in Taylor ’s Hill.”

  “Must have a few bob.”

  He looked at me, asked,

  “No relation?”

  “What?”

  “The Hill…Taylor’s?”

  I shook my head, said,

  “I’m the wrong side of the tracks.”

  He mulled over that, asked,

  “You ready?”

  “For what?”

  “Doing as you’re told.”

  “Mmmmmmmmm, that’s always been a problem.”

  “Try.”

  “Well, I’ve always been trying, God knows.”

  The quiet section of the Hill, not a pound from Threadneedle Road, we stopped, pulled into a lay-by. Sweeper nodded and the lads slipped out like phantoms. I asked,

  “The Tiernans, they own this house or what?”

  He gave a grim smile.

  “Inherited, neither of them married. They get videos, curries, lager and party on. No women. The cream of Irish manhood, batchelors and proud of it.”

  I said,

  “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, with young children, but don’t talk of family now.”

  “OK.”

  “When the light flashes, we go.”

  “One last question.”

  “What?”

  “Why do they call you Sweeper?”

  “We clean chimneys.”

  “Oh, and as we speak, what are the lads doing?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “You’re counting?”

  “The lads are preparing the way.”

  “I see.”

  “You will.”

  The light flashed. I had the 9mm in the waistband at my back, like in the best movies. Jeez, I didn’t even know was it loaded. Didn’t feel it was the time to ask. The house was mock Tudor, acres of ivy obliterating the front. The door was opened, and I followed Sweeper. Down a hall littered with spares, bicycles, stripped down engines. Into a huge living room. The lads were in possession. Two sat on a fat guy on the floor. A skinnier version was sitting in an armchair, a knife held to his throat. Both the men were in shorts and singlets. Sweeper said,

  “The fat one on the floor is Charlie; the other, the brains, is Fergal.”

  Hearing his name, Fergal smiled. A bruise was already forming on his cheek. He spat, said,

  “Taylor, you stupid cunt.”

  The lad on the left smacked a fist in his ear. Rocked him, but the defiance stayed full. I said,

  “Lads, move away.”

  They looked to Sweeper, who nodded. I took out the 9mm, moved over, asked,

  “Fergal, is it?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Jeez, Ferg, easy with the language.”

  He felt he was almost back in control, said,

  “See that gun, I’ll ram it up your arse.”

  Charlie, on the floor, despite a bloodied face, cackled, shouted,

  “You tell him, Fergal.”

  Emboldened, Fergal roared,

  “What are you going to do, shithead?”

  I said,

  “First this…”

  I turned and shot Charlie in the knee, continued,

  “Then I’m going to castrate you.”

  Charlie shrieked, and I said,

  “Gag him.”

  Fergal was afraid, sweat blinding him. I said,

  “Watch.”

  Stuck the barrel in his nuts, asked,

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh, Christ, Taylor…please…it got out of hand, we’re sorry.”

  I said,

  “You owe me for a set of teeth.”

  “Sure, no problem. Jesus, anything you want. You like videos, we have brilliant films.”

  “I want your teeth.”

  Cracked the barrel into his mouth, bent down, said,

  “I never want to hear from you again.”

  He nodded, holding his mouth. I turned to Sweeper, said,

  “I’m done.”

  Back in the van, I tried to light a cig. Couldn’t. Sweeper did it, stuck the filter in my mouth. He put the van in gear and we eased slowly out of there. After a time, Sweeper said,

  “I thought you were going to do it, shoot his balls off.”

  I took a long hit, said,

  “So did I.”

  Soft laughter from the back. I should have paid more attention to those lads. The fact that I didn’t would cost me in a way I could never have imagined.

  Kiki arrived on a wet afternoon. I took a cab to the airport to meet her. The driver was saying,

  “There’s been positive dope testing at the Para-Olympics.”

  You can’t encourage taxi drivers. Even the most noncommittal grunt is interpreted as,

  “You are so fascinating, please tell me all your opinions on everything immediately and never let me get a word in.”

  He was off.

  “Now your regular Olympics, OK, we expect them to cheat. But your cripples and such, you think they’d have integrity, am I right?”

  Next we’d get to whose fault it was. He asked,

  “Know who I blame?”

  “No idea.”

  “Your Arabs.”

  “Oh.”

  “They drug the water.”

  When we got to Carnmore, I asked,

  “Can you wait?”

  “Sure. You want me to come inside, grab a tea with you?”

  “No.”

  As Kiki came through the gate, my heart did a minor chord. Not wild abandon, more a distant relative. She looked gorgeous. Navy jacket, faded blue cords. I said,

  “You look gorgeous.”

  Put her arms round me, full kiss, said,

  “Jack, you’re blushing.”

  “That’s mortification.”

  Got her bags, and to my relief, they were small. Not planning a long trip. Getting in the cab, I said,

  “Don’t mention sport.”

  As we pulled out, the driver said,

  “There’s been positive dope testing…”

  At Hidden Valley, I was carrying Kiki’s bags from the cab when the neighbour passed. He winked, said,

  “You yoke.”

  The English might say “you rascal”, but it hasn’t the same flavour.

  She loved the house. I got some drinks, said,

  “Sláinte.”

  “Oh, I like that word. I like you. What happened to your nose, your teeth?”

  “A misunderstanding.”

  “Are you in trouble, Jack?”

  “Of course not.”

  We went to bed. I wish I could say I delighted her. I didn’t. She said
,

  “What’s wrong, Jack?”

  “Nothing, I’m just not used to you.”

  “Maybe the alcohol, the cocaine, they robbed you.”

  “No…Jeez, a few days, I’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

  Neither of us believed it. That evening, I said,

  “Come and meet some friends.”

  We went to Nestor’s. The sentry ignored us. Jeff was tending bar. I said,

  “Jeff, this is Kiki, a friend from London.”

  She shot me a look. Jeff shouted for Cathy and asked,

  “Can I get you something to say welcome to Ireland?”

  “A small Guinness.”

  “I’ll have a pint, Jeff.”

  Cathy arrived, curiosity writ large. Her pregnancy was very developed, and she and Kiki got into woman talk. We were sitting on stools, Cathy behind the bar with Jeff, when Cathy asked,

  “Well, Jack, how come you kept this terrific woman a secret?”

  Kiki looked at me, then asked Cathy,

  “Jack hasn’t told you?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “I’m Jack’s wife.”

  Even the sentry went,

  “What?”

  Jeff recovered first, went and got a bottle of champagne. Cathy remained stunned. Kiki said,

  “I’m going.”

  I followed her outside, said,

  “But they’re preparing a celebration.”

  “I will need keys, Jack.”

  I handed over the spare set I’d been planning to give her later. She asked,

  “Where do I ask for?”

  I told her and she hailed a cab. I half hoped it was the Olympic guy. Then she was gone. Back in the bar, all stood waiting. I said,

  “Better put the champagne on ice.”

  The sentry said,

  “Their first row.”

  Cathy added,

  “I doubt it.”

  I ordered a large Jameson, took my hard seat. Cathy brought it over, asked,

  “Can I sit?”

  “Sure.”

  I got a cig going, circled my drink. Cathy asked,

  “Is whiskey a good idea?”

  “Is marriage?”

  “Good heavens, Jack, how come you never said?”

  “I don’t know. I think I thought it was a London thing. You know, come home, leave the bedsit, all that behind.”

  “But God…I mean…did you love her…what?”

  “I was a little crazy over there.”

  “What a change.”

  “Yea, yea, anyway, I thought it would settle me. She has a doctorate in metaphysics.”

  “Is that supposed to tell me something? I can’t even pronounce it.”

  “It’s the study of being.”