The Killing of the Tinkers

by Ken Bruen

  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.”

  The Role of the Guards

  There are currently around 11,300 guards dedicated to:

  1. The prevention of crime.

  2. The protection of life and property.

  3. The preservation of peace.

  4. The maintenance of public safety.

  I finally took Laura to a dance. As Jack Nicholson said,

  “I’d rather have stuck needles in my eyes.”

  Before going to London, I’d lived in Bailey’s Hotel. You have to be old Galway to know it. Well, you have to be old. Off Eyre Square, towards the tourist office, a small street on the left and you’re there. The owner was in her eighties, a feisty old devil. A chambermaid, Janet, was even older. She’d once given me a rosary beads. Shortly after, I’d killed my best friend. I’m not saying there’s a
connection.

  It was Janet who told me about the Saturday night dances. Sounded safer than a club and the band was live. If wearing a blazer and being over fifty counts as live. I dressed casual; black jeans, white shirt and a deep anxiety. Arranged to meet Laura in the Great Southern. She asked,

  “Why there?”

  “So we can begin with notions.”

  She, as usual, had no idea what I was talking about, but she agreed. As I swung through the revolving doors, the porter said,

  “Jack Taylor, by the holy!”

  “How you doing?”

  I couldn’t remember his name so leant heavily on the greeting. Seemed to work as he said,

  “Grand. I heard you went to London.”

  “I’m back.”

  “That’s great, Jack.”

  I took an armchair in the lobby, just sink in those mothers, feel important.

  Laura arrived, short black coat and legs to die for. I clocked the porter give her a look of full appreciation. I stood up and she kissed me, said,

  “It’s ages since I saw you.”

  Took her coat off and she’d a black polo over black skirt. I said,

  “Jesus, you look phenomenal.”

  “For you, Jack.”

  The porter came over, asked,

  “Your daughter, Jack?”

  “Yes, it’s mid-term break.”

  Laura ordered sherry and I’d a Jameson; get the evening cooking. The porter, trying to regroup, asked,

  “Would you be happier in the bar?”

  “Nope.”

  I told Laura about Bailey’s. She said,

  “Oh, the Saturday dance. My dad used to go.”

  Whoops!

  We’d one more drink and got up to go. The porter took me aside, said,

  “Jack, I didn’t mean anything by what I said.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the guards.”

  I didn’t correct him. If nothing else, it shows that contrary to popular belief, hotel porters didn’t know everything.

  Mrs Bailey had a huge welcome, asked,

  “Who’s this?”

  “Laura Nealon.”

  “Ah, I know all belong to you.”

  Laura went to the ladies and Mrs Bailey said,

  “I heard you got married.”

  “Not to Laura.”

  “I thought so. She’s far too fond of you to be your wife.”

  This is Irish flattery at its finest. There’s something in there to like, but there’s also the suspicion of a lash. Whatever else, it keeps you on your toes. Now she said,

  “I wouldn’t have you down as a dancer.”

  “I’m not.”

  The band didn’t disappoint. They had the mandatory blue blazers, white pants. None of them would see fifty again. Not that they’d gone easily into that good night. No, whether it was toupees or Grecian 2000, they’d a uniform of dark unmoving hair. And teeth? Man, they’d molars to die for. Like the showband legacy, they played as if they meant it. The showpiece was the bugles, with a one two dance step to match. Of course, a massive repertoire; if they’d heard it, they played it…energetically. From Roy Orbison through the Shadows (with a nod towards the Eagles) to Daniel O’Don-nell. It was Hospitals’ Request live. The time-honoured formula, too: a fast set, ladies choice, then fast. Interspersed was a lone vocalist. The stage would go black, a single spotlight on the singer. He’d stand, head lowered, and a voice would intone,

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis Presley” or Chris de Burgh or even Buddy Holly.

  Same singer, of course. He had the sort of voice that got no votes on Opportunity Knocks. Halfway through the evening, the band took a break; like everybody else, they headed for the bar. As luck would have it, I was alongside the lead vocalist. Sweat was pouring off him. He gasped,

  “Howyah?”

  “Buy you a drink?”

  “No, we got complementaries.”

  “You deserve it, great show.”

  “Thanks, it’s our last before the tour.”

  “Tour?”

  “Yeah, Canada, then two months in Las Vegas.”

  I tried not to shudder, said,

  “Lucky you.”

  “And we have an album coming out.”

  “Wow, what’s it called?”

  “Greatest Hits.”

  I had the grace not to ask,

  “Whose?”

  He lifted a tray of drinks and said,

  “There’s a chance we’ll be on The Late Late Show.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  “We’d be made.”

  “Hey, you’re made already.”

  He loved that. When I tried to pay for my drinks, I was told the band covered it. There are moments, rare as luck, that you feel glad to be alive. That was one. I danced three times, managed to make two of them slow. You can fake your way through these. Just hold her tight and don’t walk on her feet, easy-ish. The fast numbers were a nightmare. I tried to look like I had some moves. A woman had once said,

  “You learnt to dance in the sixties.”

  It’s one of those statements you don’t question. There is never a time you want to hear the answer. Laura, of course, was a great dancer. As I fumbled through, the sweat cascaded down my body, a voice in my head roaring “horse’s ass”. When we stood for the national anthem, I swore never again. When we walked home, Laura linked my arm and said,

  “That was terrific.”

  Back home, she smiled, went,

  “I can stay.”

  After we’d made love, she perched on one arm, examining me. I wanted to plunge the room into darkness. Her fingers touched the tattoo and she asked,

  “Is it an angel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your guardian angel?”

  “I don’t know, I got it in a snooker game.”

  “You won?”

  “No, I lost.”

  One thing my dad had taught me was snooker. He’d played in provincial finals. I’d learnt well. Almost never lost. Till my training at Templemore. We’d a weekend break and had headed for the centre of Dublin. A snooker hall in Mary Street had a long-standing rep. I’d beaten all the other cadets when our sergeant arrived, challenged me to a game. I knew enough then not to play for money, so we’d wager anything else. The sergeant, his sleeves rolled up, was a riot of tattoos. He said,

  “You don’t approve, young Taylor?”

  “Not my thing.”

  “Well, if you lose, you get one, how would that be?”

  Piece of cake, I thought, and lost. Down on the quays we’d gone. Tattoo parlours in those days were dodgy. Of all the awful symbols on offer, the angel was the least offensive. Did it hurt?…Like a bastard.

  “The fable of one with you in the dark. The fable of one fabling with you in the dark. And how better in the end labour lost and silence.

  And you as you always were. Alone.”

  Samuel Beckett, Company

  I went to the army and navy store and bought heavy-duty polo necks, added thermal leggings and socks. The assistant, a young guy in his twenties, asked,

  “How cold are you expecting it to get?”

  “Where I’m going…very.”

  “What, like Siberia?”

  “No, like the Claddagh.”

  On my way out, a vaguely familiar face said,

  “Howyah?”

  I stopped and tried to place him. He had his left ear pierced with four rings. He helped with,

  “I used to hang with Cathy in her punk days.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “You’re the old guy…Taylor…Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “She said you were a cool dude.”

  “Thanks again.”

  I thought he was going to hit me for a loan so I said,

  “Good to see you.”

  “Listen, you want to score some speed?”

  On the verge of saying no, I though
t, “Hold a mo’.” I was pulling an all-nighter, an edge would help. I said,

  “Sure, give me a few.”

  Not cheap. Course the addict in me wanted to drop one immediately, see how it went. My teeth were dancing in their gums from lack of coke. Went home and rang Cathy.

  “Jack, how are you?”

  “Doing good. How’s the man?”

  “He’s hurting.”

  “Way it goes.”

  “But he hasn’t taken a cure or anything, so I’m hoping it’s finished. Do you think it is?”

  “Jeez, Cathy, I don’t know. But he has a better shot than most.”

  “Jack?”

  “So you won’t try to lure him away?”

  “What?”

  “Please, Jack?”

  “No, I guarantee I won’t try to tempt him.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  Click. I wanted to punch a hole through the wall. The phone went. She was going to apologise. Keegan.

  “Are you missing me, boyo?”

  “I sure am.”

  “I did some more checking on Bryson, even spoke to his mother.”

  “And?”

  “Yea, his old man was a vicious drunk and abused the boy in all sorts of ways.”

  “So he has motivation to hate drunks.”

  “Yea,…but…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t think he’s your boy.”

  “Oh, come on, Keegan, when you were here, you were ready to frame him.”

  “Listen, Jack, I hate to be wrong. His mother and others say he was always claiming to have done things to get attention. Here’s the kicker: he might hate alkies, but he’s done an awful lot of good, too, really helped them.”

  “Sorry, Keegan, the fuck sent me a hand.”

  “A real one?”

  “No, plastic, and trust me, the shock was real enough.”

  “That’s it, Jack. He’s a nuisance and needs a kick in the head, that’s all.”

  “Keegan, London has screwed up your head. It’s him.”

  “Look, Jack, there’s lots more, I…”

  “I’ve got to go, Keegan.”

  “Jack, come on, think about it.”

  “I already did. Got to go.”

  Click.

  London was like that, put all sorts of doubts in your head. I’d have to bring Keegan back, straighten him out.