The Killing of the Tinkers (11 page)

I got a new case!

I was having a coffee in Nestor’s when a man approached.

“Mr Taylor, might I have a moment?”

“Sure, and it’s Jack.”

Another English accent. I hoped Bill didn’t get wind of it. He was about my age, with the air of an accountant, a heavily receding hairline and a face that just missed being interesting. He was dressed in jeans, and a heavy denim jacket. Said,

“I’m Michael Tate. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“No.”

“Or the GSF?”

“Nope.”

He seemed very put out, so I said,

“Tell me what it means?”

“The Galway Swan Foundation.”

“Oh.”

“It’s purely voluntary. We take care of the swans.”

“Great.”

“Have you been reading the
Galway Advertiser
?”

“Not attentively, no.”

“Someone is decapitating the swans.”

“Jesus.”

“The guards haven’t the time to mount an investigation. We heard you get results.”

“I don’t know. I…”

“Seven swans in two weeks. We will pay you, of course.”

“Where does it happen and when?”

“The early hours of the morning, in the Claddagh Basin.”

“Why don’t you rally your members, mount a continuous watch.”

He looked down at his shoes. A pair of brown brogues from Dunnes. I’d considered the very pair on my recent expedition. He said,

“The majority of our members are not in the first flush of youth, Mr Taylor. Even if we did as you suggest, the person who’s doing this…well, we’d be no match for such an individual…or worse, a gang.”

“When was the last attack?”

“A week ago. It’s usually a week between them.”

“OK, I’ll give it a go.”

He stood up, gave me an envelope.

“I hope this will be sufficent.”

After he’d gone, I opened the envelope. A single twenty pound note. I wanted to shout,

“The drinks are on me.”

I didn’t get to investigate that night. I’d halfways planned on buying some thermal gear, going down to the Claddagh in the early hours of the morning, but it got away from me. Laura had to cancel our evening, asking,

“Jack, can we please go dancing another time?”

“Sure.”

In John Straley’s book is the following:

The plan as usual was at fault. This was the plan: I’d go to a quiet pub, have one quiet drink and go quietly home. Yeah. Of late, my hangovers had been manageable. Just a slight nausea and the fragile feeling. Now, the reckoning had come with ferocity. Came to on the floor of my kitchen, half a green chicken on the table. Threw up there and then, then crawled through the morning. Whatever I attempted — tea, toast, water — just up-chucked. I was not a well person. A measure of how bad, a song kept repeating in my head. “Bend It” by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich. I could recall them on
Top of the Pops
in the sixties with Davy lashing a bullwhip: could hear the whistle of the rawhide even now.

Headed for Nestor’s and, thankfully, I met nobody. I couldn’t hold a match, never mind a conversation. Jeff was stocking up. I asked,

“Before you start, tell me, was I here last night?”

He shook his head and I said,

“That means what exactly?”

“You’re going down the toilet, Jack.”

I could lay into him, but I needed the cure, asked,

“Could we skip the lecture and get a pint.”

We didn’t talk after that. I took my drink and he busied himself on bar stuff. I had got a swig down, a cig lit when the door opened. In marched Michael Tate, carrying a bin liner. He shouted,

“You’re on the piss.”

“With your huge fee, I just had to celebrate.”

He looked like he might attack, said,

“It’s true what they say, you’re nothing but a rummy.”

“There’s a word you don’t hear much.”

Such was his outrage he couldn’t quite find the words to articulate it, settled for,

“You’re a bloody disgrace.”

I decided to try and calm him, said,

“Don’t get all bent out of shape, I’ll take care of the swans.”

“Oh, will you tell me…” he lifted the bin liner, “how will you take care of this one?”

Flung it at me.

The bag opened and blood, gore, pieces of swan covered me. I jumped up, going,

“Aw, Jesus.”

I could hear Jeff go,

“Hey!”

Tate turned on his heel and walked out. Jeff looked at the mess, said,

“Oh, my God.”

I tried for levity, horror bursting my throat, said,

“I’ll have to stop bringing work home.”

I met Keegan later in the day. I craved non-judgemental company.
My clothes I had to dump. I was getting through wardrobes like a minor Elton John. Spent an hour in the shower, trying to erase the smell of the blood. A time was, like all Galwegians, I’d regularly feed the swans. It was part of your heritage. Course, like all the best parts of my life, it was long gone. Seemed highly unlikely now I’d ever be able to reenact the habit again. In
Stone Junction
by Jim Dodge, he says,

“I don’t know a fucking thing. That must mean I’m finally sane and that’s an excellent place to start going crazy again.”

Yeah.

Recently opened beside Hidden Valley were Lydl and Argos and, of course, the mandatory luxury apartments. I met my neighbour, wheeling a trolley, crammed with goodies from both stores. I said,

“That’ll see you through the winter.”

“As long as I don’t eat for six months.”

He stared over at the new buildings, said,

“I finally figured out the difference between flats and apartments.”

Now this I wanted to hear, said,

“Yeah?”

“Sure, if the Corpo give you a place, it’s a flat, but if you buy one, it’s an apartment.”

“Works for me.”

“Do you want to hear a joke?”

“Um…”

“Guy goes into the library, asks for burger and chips. The assistant says, ‘This is the library.’ ”

I knew the punchline. But in Ireland, never, like never, spoil a story. He was laughing already, in readiness to deliver. I said,

“And?”

“The guy whispers, ‘Burger and chips, please.’ ”

Chances were, he’d get to tell it six more times and be fresh enchanted with each telling. One of the reasons I came home. The English tell jokes with a blend of apology and cruelty. It’s not the laughter they enjoy but the derision. Kiki had once asked me about Irish jokes. The English fondness for them and the total lack of English ones in return. I said,

“They laugh at what they’re afraid of. We, however, have no fear of them.”

She was astonished, asked,

“The English are afraid of the Irish?”

“With good reason.”

I’d arranged to meet Keegan in Garavan’s, go basic if not ballistic. He was wearing a green wax jacket, Aran sweater and a tweed cap. He asked,

“What do you think?”

“Synge.”

“Sing what?”

“The Playboy of the Western World.”

“I went to the Aran Islands.”

“I’d never have guessed.”

“Yo, barkeep, two pints of the black.”

He roared this, said,

“They know me in here.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He whipped off the cap, said,

“Read this.”

“The cap?”

“Inside they have a message.”

The message read, “Good health to all who wear this.”

The pints came and we worked on those. Then he said,

“I learnt a new word.”

“And you’re going to share?”

“It’s
shook
.”

“Useful little word.”

“Well, Jack, you look shook.”

“Thanks.”

I told him about the swans. He asked,

“How much was your fee?”

“Twenty quid.”

“What! He was paying you per swan?”

“I fucked up, Keegan.”

“So…put it right.”

“I’ll try.”

He went quiet for a while. A quiet Keegan is a worrying animal. I said,

“Don’t go silent on me.”

“I have a solution for the gypsy thing.”

“Tinker, not gypsy.”

“Whatever? Fit him up.”

“A frame?”

“Sure. Get some personal stuff from the victims, stash it in his place, he’s gone.”

I shook my head. He said,

“Come on, Jack, he’s garbage, definitely a bad one. Get the scum off the street.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Are you sure you were a cop? OK, I’ll do it for you. Your mate, the Sweeper bloke, he’ll go along.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“What?”

“He’s got integrity.”

Keegan was disgusted, said,

“Here’s another word I learnt:
bollocks
.”

Third drink in, he tells me,

“I’m off.”

“Clubbing?”

“No, I mean I’m going back to London.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Ah.”

“My job’s on the line. I’m already a week late.”

“Don’t go.”

“It’s all I have, Jack. Without it I’m nothing.”

I knew what he meant. All those years later, I clung to my guards persona. The only reality check that would fly, one of the reasons I kept the regulation coat. Like the song, “I, I who have nothing.”

He reached in his coat, said,

“You’ll need something for the swan gig.”

Palmed me an object. I went to look and he said,

“Not here; put it in your pocket.”

I did, asked,

“What the hell is it?”

“A stun gun.”

“Feels like a cattle prod.”

“Same deal with a tad more voltage.”

“Aren’t they illegal?”

“Course they are, and should be.”

I didn’t think he’d bought it in Galway, said,

“Surely you didn’t bring that through Dublin Airport?”

He drained his glass, gave me a stone look, said,

“You can talk? A bloke who bought coke in.”

I was astonished, asked,

“How did you know?”

“I’m a cop, remember? You have a heavy habit going, it stands to reason.”

“You never said.”

“Hey, that’s your affair, crazy as it is. Trust me on this, Jack: that shit will bring you down.”

“Thanks for the tip. How does this stun thing work?”

“Point and push.”

“Is it effective?”

He gave a demonic laugh; heads turned at the sound. He said,

“Oh, yeah.”

Then a thought struck me. I asked,

“Wait a minute, you hadn’t planned on giving it to me, had you?”

“No.”

“So, Jesus, I mean, you carry it with you as a matter of course?”

“What’s your point, Jack?”

“This is Galway. What were you expecting?”

“Your town, boyo, where they behead swans, kill gypsies; you tell me.”

I’d no answer so asked,

“What else do you carry?”

He gave a big smile, said,

“Oh, I don’t think you want to know, not really.”

He was right.

I’d offered to see him off, but he was having none of it, said,

“No, I don’t do goodbyes.”

The end of the evening, we were standing outside Jury’s. I didn’t want to let him go. He said,

“You have that look, Jack, like you’re going to hug me or something.”

“Would I do that?”

“You’re Irish, so anything’s possible.”

I wanted to say “I’ll miss you” or something with a bit of weight. I settled for “Take care.” He seemed on the verge of emotion, too, but then he aimed a punch, said,

“Stay wired, Jack.”

And was gone. I felt a profound sense of loss, turned into Quay Street and began to walk. Four o’clock and the street was hopping. An African combo walloping the bejaysus out of bongos, then a new-ager playing air guitar. He caught my eye. I said,

“Good riff.”

“It’s for Oasis, man; they’re fucked.”

I’d gotten as far as Kenny’s when two guards approached. I nodded and one said,

“Empty out your pockets.”

“What?”

“You’re causing a disturbance.”

“You’re kidding. Look, there’s the United Nations of music down there and you’re hassling me?”

The second one did a quickstep and they had me pinned. I thought of the stun gun in my pocket and thought,

“I’m screwed.”

The first one leant in close, said,

“Superintendent Clancy says you’re to watch your step, Jack.”

Then he hit me in the kidneys, with a punch I’d delivered myself in my time. It is a bastard. Drops you like a stone; you can’t breathe with the pain. As they sauntered off, I wanted to shout,

“Is that your best shot?”

But I couldn’t manage the words.

Next morning, I examined the bruise in the mirror. As if a horse had kicked me. It was over a week since I’d done coke and my nerves were raw. Add the hangover to the list and I was but a shout from the mortuary. Heard a parcel come through the door. One of those padded envelopes. My name was typed, so that told me nothing. The postmark was Belfast. Moved over to the table and opened it slowly. Then, holding the bottom, shook it. A hand fell on the table. I staggered back against the sink, bile in my stomach. Tried to focus as my heart rip-roared against my chest. Looked again, then approached. It was plastic. A note on the palm read,

Need a hand, Jack?

Sweeper arrived at lunchtime, said,

“What happened to you?”

“The guards.”

“Now you know what it’s like.”

He’d bought sandwiches and a thermos of tea. I said,

“There’s tea here.”

“Tea bags, they’re shite.”

He laid the sandwiches out, said,

“Rhubarb.”

“In sandwiches! It’s a joke, right?”

“Try them, you’ll be surprised.”

“I’d be bloody amazed. No, thanks.”

He ate two rounds, wolfed them down. I said,

“Bryson’s gone.”

“Tell me what he looks like.”

I ran down the description. He said,

“We’ll find him.”

“How?”

“The clans are scattered all over.”

“He might be in England.”

“More of us there than here.”

“What if he didn’t do the murders?”

“Why did he run?”

“That’s a point.”

Sweeper stood, asked,

“How’s your English friend?”

“He’s gone.”

“You keep strange company, Jack Taylor.”

If there was a rebuttal to this, I didn’t have it. After he left, I tried to read:

“The wind had blown the summer flies away. God had forgotten his own.”

This was from Nelson Algren,
The Man with the Golden Arm
.

The phone went.

“Yes,”

“Jack, it’s Cathy.”

“Hi, Cathy.”

“Jeff is gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“He’s drinking.”

“Oh.”

“Did you know he hasn’t drunk for twenty years?”

“No.”

“Will you find him?”

“I will.”

“Promise, Jack.”

“I promise.”

Raymond Chandler in an essay, “The Simple Art of Murder”, wrote,

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,