The Killing of the Tinkers (5 page)

Apart from a visit to the dentist, I didn’t venture out much over
the next few weeks. Stayed home, stayed semi-pissed. The dentist went,

“Argh…”

This wasn’t good. He asked,

“What happened?”

“Rugby scrum.”

He gave me the look but let it slide. An hour and a half in the chair as he did horrendous things. My mouth was so full of instruments, I could have started a DIY. When we took a break, I said,

“Don’t tell me any of the procedures.”

“I’ve gotten most of the fragments out and…”

“Whoa, Doc…trust me, I truly do not want to know.”

Back in the chair, more excavation. Finally he did the impressions, said,

“Should be able to fit you in a fortnight.”

“Can’t you dance something temporary in there?”

Shaking his head, he said,

“Trust me, Mr Taylor, when the anaesthetic wears off, even your tongue is going to seem too much.”

As I prepared to leave, he asked,

“Have you medical insurance?”

“Nope, that and no teeth: the Irish male in all his glory.”

“Well, at least you’ve kept your sense of humour. I think you’re going to need it.”

“Thanks, Doc, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.”

“I’d ease up on the rugby for a bit.”

During my last case, I’d been involved with a guard named Brendan Flood. He’d kicked the bejaysus out of me, broken the fingers of my left hand. That was the first time I met him. Then he got religion and a massive change of allegiance. Actually solved the case and led me to killing my best friend. What they call a colourful relationship. I’d kept his number and rang him that evening.

“Hello?”

“Brendan, it’s Jack Taylor.”

Long pause, then deep intake of breath.

“You’re back.”

“I am.”

“They never found your friend.”

“No, no, they didn’t.”

“What can I do for you, Jack?”

“Your information was gold before: I wonder if I might prevail on you further?”

“As long as it concurs with the Lord.”

“Still a believer, eh?”

“Yes, Jack, the Lord believes in you, too.”

“Glad to hear it.”

I told him about the killing of the tinkers. He asked,

“The guards are not actively pursuing this?”

“That’s why I’m calling you. Can you help?”

“Give me your number, I’ll ask around.”

“Great, but be discreet.”

“The Lord is my discretion.”

Click.

I was drinking Robin Redbreast. Christ, if that isn’t a blast from the fifties. My father would have a glass with his slice of Christmas cake. God knows, as my mother baked it, you’d need all the help available. He was a good man. My mother is a walking bitch, then and now. I hadn’t heard light nor hair of her in over a year. Maybe she was dead. She adored my one outstanding credential: my failure. With such a son, she could be seen to endure. The woman was born to martyrdom, but only with an audience. Pay per view.

My expulsion from the guards, my drinking, my non-starter life: she couldn’t have wished for more. Bit down hard on this line of territory. Shit, what was I playing at? Picked up the phone, rang Kiki. This number I had memorised.

“It’s Jack.”

“Jack, how are you? Why haven’t you called? When can I come?

“Jeez, slow down, I’m fine and…I miss you.”

“So, can I come?”

“Of course, but give me two weeks.”

“Why, Jack?”

“Cosmetic reasons.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look, good news, I have a house and a job.”

“But, Jack, you know I need my own space.”

I wanted to shout,

“If you need your own space, why the fuck come to Ireland?”

But stayed with it, said,

“Stay here for a few days till you get acclimatised.”

“Ireland is so different?”

“Trust me, after fifty years, I’m still adapting.”

“I can come in two weeks?”

“Absolutely.”

“And, Jack, do you love me?”

“Sure.”

“I love you, too.”

Put the phone down and pondered the conversation. No, I didn’t love her. Blamed the Robin Redbreast.

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?

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.