The Killing of the Tinkers by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

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,