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

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