The Killing of the Tinkers: A Novel

The Killing of the Tinkers: A Novel

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by Ken Bruen
     
 

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When Jack Taylor blew town at the end of The Guards his alcoholism was a distant memory and sober dreams of a new life in London were shining in his eyes. In the opening pages of The Killing of the Tinkers, Jack's back in Galway a year later with a new leather jacket on his back, a pack of smokes in his pocket, a few grams of coke in his waistband,

Overview

When Jack Taylor blew town at the end of The Guards his alcoholism was a distant memory and sober dreams of a new life in London were shining in his eyes. In the opening pages of The Killing of the Tinkers, Jack's back in Galway a year later with a new leather jacket on his back, a pack of smokes in his pocket, a few grams of coke in his waistband, and a pint of Guinness on his mind. So much for new beginnings.

Before long he's sunk into his old patterns, lifting his head from the bar only every few days, appraising his surroundings for mere minutes and then descending deep into the alcoholic, drug-induced fugue he prefers to the real world. But a big gypsy walks into the bar one day during a moment of Jack's clarity and changes all that with a simple request. Jack knows the look in this man's eyes, a look of hopelessness mixed with resolve topped off with a quietly simmering rage; he's seen it in the mirror. Recognizing a kindred soul, Jack agrees to help him, knowing but not admitting that getting involved is going to lead to more bad than good. But in Jack Taylor's world bad and good are part and parcel of the same lost cause, and besides, no one ever accused Jack of having good sense.

Ken Bruen wowed critics and readers alike when he introduced Jack Taylor in The Guards; he'll blow them away with The Killing of the Tinkers, a novel of gritty brilliance that cements Bruen's place among the greats of modern crime fiction.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
With his second Jack Taylor crime novel (after 2003's The Guards), Irish author Bruen confirms his rightful place among the finest noir stylists of his generation. A year after the newly sober Jack Taylor left Galway to start a new life in London, the former member of the Gardai S och na (the Irish police) returns home, a failed marriage behind him. The PI is sinking back into alcoholic oblivion when an Irish Gypsy, Sweeper, approaches Jack for help in solving the murders of a number of young men in his clan. The Guards aren't interested, since, after all, "it's only tinkers... and everyone knows, they're always killing each other." The quintessential outsider himself, Jack empathizes with the roaming Gypsies and feels comfortable in their company. Enlisting the aid of Keegan, a burly cop friend from London, Jack sets about investigating the killings, while at the same time he struggles to keep his own personal demons under control. Bruen's spare, lean style reads like prose poetry. Indeed, beneath the surface of Jack's jaded, self-destructiveness is a romantic with a poet's sensibilities. An autodidact, Jack continually references his literary heroes, from Chester Himes to Thomas Merton. Next to his bottle of Jameson is always a book to help him through the hard times: "I needed Merton and a pint. Not necessarily in that order." This is a remarkable book from a singular talent. (Jan. 19) Forecast: A national author tour, Bruen's first in the U.S., plus blurbs from T. Jefferson Parker, James W. Hall and James Crumley, should ensure that the author builds on sales of The Guards. The book will do best in independent and specialty stories, hand-sold to readers of literate, cerebral hard-boiled fiction-and to fans of Irvine Welsh and Patrick McCabe who will appreciate the similar dark sensibility. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Back from London, where he was deeper down and farther out than Orwell ever was, comes p.i. Jack Taylor for his second walk on Galway's dark side. Jack's picked up "a leather coat and a coke habit," and not much more to show for a journey that had begun so optimistically, with fond hopes of recovering his sobriety and working out his redemption. Now, once again at anchor in his favorite pub, he's swilling Jameson's, fighting demons, making phrases (his coffee is "bitter as a rumor"), and being available to troubled souls in need of his services. Enter the tinker Sweeper. Someone's been murdering and mutilating his gypsy clansmen, and he's heard Jack will help when the Garda Siochana can't be bothered. Reluctantly, Jack moves into action, or at least into another of his wobbly journeys with idiosyncratic detours, this time for a brief but poignant love affair, a bizarre skirmish with a teenaged swan-killer, and related twistings and turnings. When at length he gets his man, it's the wrong man. Rectifying this spot of error thrusts Jack into a contract with-well, not quite the Devil, but a near relation. From time to time, Jack (The Guards, 2003) may test a reader's tolerance for the comic antihero, but how can you resist a man who says, "Lord knows, feeling bad is the skin I've worn almost all my life"?

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781429902342
Publisher:
St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
03/01/2005
Series:
Jack Taylor Series , #2
Sold by:
Macmillan
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
256
Sales rank:
146,460
File size:
254 KB

Read an Excerpt

The Killing of the Tinkers


By Ken Bruen

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2002 Ken Bruen
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0234-2



CHAPTER 1

You Can't Go Home Again

Thomas Wolfe


The boy is back in town. As the coach pulled into Galway, Thin Lizzie was loud in my head. One of the great solo blasts from Gary Moore. I saw them at their last gig in Dublin. I had pulled crowd duty for the biggest concert of the year. Phil Lynott, head to toe in black leather, coked to the gills. He stalked that stage like Rilke's panther. He'd never stalk a stage again. Me neither. His premature death coincided with my own career crash. I'd been booted out of the guards for slapping a TD in the mouth. I'd never regretted that. Only wish I'd hit him harder. My dismissal led into a spiral of slow descent towards alcoholic hell. Settling in Galway, I'd become a half-assed private investigator, causing more havoc than the crimes I'd been investigating. Now I was bringing back from London a leather coat and a coke habit.

I would have come home sooner, but for the old Irish imperative of having to stay gone. At least look like you tried. I don't know whom I was trying to impress. It had been a long time since I'd impressed a living soul, least of all myself. A near miracle had happened. My departure from Galway had been a sober one. It was such a revelation. To be clear in my mind and free from the habitual sickness was amazing. I could think without the need to swill booze at every opportunity. Reading books returned to being the pleasure it had once been. I truly believed I was about to start anew.

Now I was back to being what they call a conscious drinker. When I was conscious, I was drinking. A fellah I met on the Kilburn High Road had asked me if I was a social drinker. I'd said,

"No, what about yourself?"

"I'm a social security drinker."

I'd gone to London with a plan. There are few things more lethal than an alcoholic with a plan. Here was mine. Go to London and get a flat in Bayswater. As near to the park as it gets. Preferably with a bay window. Watch those grey squirrels along the Serpentine. In the plan, the woman I'd loved would come to her senses and realise how much she missed me. She'd fly to London and, somehow or other, she'd find me. Just one fine day, it would have to be a fine day, she'd miraculously find me, and happiness would be sealed. All I had to do was wait and she'd show. Or if I stayed away long enough, a letter would arrive from her, telling me how much she missed me and would I please take her back?

What I got was a bedsitter in Ladbroke Grove. Consoled myself with delusion. I'd been weaned on Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks". Among a richness of great songs, "Astral Weeks" stood out. Told myself I was living it. The reality was as close to nightmare as you get. The grove is now a long stretch of urban decay. The human wreckage vies for space with the garbage. A mix of aromas hits you as soon as you begin to venture along it. From the inevitable curry through urine to that pervasive stench of abandonment.

Leaving Galway, I'd left behind a string of deaths. My case had involved the apparent suicide of a teenage girl. The investigation had led to —

Witness this:

Three murders.
Four, if you count my best friend.
My heart being hammered.
Tons of cash.
Exile.


Imagine if I'd been competent.

Oh yeah, and there's the possibility that my involvement caused the death of a teenage girl. I had to bite down and swallow hard lest I add my own name to the list of fatalities. I could trot out the sickest defence line of the decade:

"I meant well."

I didn't.

I was too drunk most of the time to mean anything.

As the coach approached the outskirts of the city, I'd mouthed a mantra:

"Attempting to give back to the world a portion of its lost heart."

The quotation by Louise Brogan, it gave me a sense of longing I couldn't ever expect to realise.

Getting off the coach at Fair Green, the first thing I saw was the headline:

MORE GARDAÍ FOR GALWAY'S VIOLENT STREETS

Next I noticed the hotels. Four more in Forster Street. This used to be the arse end of town. Nothing grew here ever. Of course, Sammon's was long gone. The pub of my youth. Liam Sammon had played on the team that won three All Irelands.

Count them and weep. At least when the pub went, we'd still had the carpet showroom A sign in the window said "Moved to the Tuam Road".

Jesus.

You could no longer say,

"Everything's gone to hell."

Hell and everything else had moved to the Tuam Road.

Before my departure, I'd found a new pub. No mean achievement in a city that had barred me from every worthwhile establishment. I knew it was my kind of pub from the sign in the window.


WE DO NOT STOCK BUD LIGHT.


Jeff, the owner, had been part of a heavy metal band. Big in the eighties, in Germany. He wrote the lyrics. You go ... what lyrics?

Exactly.

He'd hooked up with a punk rocker who odd times helped me. Cathy Bellingham, a Londoner ex-junkie, she'd washed up in Galway. I'd introduced them and withdrawn. They'd be my first port of call.

I'd flown from Heathrow to Dublin, caught the noon coach west. The driver said,

"Howyah?"

I knew I was home.

A reformed smoker, I'd started again. It's a bastard. The new world is designed for non-smokers. It's near impossible to do coke and not smoke. It blends so fine. When that first rush hits, you want to wallop it with nicotine. As if you're not bad enough. I don't know is it when that ice numbness jells or later, but you're reaching for that soft red pack. Try smoking at Dublin Airport or any airport. Good luck. Talk about segregation. Small pockets of isolation where the shamed smokers congregate. Like lepers of the modern wasteland. You'd nod guiltily at each other, crank the lighter and suck the poison in. You'd need your head examined to bring drugs through Dublin Airport. These guys are lethal. Boy, do they see you coming. Get you and you are going down.

I chanced it.

My need was greater than my fear. I could envision the headline:


EX-GARDA BUSTED AT AIRPORT


Wouldn't that launch a homecoming?

Phew-oh.

On Forster Street the urge to snort was massive, but I held it off. Outside Nestor's a guy in a filthy white suit was singing,

"You're such a good-looking woman."

A battered cap was at his feet. It had collected all of 50p. I checked my pockets, put a few coins down. He said,

"Spit on me, Dickie."

From Joe Dolan to Dickie Rock, without missing a beat. I laughed and he added,

"That's sterling."

"Sorry."

"Ary, you meant well."

He launched into "The House with the Whitewashed Gable".

A lone sentry at the bar. He exclaimed,

"Jaysus, look who's back."

Irish people across the board will greet a returnee with exactly the same expression,

"You're back."

Jeff was behind the bar, nodded, asked,

"What'll it be?"

"A pint."

The question was large in his eyes:

"You're drinking again?"

Fair fuck to him, he didn't ask it. A song was playing, something I didn't recognise. I asked,

"What's the tune?"

He smiled, said,

"You're not going to believe this."

"Jeff, it's Ireland; I'll believe anything."

"It's 'I Saw a Stranger' by Tommy Fleming."

Leaving the Guinness to settle, he came round and said,

"Gimme a hug."

I did.

Not easily or with much flexibility. Us Irish guys don't do hugs. Not without a lingering mortification. He looked good. His trademark black 501s were spotless. A granddad shirt, cowboy boots and a black suede waistcoat. A ponytail tied tight. Like me, Jeff was knocking on fifty. He didn't look like an aging rocker. An ease in his movements gave class to whatever he wore. I said,

"You look great."

In Ireland this is usually the preamble to "Lend us some money."

I meant it.

He stepped back, scrutinised me. I was wearing my one Oxfam suit. It had died. I'd let my hair grow and hadn't trimmed my beard. He said,

"You look fucked."

"Thanks."

He went to cream the pint. I sat at what used to be my spot. In the corner, hard chair, harder table. Hadn't changed. I had. I said to the sentry,

"Can I get you a pint?"

He didn't answer for a moment. I wasn't sure he'd heard. Then he spun on the stool, asked,

"Will I have to buy you one back?"

"No."

"OK then."

I rummaged in my holdall, took out some essentials. Left a package on the table, slipped the rest in my pocket, said,

"Jeff, I'm just going for a pee."

"Whatever."

I locked a stall, kneeled over the toilet, pulled down the lid, took out the Silverwrap. I laid five lines, rolled an English tenner and snorted fast. The burn was instant. Rocked me against the door, could feel the freeze lash my brain, muttered,

"Christ."

After ten minutes, I was electric; straightened up, went to the wash basin. A mirror above had the logo,


SWEET AFTON.


My nose was bleeding. I said,

"Sweet Jesus."

Cleansed it with a tissue. Doused my face in cold water. A grey tint showed beneath my beard. My cheeks were sunken. I hitched my pants, tightened the belt a notch. Two stone had gone. In my hurling days, I was built. Spuds and sport pack on that bulk.

Back in the bar, Cathy was sitting at my table. Transformed. I'd known a twenty-two-year-old punk with track marks on her arms. She jumped up, said,

"You're back."

Alongside the Irish greeting, she'd acquired a soft lilt. I preferred her Kim Carnes intonation.

More hugging.

She gave me the look, said,

"Coke."

"Hey."

"You can't fool an old doper."

"Why would I try?"

"Because it's what addicts do ... hide."

I sat, took a hefty swig of my drink. God, it was good. Cathy leant over, wiped the foam of my upper lip, said,

"We have your room ready."

"What?"

"Your first night, you have to be with friends."

"I was going back to Bailey's."

"Go tomorrow."

"Well, OK."

She'd filled out. Her face was well-fed, shining even. I said,

"You look radiant."

She went shy; I'd swear she blushed, though I think that's a lost art. She said,

"I'm pregnant."

After I did the congratulations bit, I said,

"I bought ye something."

Her face lit, she asked,

"Show me."

I gave her the first package. Like a child, she tore it open. A gold Claddagh ring bounced on the table. I said,

"I got ye both one."

"Oh, Jack."

I'd got them off a guy in a pub.

Cathy tried the ring. It fit. She called,

"Hon, come see what Jack bought?"

He approached the table cautiously. Cathy showed him the gold ring, said,

"Go on, try it."

Didn't fit so hot. He pulled a chain from beneath his shirt. I spotted a miraculous medal. He opened the clasp, slid the ring along the links, said,

"Daniel Day-Lewis wears one, figures it makes him Irish."

The medal sat on the table, like an aspiration, leastways the coke thought so. Jeff said,

"Jack, you take it."

"It probably belonged to your mother."

"She'd appreciate a worthy cause."

"Put like that, how can I refuse?"

I put it in my wallet. There was a photograph, showed a young woman smiling at something off camera. Her hair in ringlets, framing a face of neat prettiness. Jeff caught a glimpse, said,

"Oh, yeah?"

"Came with the wallet."

The night turned into a party. I rang Mrs Bailey at my old hotel and she arrived with Janet, the maid/chamberperson/pot walloper. A true creature of grace. A few guards showed and joined in. By nine, the place was hopping. I'd switched to Bush and the going was easy. Jeff danced with Mrs Bailey, I had a waltz with Janet. The guards did some jigs.

Post party. The pub looked like a bomb had hit it. I'd passed out on my hard chair. Bad idea. My back was in bits. The hangover hit low, fast and lethal, walloping every fibre of my being. I muttered,

"Sweet mother of Jesus."

The sentry had crashed on the bar, the inevitable half pint of black at his head. Jeff appeared, greeted,

"Nice morning for it, lads."

Sadistic bastard. He turned on the TV. Surfing the channels, he settled on Sky News, heard,

"Paula Yates has been found dead."

Hit me like thunder. I loved that lost chick. Once heard her say,

"The first time Fifi fell off the bed as a baby, I raced to the doctor. I was beside myself. He said the only thing wrong with this baby is she is wearing too much jewellery."

How could you not love her?

A time I heard Mary Coughlan say,

"It's one thing to sing the blues; feeling them nearly killed me."

Amen.

Jeff shook his head, stared at me, said,

"What a waste."

But I knew. His expression was beloved of mothers, length and breadth of the country. It cautioned,

"Let that be a lesson to you."

Jeff had way too much style to say that. The sentry stirred, reached for his glass, drained the dregs, then went back to sleep. In my old pub, Grogan's, two men were in constant attendance. Each end of the bar, dressed identically


Cloth caps
Donkey jackets
Terylene pants.


Twin drinks. Always and for ever, the half drained pint of Guinness, creamy head intact. No mean achievement. I'd never known them acknowledge each other. I knew them as the sentries only. What they were guarding is anybody's guess. The old values perhaps. One had fallen to a coronary. The second had shifted his tent when Grogan's changed hands.

I felt old. Circling fifty, every bad year was etched on my face. The hangover threw in another hard five. Jeff asked,

"Coffee?"

"Does the pope have beads?"

"That's a yes?"

I headed upstairs. They'd given me the attic room. It was clean, Spartan. Thomas Merton could have swung a cat in it. Sunlight streamed in through the roof window. It gave me an illusion of hope. Got my toilet gear and went in search of a bathroom. It was unoccupied. Spotlessly maintained, with a crescendo of fluffy towels. I said,

"O ... K."

Tore off my ruined suit and got into the shower. As best I could, I avoided seeing my torso. Numerous beatings had left a sorry legacy. Turned the tap to scalding and let the bastard roar. Eased out with my skin tingling. Wrapped in one of those towels, I checked their cabinet.

Doesn't everybody?

Lots of female stuff. Sprayed on a Mum deodorant. The fumes nearly choked me. Shook loose some family aspirin and dry swallowed them. There was a bottle of aftershave in a striking metal flask. Named Harley. I thought,

"C'mon, Jeff."

Massaged it into my beard, said,

"Things go better with coke."

Set up some lines on the sink, took a deep breath and snorted. A few moments, nothing doing. Thought maybe the hangover was riding shotgun. Then angels sang. The rush was related to nausea. Could feel my eyes open wide. Man, I wasn't hurting no more. Skipped back to my room, muttering,

"I love my life."

Selected a faded pair of Levi cords. One more wash and they were history. A sweatshirt with the logo "Filthy McNasty's". Courtesy of Shane McGowan's local in Islington. It had been white, but I washed it alongside a navy shirt. Finally a pair of shoes. Shook free a Marlboro, lit up. Me and Bette Davis, still smoking. Headed down to the bar, grabbed a mouthful of coffee. Perfect, bitter as a rumour. Jeff said,

"Must be some powerful eye drops."

"What?"

"Your eyes ... they're glowing."

Cathy appeared, said,

"Phew, I am like, never, ever going to drink Spritzers again."

Jeff told her about Paula Yates. She said,

"Poor bitch."

A little later, leaning close to me, she asked,

"What's that scent? You smell like my Jeff."

Her effortless embrace of his name tore at my heart.

I moved to my chair, let out a deep breath. I was well on the way to recovery. The door opened and a heavyset man entered. He had a full black beard, an expression of quiet energy. He approached, asked,

"Might I have a word?"

"Sure."

"A quiet word."

I looked round the pub, not a haven of privacy. I got my smile in gear, said,

"Let's step outside."

A tiny pull at the corner of his mouth, the only indication he appreciated the joke. One glance at his hands, you knew he'd travelled the route. The fresh air hit me like a hurley. I staggered, felt a steadying hand. He said,

"Fresh air can be a whore."

I pulled out my smokes, shook one free, cranked the lighter. Nothing doing. I said,

"Fuck."

He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, knotted tie. He reached inside his jacket, produced a Zippo, handed it over. It was solid silver. I fired up, offered it back. He said,

"Hang on to it; I quit."

"It's solid silver."

"Let's call it a loan."

"OK."

I sat on the window ledge, asked,

"What's on your mind?"

"You know me?"

"Nope."

"You're sure?"

"I don't forget faces."

"I'm Sweeper."

I checked his face. He wasn't kidding.

"No offence, pal, but it doesn't mean shit to me."

"The tinkers?"

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"I'm a man of little humour, Mr Taylor."

"Call me Jack. So ... what do you want?"

"Help."

"I don't know how I could do that."

"You helped Ann Henderson."

Her name caught me blindside, like a screech across my soul. Must have shown in my face. He said,

"I regret causing you sorrow, Mr Taylor."

"Jack, it's Jack."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Killing of the Tinkers by Ken Bruen. Copyright © 2002 Ken Bruen. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Ken Bruen has been an English teacher in Africa, Japan, Southeast Asia, and South America. He has been a finalist for the Edgar and Anthony Awards, and has won a Macavity Award, a Barry Award, and two Shamus Awards for the Jack Taylor series. He is also the author of the Inspector Brant series. Several of Bruen's novels have been adapted for the screen: The first six jack Taylor novels were adapted into a television series starring Iain Glen; Blitz was adapted into a movie starring Jason Statham; and London Boulevard was adapted into a film starring Colin Farrell and Keira Knightley. Bruen lives in Galway, Ireland.
Ken Bruen has been a finalist for the Edgar and Anthony Awards, and has won a Macavity Award, a Barry Award, and two Shamus Awards for the Jack Taylor series. He is also the author of the Inspector Brant series. Several of Bruen's novels have been adapted for the screen: The first six Jack Taylor novels were adapted into a television series starring Iain Glen; Blitz was adapted into a movie starring Jason Statham; and London Boulevard was adapted into a film starring Colin Farrell and Keira Knightley. Bruen lives in Galway, Ireland.

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