Free The Killing of the Tinkers by Ken Bruen

place that bears witness to such misery, you’d anticipate an air of depression. Not a hint. A tall lanky guy, over six feet two, in jeans, black T-shirt and suede waistcoat came ambling along. A ponytail and sharp acned features. An energy, like an Indian on the trail. No hurry, as he knew where you’d be. He drawled,
    “I’m Ron.”
    I stood up, held out my hand, said,
    “Jack Taylor. Appreciate you seeing me.”
    He waved a hand, ignoring my outstretched one, said,
    “No sweat, Jack. Let’s get some privacy.”
    English. That certain London inflexion of cool ease. I could dig if not grasp it.
    He asked,
    “Coffee?”
    “No, I’m good, thanks.”
    We went into a small office. He went behind the desk, got comfortable in a chair and swung his legs up. Old battered moccasins, definitely bought in Nepal. I sat on a hard chair. He began to hand roll from a leather pouch, raised his eyebrows, an offer. I shook my head, got a red going. I leant over, gave him a light, he said,
    “Nice lighter.”
    “Yes.”
    “Before we begin, Jack, let me tell you my position here. I’m not with the Community. I’m a trained social worker, fully qualified.”
    He paused and let me appreciate the full “weight” of this. I gave the appropriate half smile…too awed to speak. He resumed,
    “So though I’m available to them, I’m not part of the organisation.”
    He stopped, so I said,
    “Like a consultant.”
    Sour laugh.
    “Hardly. Think of it more as an adviser.”
    “I have it now.”
    “Good, so what’s your problem, Jack?”
    I took out the list of travellers’ names, laid it on the table, said,
    “My problem is someone is killing the tinkers, these tinkers.”
    Legs swept off the table. All business now, he scanned the list and said,
    “I know…knew these guys. I don’t understand why it’s your problem, Jack. You’re not a guard and I’m sure you’re not family.”
    Big grin here, to tell me he was a fun guy. That even though he’d terrific qualifications, he could banter with the guys. Like that. I said,
    “I’ve been asked to check it out.”
    Note of incredulity in his voice, he said,
    “Like a private eye, twenty a day and expenses? I love it; only in Ireland. I’ve seen the movies. Why’d you come to me, fellah?”
    “You knew them.”
    “That’s it! Wow, you’re going to have to talk to a whole lot of people. They were tinkers. Man, they knew half the country.”
    “If there’s anything…”
    “Whoa…slow down, partner, and pad out those expenses. I want to see if I understand this correctly.”
    “What’s to understand, Ron? Can you help…or not?”
    “There’s that gumshoe steel. Love it. No, what I’m trying to understand here is…have you any legal standing?”
    “No.”
    “So, if I bounce you out of here like a bad cheque, you’ve got to bounce.”
    Ron was having a high old time.
    “That’s it, Ron. I’m appealing to your better nature.”
    Something crossed his face then. Not even a shadow, too fast, too insubstantial for that, but definitely from a dark neighbourhood. He said, teeth edged,
    “You wouldn’t want to make that mistake, Jack. I don’t do appeals. That is not…never the way to conduct your dealings with me.”
    “Sorry, Ron, I guess I got carried away. I forgot you were a social worker.”
    The flicker again. I had no idea what button I was pressing, but it was jackpotting all over the place. I did, of course, know why I was doing it. To rattle the sanctimonious prick. Still edged, he said,
    “You don’t do well with authority, Jack. Let me see, you never had a real job, am I correct?”
    This was more like it. This I could play, said,
    “I was a guard.”
    Got him, but he rallied.
    “Not to any degree of note, I’d say. Didn’t burn up that ladder of success, did we?”
    “You’re very perceptive, Ron.”
    Preened, said,
    “I’ve been doing this rather a long time, Jack.”
    “It shows. My trouble was they expected us to be social workers,