Free The Killing of the Tinkers by Ken Bruen Page A

too. Me, I had hoped to be human.”
    Didn’t bite. The moment had passed, and Ron was back in mode. Gave me a full smile, said,
    “I may have misread you, Jack. To be honest, I’d classed you as a wet brain. I’ve seen so many alkies, few are coherent.”
    “Hasn’t dented your compassion though.”
    Nope, game over. He began the dismissal spiel, flicked the list with a nail.
    “Those young men, all alkies. That life, it doesn’t take many hostages. I’m a tad astonished you’ve survived so long yourself.”
    He stood up, added,
    “Don’t waste your time, Jack. They’re just casualties of an indifferent war. It happens every day.”
    He put out his hand and I ignored it as he said,
    “Leave your phone number. If something occurs to me, I’ll call.”
    “Thanks, Ron. It’s been educational.”
    “Not for me, Jack. In fact, it’s been a shocking waste of my valuable time.”
    On the way out, I said to the receptionist,
    “Thanks a lot. Ron was great.”
    “Everybody says that.”
    Outside, took a deep breath, shook off the creepiness whispering at my neck. Looked back. Pressed right against the window was Bryson. The panes distorted his features and gave the smile an eerie malevolence. His hand was at his groin, moving back and forth, mimicking masturbation. I only hope it was mimicry. What was I supposed to do? I did what any upright Irishman would do. I gave him the finger. Then I got the hell away from there.

“To do is to be.”
    Plato
    “To be is to do.”
    Socrates
    “Do be do be do.”
    Sinatra
    I headed for The Quays. Keegan had said he’d be sussing out their lunchtime trade. He was. In full flow, telling an American couple that, yes, fields are still green in December. Then he sang the rest, truly hideous. He handed me a pint. I said,
    “Jeez, that was fast.”
    “It’s a fast country.”
    U2 were on the speakers — “Angel of Harlem”. Keegan said,
    “Fuck, how traditional is that?”
    “To some, the most.”
    “But where’s the diddley-do, all of them
bodhrans
and
uilleann
pipes?”
    “Well pronounced.”
    “I’ve been practicing.”
    “It shows.”
    “Come on, Jack, is that hummable?”
    “Well, of all the things you could say about U2, and George Pelicanos has said most, I don’t think hummable has been mentioned.”
    “Who’s Pel…ican…os?”
    “One of the best crime writers.”
    “Aw, shite talk; there’s only Ed McBain.”
    He took a huge swallow of his pint, half in one swallow. Even the barman’s jaw dropped. Keegan waited, then belched, said,
    “My black pudding’s near repeated.”
    “You ate that?”
    “Oh, yea. Jury’s give the full Irish job, including sausages, fried tomatoes, two eggs, bacon…”
    “Rashers?”
    “What?”
    “In Ireland, we call bacon ‘rashers’.”
    “Why?
    “Because we want to.”
    “I was thinking of getting a tattoo.”
    “What?”
    “With
Éire
and a shamrock, do you think?”
    “Jeez, Keegan, it’s hard to keep up with you.”
    “Drink up, that’s my boy.”
    We got a table and he asked,
    “How did you get on with that chick?”
    “Come on…chick. Nobody calls them that except Terry Wogan.”
    “And?”
    “It went good; it went brilliant.”
    “Me, too. I was riding half the night.”
    He spoke in a loud London boom so all the pub knew about the “ride”. He looked like such a pig nobody challenged him. He asked,
    “Didn’t you go to see that social worker?”
    “Bryson.”
    “The name sounds familiar.”
    “There is Bill Bryson the travel writer.”
    “I only read McBain. So how did it go?”
    I ran it down. When I’d finished, he asked,
    “What’s your instinct?”
    “He did them.”
    “Whoa, that’s a jump, laddie.”
    “It’s him.”
    “So now what?”
    “I’ve got to find out all I can about him.”
    He took a pen out. To my amazement, it looked like a gold Parker. He said,
    “It was a present from Unsworth.”
    “Unsworth?”
    “A black woman cop, on my patch.”
    I was