The Killing of the Tinkers Read Online Free PDF Page A

a rich body. She’d caught my eye, lingered, moved on. Class over, the guy was handing out assignments. The woman turned to me, said,
    “Guten Tag, Gedichte und Briefe zweisprächig.”
    “What?”
    “Emily Dickson, her poems.”
    “I’ll take your word for it.”
    She put out her hand, said,
    “Kiki.”
    You immediately betray your age if you think “Kiki Dee”. I said,
    “Jack Taylor.”
    “So, Jack Taylor, would you join me for a drink?”
    “I’ll try.”
    She had an accent like a European who’s learnt English in America. Not unpleasant.
    There’s a certain grandeur about English pubs. It’s entirely different from the Irish animal. I hate to be the one to voice it, but they seem cosy. They did after all give us the term
snug
. Battened against the cold, we didn’t speak the short distance to the pub. Once inside, we thawed in every sense of the word. She stood before an open fire, began to unwrap. I began to unravel. I hadn’t had a line in four days. Not abstinence but my dealer got busted. The sniffles had nothing to do with temperature. I was cold, within and without, asked,
    “What’ll it be?”
    “Oh, hot toddies, am I correct?”
    “Are you ever?”
    The barman/governor was elephants. The giveaway: blasted face, tired suit and too tight sovereign rings. He bellowed,
    “And a good evening to you, sir.”
    “Um, right, couple of hot ones, better make them large…Oh, and whatever you’re having yourself.”
    The beauty of the English system, drinking on duty. Had cost me my career. He had a large brandy, saying,
    “I don’t mind if I do.”
    Kiki was sitting almost in the fire. I said,
    “You’re hot.”
    “You wish.”
    I’m too old for powerhouse sex. But right there, right then, I felt the ghost of it. Handed her the drink, said,
    “Sláinte.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “It’s Irish.”
    “It’s lovely.”
    Usually I don’t fuck with whiskey. No ice, no water, straight as an angel. Those hot ones though, they were good. We got another round, could feel the warmth to my toes. I asked,
    “Where are you from?”
    “Hamburg.”
    I’m sure there is a wise, not to mention pithy, reply, but I couldn’t summon it. My mind locked on
Fawlty Towers
with “don’t mention the war”. I said,
    “Ah.”
    She studied me closely, then,
    “Fifty-three.”
    “What?”
    “You are fifty-three.”
    Now I could hear the German, almost,
you will be fifty-three
. I said,
    “Forty-nine.”
    She didn’t believe me. The oddest thing was happening. In my head, I could hear the Furey Brothers with “When You Were Sweet Sixteen”. Not just a snatch, the whole song. For a moment, it drowned out everything. I could see Kiki’s lips moving but hear nothing. Shook my head and it ebbed. She was saying,
    “Would you sleep with me?”

Another tinker was killed. I’d slept late, woke in disorientation. Where the hell was I? A comfortable bed, clean room, chintz curtains. Hidden Valley. Shit, I was a home owner. I liked the feeling. Took a slow shower, and with a tolerable hangover, I wasn’t hurting. Dressed in trainers, Brixton Academy sweatshirt. Went barefoot to get the benefit of those wood floors. Did some eggs over easy and, bonus, real coffee. The kitchen smelled good. I’d splashed on some Harley and blended in.
    Got the radio tuned in and it was an old rock hour. Heard Chicago and Supertramp. Did me.
    The doorbell went. Opened it to Sweeper. Rage writ large, he shouted,
    “Did you hear?”
    “Hear what?”
    “Another one of our people has been killed.”
    “Oh, God.”
    He stormed in. I closed the door, resolved to proceed with caution. He was staring at my eggs. I asked,
    “Get you something?”
    “Tea, please.”
    He took a seat and produced a cigarette. Not a packet, just one crumpled fag. I passed him the Zippo and he said,
    “Took me six months to quit.”
    Then he lit up. I got him his tea, fired up a red. My eggs had congealed. He said,
    “I spoiled your breakfast.”
    “No