“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, 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.

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 surprised, said,

“You’re friends with a black person, with a black woman?”

He looked up, said,

“I have some moves. I’m not what I front…bit like you, Jack.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

We did. I gave him all I knew about Bryson. He said,

“I’ll get on the blower to my DI. If this monkey’s a London boy, we’ll dig him up.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Yea, so how come you’re not getting the drinks in?”

Later he said,

“What’s the plan in the immediate?”

“Soon as I find out where he lives, I’ll go and burgle him.”

“Count me in.”

“You sure?”

“B and E is my speciality, OK? I’m going to get my tattoo…saw it on Home and Away.”

“You watch that?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

In that moment, I don’t know why, but I felt a surge of affection for him. He was standing there, like a fucked Popeye Doyle, sweating and heaving. Luckily he was gone before I said anything. The barman said,

“Jack.”

“Yea.”

“The Spice Girls have their ninth No. 1.”

“Christ, why are you telling me?”

“Don’t you like to stay informed?”

“Jesus.”

The last time I saw the Spice Girls, I was coked to the far side of the moon. Posh looked uncannily like the young Cliff Richard. I still don’t know which of them that’s the worst news for; Beckam definitely.