“Trust me, Mr Taylor, when the anaesthetic wears off, even your tongue is going to seem too much.”

As I prepared to leave, he asked,

“Have you medical insurance?”

“Nope, that and no teeth: the Irish male in all his glory.”

“Well, at least you’ve kept your sense of humour. I think you’re going to need it.”

“Thanks, Doc, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.”

“I’d ease up on the rugby for a bit.”

During my last case, I’d been involved with a guard named Brendan Flood. He’d kicked the bejaysus out of me, broken the fingers of my left hand. That was the first time I met him. Then he got religion and a massive change of allegiance. Actually solved the case and led me to killing my best friend. What they call a colourful relationship. I’d kept his number and rang him that evening.

“Hello?”

“Brendan, it’s Jack Taylor.”

Long pause, then deep intake of breath.

“You’re back.”

“I am.”

“They never found your friend.”

“No, no, they didn’t.”

“What can I do for you, Jack?”

“Your information was gold before: I wonder if I might prevail on you further?”

“As long as it concurs with the Lord.”

“Still a believer, eh?”

“Yes, Jack, the Lord believes in you, too.”

“Glad to hear it.”

I told him about the killing of the tinkers. He asked,

“The guards are not actively pursuing this?”

“That’s why I’m calling you. Can you help?”

“Give me your number, I’ll ask around.”

“Great, but be discreet.”

“The Lord is my discretion.”

Click.

I was drinking Robin Redbreast. Christ, if that isn’t a blast from the fifties. My father would have a glass with his slice of Christmas cake. God knows, as my mother baked it, you’d need all the help available. He was a good man. My mother is a walking bitch, then and now. I hadn’t heard light nor hair of her in over a year. Maybe she was dead. She adored my one outstanding credential: my failure. With such a son, she could be seen to endure. The woman was born to martyrdom, but only with an audience. Pay per view.

My expulsion from the guards, my drinking, my non-starter life: she couldn’t have wished for more. Bit down hard on this line of territory. Shit, what was I playing at? Picked up the phone, rang Kiki. This number I had memorised.

“It’s Jack.”

“Jack, how are you? Why haven’t you called? When can I come?

“Jeez, slow down, I’m fine and…I miss you.”

“So, can I come?”

“Of course, but give me two weeks.”

“Why, Jack?”

“Cosmetic reasons.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look, good news, I have a house and a job.”

“But, Jack, you know I need my own space.”

I wanted to shout,

“If you need your own space, why the fuck come to Ireland?”

But stayed with it, said,

“Stay here for a few days till you get acclimatised.”

“ Ireland is so different?”

“Trust me, after fifty years, I’m still adapting.”

“I can come in two weeks?”

“Absolutely.”

“And, Jack, do you love me?”

“Sure.”

“I love you, too.”

Put the phone down and pondered the conversation. No, I didn’t love her. Blamed the Robin Redbreast.

The morning of my new teeth, I was one happy private investigator. Remember Dire Straits? They’d been doing fine, cooking, pulling the hip and the straight alike. No mean feat. Then Lady Di announced they were her favourite band and wallop. Sayonara, suckers. Now they got bracketed with Duran Duran, and there’s no coming back from there. “Money for Nothing” sounded what it was – smug. Like many rock stars, Mark Knopfler paid tribute to humility and started The Notting Hill Billies. Yes, we’re just ordinary blokes. That group went down the ordinary toilet. I was running all this trivia to keep my mind distracted as the dentist slotted in my new molars. He said,

“They’ll take a little getting used to.”

“Like the new Ireland.”

He smiled and told me the cost. I went,

“Jeez, could I just rent them, you think?”

He didn’t.

All along Shop Street, I smiled, giving those teeth exposure. I heard a wino say,

“That ejit has drink taken.”

Nearly went into Grogan’s, my old favourite pub. Sean, the grouchy proprietor, had owned most of my heart. He’d been murdered, too, and because of me. That fair dented my smile. When I got to Hidden Valley, Sweeper was waiting at the kitchen table. I said,

“Be free, drop in or out of my place anytime, don’t feel you have to phone ahead.”

He gave the turned-down mouth expression, said,

“Teeth, eh?”

I gave him the full neon. He nodded, asked,

“How’s your balls?”

“The swelling’s gone.”

Head shake, then,

“I didn’t mean the actual set.”

“Oh, you meant metaphorically. Give me my coke back, I’ll fight legions.”

“Just two, the Tiernans; they’ve surfaced.”

My gut tightened. He reached in his suit pocket. Sweeper always wore a dark suit, white shirt. Most times, he appeared more Greek waiter than traveller. He produced a small leather pouch. Leather thong to fit round the neck. I asked,

“What’s with the suits? It’s not as if you have to be at an office.”

Sad smile then.

“I have to stay respectable. They expect us to be tinkerish, but I give the lie to their assumptions.”

“OK, but don’t you ever want to just kick back, hang loose?”

With his hand he dismissed this nonsense, tapped the pouch, said,

“Open it.”

“You’re kidding. Knowing you, it’s probably a shrunken head.”

Now finally he laughed, said,

“You’re in the neighbourhood.”

Turning the pouch up, he shook it. Four bloodied teeth rolled on the table. I went,

“Ah, fuck.”

“In case you need motivation for the brothers.”

He scooped them up, put them back and handed me the bag. Reluctantly, I pulled the thong over my head, settled the thing inside my shirt, said,

“Now I’m Brando, Apocalypse Now.”

He stood up, said,

“I’ll collect you at seven. Bring the weapon.”

“What will I wear, it being a revenge number?”

He considered, then,

“Something cold.”

That lunchtime I got parcel post. No stamp and unfranked, opened it up. The coke. I said aloud,

“Good on you, Sweeper.”

Laid out a line. My nose was healing but still hurt like a bastard. Managed three hits. After a two and a half week layoff, it hit like thunder. Thank God. My gums froze, and I could feel that icy tingle down my throat, froze my brain. Now I could face a mirror. Not good. The nose was tilted to the left. Perhaps the next breakage might realign it. There would be another, always was. Deep blue shadows under my eyes, they’d accessorise a guard’s uniform. New ridges along the corner of my mouth. How frigging old was I getting? Not old enough to ever like George Michael. Flashed the smile, solid. A 100-watt beacon in the wasteland. Maybe my teeth could go out alone. A jingle from my childhood:

“You’ll wonder where the yellow went/when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.”

Ah.

The coke was cranking hard. I had to go out. Show my twenty-year-old smile in the face of fifty. Almost a haiku, it was definitely a shame. Put on a white shirt, slacks and the Weejuns. Next the London leather, and I was the oldest swinger in town. The pouch bounced against my chest like the worst of bad news. Coming out into the light, I couldn’t believe the sun was bright. No warmth but I could fake that. A neighbour said,

“We lost the replay.”

“We did?”

“Can’t beat them Kerry bastards.”

“Maybe next year.”

“Maybe shite.”

My kind of neighbour. I went to Zhivago Records. Declan looked up, said,

“You’re back.”

“How astute.”

“How what?”

“Never mind. I need the King.”

“Elvis?”

“Is there another?”

“Greatest Hits?”

“Exactly.”

“CD?”