“Did you know each item is dry cleaned?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“The shops provide it free for us.”
“Pretty good.”
“It is.”
Got a cab back to Hidden Valley with the gear. The driver said,
“Nice bit of clobber there.”
“Dry cleaned, too.”
“That’ll do it.”
I was a man with a new girlfriend, new wardrobe, the least I could provide was attitude. Wore the blazer with a crisp white shirt, grey slacks. I crackled in freshness. Coming outside, my neighbour said,
“You’re like a new penny.”
Heady praise.
The Simon is located at the top of the Fair Green. To the west is the train station, the coach depot to the south. Perhaps they like to hear the engines roar. Simon has saved countless lives from the Galway streets. It’s clean, tidy, efficient and always available. In a city where most people have a bad word about most things, only Simon gets praise from all. I went in and a receptionist said,
“Howyah.”
“Hello, I’m hoping to see Ronald Bryson.”
“Hang on a sec.”
There were no bad vibes. In a 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, 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?”