Read Online The Death of an Irish Tinker by Bartholomew Gill - Free Book Online
Authors: Bartholomew Gill
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purposely open to display gold chains. Otherwise brush cuts, black crew-neck jumpers, black shoes or runners completed the uniform. And tight stone-washed jeans.
The women wore those too, along with stark white half boots with pointy toes and jackets to match. Those were padded in the shoulder but gripped the waist tight, so as to suggest more bosom than any probably possessed. Left open, the plackets revealed strands of gold chains, plunging V-neck jumpers that were pink in color and made of something like angora, and mounds of skin.
All were blondes, save for one whose hair was some unlikely shade of magenta. Layers of cosmetics made their faces seem lurid even under a pale winter sun, to say nothing of their long, lacquered talons and what McGarr thought of as the “cornered” look: felonious eyes that darted this way and that, as though for a way out. But mainly at the Toddler. Perhaps for direction. Or chemical salvation.
“What about the girls?” McKeon asked. It was a generous description but probably accurate; few were over twenty, but all could pass for thirty.
“Sure, they’re renters. By the hour, by the night, long as you’ve any readies left. Big trade with foreign businessmen looking for a bit of different. It’s said he ships them out as well. Middle East, Madagascar, Djibouti—wherever blondes is in. Two birds with one stone. See the odd girl out?”
“With the purple hair.”
Lyons nodded. “They call her the Grape. Disappeared for seven weeks, she did. We thought for sure her body would surface in a canal. But when we checked immigration, didn’t we find she’d skipped to Syria in September on a Syrian government jet. Came back the same way with four ‘diplomats,’ each carrying a stuffed diplomatic pouch.”
“Business as well as pleasure,” McKeon put in.
“She wasn’t back a day before the word in the street was ‘brick.’ And still is.” It was another name for hashish. “But far be it from him to sell bricks. Grams is all, and the markup is fantastic.”
When the Toddler now tried to step out farther into the street, a uniformed guard put up a hand and gently pushed him back. That made the largest two of the Joxers, who seemed to be guarding the Toddler, move forward truculently.
“Who’re they?”
“The Bookends, they’re called. Hyde and Hyde. Twin brothers who grew up here, two doors down from the Toddler’s granny. Hard cases even before he got back from Vietnam. But shortly after he did, they left school. When the father gave out to them, they thumped him, put him in hospital. Critical. On the mend he wouldn’t say word one. Rumor is, they promised to kill the mother if he did. And would.”
Again McGarr could feel his gall rising to think that this little gang of—how many?—two dozen or so that he could see had been able to act with such impunity for so long, killing people at will, shooting at people in city center, attacking an old woman and her children while masqueradingas gardai. And here in Coolock the Toddler had virtually taken over the main street.
“Drugs?” McKeon asked.
“Who? The Bookends? For personal use, I’d say so. Anything they want. It’s how he keeps ’em loyal. But no trade. Nobody around the Toddler is allowed that. If they do—and some have—they end up in the Liffey.”
Or under a bus or up in a tree, thought McGarr. He made mental note to ask Bresnahan to compare the names of murder victims in open cases against known associates of this Toddler. The Drug Squad would have a list. Or maybe it wouldn’t.
“He ever been lifted?”
“The Toddler? Not that I know of. Not in this country.”
“Why not?” McKeon asked.
Lyons shook his head. “Maybe he’s been careful.” But his eyes said he didn’t think it was his place to say.
McGarr made a mental note to find out why.
“Who’s the monkey?” Ward asked.
He meant the small young man who was dressed in a tight black—was it?—chauffeur’s uniform. With a
The women wore those too, along with stark white half boots with pointy toes and jackets to match. Those were padded in the shoulder but gripped the waist tight, so as to suggest more bosom than any probably possessed. Left open, the plackets revealed strands of gold chains, plunging V-neck jumpers that were pink in color and made of something like angora, and mounds of skin.
All were blondes, save for one whose hair was some unlikely shade of magenta. Layers of cosmetics made their faces seem lurid even under a pale winter sun, to say nothing of their long, lacquered talons and what McGarr thought of as the “cornered” look: felonious eyes that darted this way and that, as though for a way out. But mainly at the Toddler. Perhaps for direction. Or chemical salvation.
“What about the girls?” McKeon asked. It was a generous description but probably accurate; few were over twenty, but all could pass for thirty.
“Sure, they’re renters. By the hour, by the night, long as you’ve any readies left. Big trade with foreign businessmen looking for a bit of different. It’s said he ships them out as well. Middle East, Madagascar, Djibouti—wherever blondes is in. Two birds with one stone. See the odd girl out?”
“With the purple hair.”
Lyons nodded. “They call her the Grape. Disappeared for seven weeks, she did. We thought for sure her body would surface in a canal. But when we checked immigration, didn’t we find she’d skipped to Syria in September on a Syrian government jet. Came back the same way with four ‘diplomats,’ each carrying a stuffed diplomatic pouch.”
“Business as well as pleasure,” McKeon put in.
“She wasn’t back a day before the word in the street was ‘brick.’ And still is.” It was another name for hashish. “But far be it from him to sell bricks. Grams is all, and the markup is fantastic.”
When the Toddler now tried to step out farther into the street, a uniformed guard put up a hand and gently pushed him back. That made the largest two of the Joxers, who seemed to be guarding the Toddler, move forward truculently.
“Who’re they?”
“The Bookends, they’re called. Hyde and Hyde. Twin brothers who grew up here, two doors down from the Toddler’s granny. Hard cases even before he got back from Vietnam. But shortly after he did, they left school. When the father gave out to them, they thumped him, put him in hospital. Critical. On the mend he wouldn’t say word one. Rumor is, they promised to kill the mother if he did. And would.”
Again McGarr could feel his gall rising to think that this little gang of—how many?—two dozen or so that he could see had been able to act with such impunity for so long, killing people at will, shooting at people in city center, attacking an old woman and her children while masqueradingas gardai. And here in Coolock the Toddler had virtually taken over the main street.
“Drugs?” McKeon asked.
“Who? The Bookends? For personal use, I’d say so. Anything they want. It’s how he keeps ’em loyal. But no trade. Nobody around the Toddler is allowed that. If they do—and some have—they end up in the Liffey.”
Or under a bus or up in a tree, thought McGarr. He made mental note to ask Bresnahan to compare the names of murder victims in open cases against known associates of this Toddler. The Drug Squad would have a list. Or maybe it wouldn’t.
“He ever been lifted?”
“The Toddler? Not that I know of. Not in this country.”
“Why not?” McKeon asked.
Lyons shook his head. “Maybe he’s been careful.” But his eyes said he didn’t think it was his place to say.
McGarr made a mental note to find out why.
“Who’s the monkey?” Ward asked.
He meant the small young man who was dressed in a tight black—was it?—chauffeur’s uniform. With a
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