“Jesus, hold your horses there, lads,” Johnny says, raising his hands, grinning. “I’m not saying ye’ll be millionaires. We won’t know how much is in there till we start looking. It might be enough for butlers and road trips, or it might only be enough for a week in Lanzarote. Don’t be getting ahead of yourselves.”
“I’d have the sheep anyway,” P.J. tells Mart, after some thought. “I’m used to them, like.”
“We’d have all the newspapers coming down here,” Dessie says. The thought makes him glow a bit, all over his baldy head. Dessie, as Mrs. Duggan’s son and Noreen’s husband, has always been one step away from the center of things. “And the lads off the telly, and the radio. To interview us, like.”
“You’d make a mint offa them,” Mart tells him. “They’d all buy their lunches outa your missus’s shop. They’d be Dubs, sure. The Dubs would never think of bringing their own sandwiches.”
“Would I have to be interviewed?” P.J. asks, worried. “I never done that before.”
“I’d do it,” Bobby says.
“If you go shiteing on about aliens on national telly,” Senan tells him, “I’ll take a fuckin’ hurley to you.”
“Hang on a fuckin’ second here,” Sonny says. “What do we need this plastic Paddy fella for, at all? If there’s gold on my land, I’ll dig it up myself. I don’t need some eejit walking off with half the profit. And singing ‘Come Out Ye Black and Tans’ at my cattle while he does it.”
“You haven’t a clue where to look, sure,” Johnny points out. “Are you going to dig up every acre you’ve got?”
“You can tell us.”
“I could, but it’d do you no good. There’s laws. You can’t use machinery, unless you’ve a license from the government; you’d be digging away with nothing but your bare hands and a spade. And even if you found gold, you wouldn’t be allowed to sell it. Young Con here might be happy enough to make the lot into brooches for his missus, but I’d say the rest of us want something more to show for it.”
“I’ve farmed my land my whole life,” Francie says. “And my father and my grandfather before me. I never seen or heard of a single speck of gold. Never once.”
Francie has a deep voice that lands heavily in the room. It leaves a ripple of silence.
“I found an aul’ coin in the back field, one time,” Bobby says. “With your woman Victoria on it. That was silver, though.”
“What feckin’ use is that?” Senan demands. “If your man goes panning in the river, he’ll find himself a whole, what d’you call it, a seam of shillings, is it?”
“Fuck off. I’m only saying—”
“D’you know what’d be mighty? If you only said nothing till you’ve something to say.”
“Did you ever find any gold?” Francie asks the room. “Any one of ye?”
“You mightn’t know, sure,” Con says. “It might be deeper down than we’d be plowing.”
“I don’t be plowing at all,” Mart points out obligingly. “The whole of King Solomon’s mines could be under my land, and I wouldn’t have a bull’s notion. And how hard do any of ye look at the dirt you plow up? Are ye inspecting every inch of it for nuggets, are ye? Come to that, would any of ye know a nugget if it was handed to ye on a plate?”
“I’d look,” Con says, and reddens when their grins turn towards him. “Sometimes. Not for gold, like. In case I’d find something, only. You’d hear stories about people finding mad yokes, Viking coins—”
“You’re a fuckin’ sap,” his brother tells him.
“Didja ever find any gold?” Francie repeats.
“Not gold,” Con admits. “Bits of pottery, but. And a knife one time, an old one, like, handmade—”
“Now,” Francie says, to the rest of them. “Indiana Jones here found nothing. There’s no gold.”
“The fish outa that river,” P.J. says, having thought it over long enough to reach a solid opinion, “are the same as any other fish.”
“Lads,” Johnny says, with a slow grin that blooms with mischief. “Let’s get something straight. I’m not guaranteeing the gold is where your man thinks it is. It might be, or then again, it might not. What I’m saying is, the bold Cillian has no doubt it’s there.”
“His granny was a Feeney, sure,” Senan points out. “The Feeneys’d believe anything.”
“Ah, now, hang on,” says Bobby, offended.
“Sure, you believe there’s UFOs up the mountains—”
“I don’t believe in them. I seen them. D’you believe in your sheep?”
“I believe in the prices they fetch. When you bring an alien into the mart and get six quid a kilo for it, then I’ll—”
“Hold your whisht, the pair of ye,” says Francie. “Maybe the bold Cillian has no doubts, but I have. He’ll paddle about in the river and find fuck-all, and then he’ll go off home to cry into his pint of porter. And that’ll be the end of it. What the fuck are we here for?”
All of them are looking at Johnny. “Well,” he says, with mischief lifting the corners of his mouth again. “If Mr. Rushborough wants gold, then we’ll have to make sure he finds gold.”
There’s a silence. Trey finds herself unsurprised. She resents this: it makes her feel too much her father’s daughter. Cal’s Alyssa, whom Trey has come to like, would have been at least a little shocked to hear this out of nowhere.
After a moment of stillness, the men move again. Sonny reaches for the whiskey bottle; Dessie stubs out his cigarette and rummages for a new one. Mart is leaning back in the armchair with a rollie in one hand and a glass in the other, enjoying himself. They wait, before coming out with anything at all, for Johnny to say more.
“I know the spot in the river where he wants to do his panning,” Johnny says. “He’s dying to believe in this; all he needs is a sniff of it, and he’ll be off like a fuckin’ greyhound.”
“Have you got a few handfuls of gold lying around spare, have you?” Mart inquires.
“Jesus, man,” Johnny says, holding up his hands, “cool the jets. Who’s talking about handfuls? We’ll give him a wee little sprinkle of the stuff here and there, is all. Just enough to make him happy. A coupla grand’s worth, only, at today’s prices.”
“And you’ve got a coupla grand lying around spare?”
“Not any more. I’m after investing it into Rushborough’s mining company, that he’s set up to get the licenses and all. If each of ye puts in three hundred quid, that oughta do it.”
The room smells of smoke. In the smudgy yellow light, shadows shift on the men’s faces as they tilt their glasses, hitch at their waistbands, glance briefly at each other and away again.
“What do you get out of it?” Senan asks.
“I’ll get a cut of anything Rushborough finds,” Johnny says. “And twenty percent of anything he pays you. Finder’s fee.”
“So you’ll be getting a cut on each side. Whatever happens.”
“I will, yeah. Without me, ye’d be getting nothing and neither would Rushborough. And I’ve put my money where my mouth is already. I’m after investing more than the lot of ye put together; I want that back, whether there’s gold there or no. If it wasn’t that ye’re putting in a bit as well, I’d be asking fifty percent of whatever he gives you.”
“Fuck me,” Sonny says. “No wonder you won’t say where the gold is.”
“I’m the middleman,” Johnny says. “That’s what a middleman does. I’m delighted to help all of ye towards your barns and your cruises, but I’m not in this outa the goodness of my heart. I’ve a family to look after. That child over there could do with a home that’s not falling to bits, and maybe a dacent pair of shoes while she’s at it. Are you telling me to pass that up so you can put better rims on that Lamborghini?”