“What’s to stop you pocketing our few grand and skedaddling off into the sunset?” Mart inquires with interest. “And leaving us with nothing to show for it but an annoyed tourist? If your man Rushwhatsit exists at all.”
Johnny stares at him. Mart looks cheerfully back. After a moment, Johnny gives a short chagrined laugh and sits back, shaking his head.
“Mart Lavin,” he says. “Is this because my daddy bet you at cards back in the last century? Are you still sore about that?”
“A card cheat’s a terrible thing,” Mart explains. “I’d rather have dealings with a murderer than a card cheat, any day. A man could become a killer by happenstance, if his day didn’t go to plan, but there’s no such thing as an accidental card cheat.”
“When I’ve a bitta free time,” Johnny says, “I’ll be happy to defend my daddy’s skill at cards. That man could read your hand from one twitch of your eyelid. But”—he aims a finger at Mart—“I’m not getting myself sucked into one of your arguments tonight. We’ve a business opportunity here, and it’s not one that’ll last forever. Are you in or are you out?”
“You’re the one that started in jibber-jabbering about your daddy and his spare aces,” Mart points out. “I’d a question. A legitimate question.”
“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Johnny says, exasperated. “Lookit: I won’t lay a finger on the cash. Ye can buy the gold yourselves—I’ll tell ye what type we’ll need, and I’ll show ye where to get it and where to sow it. D’you feel better now?”
“Oh, begod, I do,” Mart says, smiling at him. “That’s done me a power of good.”
“And ye can meet Rushborough yourselves, before ye ever put your hands in your pockets. I’m after telling him already that ye’ll want to look him over before ye let him on your land, see if ye like the cut of him. That gave him a laugh—he thinks ye’re a bunch of muck savages that don’t know how a deal’s done in the real world—but sure, that’s all to the good, amn’t I right?” Johnny smiles around the room. No one is smiling back at him. “He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. I’ll bring him down to Seán Óg’s that night, and ye can decide if he looks real enough for you.”
“Where’ll he be staying?” Mart inquires. “Here on that luxury sofa, is it? For the local atmosphere?”
Johnny laughs. “Ah, God, no. I’d say he would, if he’d no other choice. The man’s desperate to get his hands on that gold. But Sheila’s cooking wouldn’t be what he’s used to. He’s found himself a wee cottage over towards Knockfarraney—Rory Dunne’s mammy’s old place, at the foot of the mountain. They have it on Airbnb since the mammy died.”
“How long’ll he be here?”
Johnny shrugs. “That depends, sure. I’ll tell you one thing: once ye’ve had a look at him, ye can’t be hemming and hawing any longer. We’ll need to get that gold into the river. I can keep Rushborough distracted for a few days showing him the sights, but after that, he’ll want to go panning. First thing Tuesday morning, I’ll need to know who’s in and who’s out.”
“And what happens after?” Francie Gannon demands. “When he finds nothing on our land?”
“Ah, God, Francie,” Johnny says, shaking his head tolerantly, “you’re an awful pessimist, d’you know that? Maybe his granny was right all the way, and he’ll find enough to make us all millionaires. Or”—he raises a hand as Francie starts to say something—“or maybe his granny was half right: the gold goes through your land, but it never made it as far down as the river, or it’s after washing away. So when Rushborough goes panning in the river, instead of finding nothing and giving up, he’ll find our little biteen, and go digging on your land. And then he’ll find enough to make us all millionaires.”
“And maybe I’ll shite diamonds. What happens if he doesn’t?”
“Grand, so,” Johnny says, with a sigh. “Let’s say, only because you’re never happy unless you’re miserable, let’s say there’s not a speck of gold anywhere in this county. Rushborough’ll make himself a fine tie pin, with a harp and a shamrock on it, outa the bit we put in the river. He’ll reckon the rest is stuck under this mountain somewhere, too deep for him to get at. And he’ll go off back to England to show off his bitta heritage to his pals, and tell them all about his adventures on the old sod. He’ll be only delighted with himself. And ye’ll all be a grand or two richer, and so will I. That’s the worst-case scenario. Is that so terrible that you’re going to sit there all night with a puss on you?”
Trey watches the men turn this over in their minds. They watch each other as they do it, and Johnny watches them all watching. Every trace of the nervousness Trey saw in him earlier is gone. He’s spread in his chair, as easy as the king of the mountain, smiling benevolently, giving them all the time they need.
They’re not dishonest men, or anyway not what they or Trey would consider dishonest. Not one of them would ever rob so much as a packet of mints from Noreen’s, and between any of them, a spit and a handshake would be as solid as a legal contract. An Englishman wanting to reap from their land falls under different rules.
“Let’s see your man Rushborough,” Senan says. “I want a look at this fella. Then we’ll see what we’re at.”
There are nods from the other men. “That’s settled, so,” Johnny says. “I’ll bring him down to Seán Óg’s on Monday night, and ye can see what you think of him. Don’t be ripping the piss outa the poor lad, is all I ask. He’s used to highfalutin types; he wouldn’t be able for ye at all, at all.”
“Ah, musha, God love him,” Dessie says.
“We’ll be gentle,” Mart assures Johnny. “He won’t feel a thing.”
“Like fuck ye will,” Sonny says. “I wouldn’t bring that poor bastard anywhere near this shower, if I was you. D’you know what a few of them did to my Yank cousin? They told him Leanne Healy’s young one fancied him—Sarah, the good-looking one with the arse on her—”
“Mind your tongue,” Senan says to Sonny, tilting his head at Trey, but he’s started to chuckle, remembering. All of them have. The gold, by unanimous agreement, is no longer a subject for discussion. It’s a thing to be turned over in private, until Rushborough comes.
“Go on outa that, now,” Johnny says to Trey. “It’s past your bedtime.”
Johnny wouldn’t know what Trey’s bedtime was even if she had one, which she doesn’t. He’s just got no more use for her tonight, and he wants to let the men relax into conversations they won’t have with her there. She unfurls herself from her corner and picks her way between outstretched legs, saying good night politely to the men, who nod as she passes.
“Are you not going to give your daddy a hug?” Johnny asks, smiling up at her and reaching out an arm.
Trey leans over to him, puts one hand stiffly on his back, and lets him wrap his arm around her and give her a playful little shake. She holds her breath to keep out his spice-and-cigarettes smell. “Look at you,” he says, laughing up into her face and ruffling her hair. “Getting too big and dignified to hug your aul’ daddy good night.”
“Night,” Trey says, straightening up. She wants a look at Rushborough, too.
Five
Cal spends the next morning dicking around in his house, waiting for Mart to show up. He has no doubt that Mart will in fact show up, so there’s no point in getting his teeth into anything serious. Instead he does dishes and wipes various stuff that looks like it could use it, with one eye on the window.
He could dick around in his vegetable patch instead, and let Mart come talk to him there, but he wants to invite Mart in. It’s been a long time since Mart’s been in this house. This was by Cal’s choice: what happened to Brendan Reddy lies between them, cold and heavy. Cal accepted the boundaries Mart drew around it—he doesn’t ask for names, he keeps his mouth shut, he keeps Trey’s mouth shut, and everyone gets to live happy ever after—but he wasn’t going to let Mart pretend it away. But the Johnny Reddy situation—Cal is starting to think of it as a situation—means that, regardless of how little he likes it, things need to shift.