“But this fella knows about that fairy mound, and putting cream by it. He knows about the time Francie’s great-granddad fell down the well and it took two days to get him back up. He knows the Fallon women had a name for being the finest knitters in this county. And didja hear when he sang ‘Black Velvet Band’? I never heard anyone but Ardnakelty people sing ‘A guinea she took from his pocket.’ Everyone else has the girl robbing a watch. His people came from around here, all right.”
“Maybe,” Cal says. “But he still doesn’t strike me as the type to go misty-eyed when someone sings ‘The Wearing of the Green.’ ”
“That article there,” Mart says, eyeing Rushborough over his glass, “doesn’t strike me as the type that’s ever gone misty-eyed over anything in his life.”
“So what’s he here for?”
Mart’s bright glance swivels to Cal. “A coupla year back, people were asking the same about you, Sunny Jim. A few of them still do.”
“I’m here because I landed here,” Cal says, refusing to bite on that. “This guy’s come looking.”
Mart shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t give a shite about the heritage; ’tis gold he wants, pure and simple. And he thinks it’ll be easier to slip a quare deal past us if we take him for a sap that’d be happy with a handful of shamrock.”
“If that guy believes there’s gold out there,” Cal says, “he’s got more to go on than some story his granny told him.”
“I’ll tell you this much, anyway,” Mart says. “Johnny believes it’s there. He wouldn’t go to all this trouble, dragging himself away from the bright lights and the film stars back to an inferior environment like this, just for the grand or two he’ll get if there’s nothing in them fields.”
“You figure he knows something we don’t?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. Maybe he’s saving it up for the right moment, or maybe ’tis something he’s planning on keeping to himself. But I’d say he knows something.”
“Then why’s he fucking around salting the river?”
“Now that,” Mart says, “I don’t know. Maybe he’s only aiming to be sure, to be sure. But I’ll tell you what’s occurred to me, Sunny Jim. Anyone that gives Johnny that bitta cash is in deep. Psychologically, like. Once you’ve sunk a few hundred quid into this, you won’t back out; you’ll let Paddy Englishman take whatever samples he wants, and dig up any field he chooses. Getting the lads to salt that river might be Johnny’s wee bitta insurance, against anyone changing his mind.”
It occurs to Cal that the insurance won’t just be psychological. Like Mart figured, salting the river is probably some kind of fraud. Anyone who gives Johnny that money will be giving him something he can hold over their heads, or at least try to.
Trying to hold anything over these guys’ heads would not be a smart move. Johnny ought to know that, but Cal reached the conclusion, well before he met Johnny, that the guy is careful not to know anything that might make him uncomfortable.
“So you’re out, huh?” he says.
“Ah, God, no,” Mart says, shocked. “Sure, I’d be going in forewarned; my psychology wouldn’t be running wild on me. I wouldn’t stay in one minute longer than I wanted to. To be honest with you, if the rest of them shams decide they’re on for it, I might haveta join in just outa the kindness of my heart. They’ll make a pig’s arse outa the whole operation if I’m not there to advise them.” He eyes the group in the alcove with tolerant scorn. “They wouldn’t have a baldy notion where the gold oughta lie in the river; they’ll throw it in wherever takes their fancy. And I’d bet my life they’ll just sprinkle in the dust as it is, the way half of it’ll be washed downstream before it can sink to the bottom, and we’ll never see it again. What they oughta do is roll the dust into little pellets of mud, the way it’ll go straight to the bottom, and then the mud’ll dissolve away and leave it ready for your man to find.”
“Sounds to me like you’re in,” Cal says.
“I hate a botched job,” Mart says. He cocks his head at Cal. “How about you, Sunny Jim, now you’ve had a look at His Lordship? Are you in or out?”
“I’m here,” Cal says. “That’s all I am, right now.” The sense of being in cahoots with Mart doesn’t sit well with him. “So,” he says, “the fairy mound’s real, huh?”
Mart flicks him a grin that says he knows what’s in Cal’s head and is enjoying it. “ ’Tis there, anyhow. And Mossie does plow around it, but that could just be outa laziness: his daddy and his granddaddy did it, so he hasn’t the initiative to do anything different. Beyond that, I’m making no guarantees. You’re welcome to go down there and look for the fairies any night you like. Tell Mossie I sent you.”
“And make sure I have a few shots of poteen first,” Cal says. “To shorten my odds.”
Mart laughs and claps him on the shoulder, and turns to nod to a stout guy leaning on the bar. “How’s she cuttin’?”
“Not a bother,” says the guy. “Your man’s having a grand aul’ night, anyhow.” He nods at Rushborough.
“Sure, who wouldn’t, in a fine establishment like this,” Mart says. “ ’Tis a while since I saw you in here yourself.”
“Ah, I’d be in every now and again,” the guy says. He takes his pint from Barty. “I’ve been thinking of selling a few acres,” he mentions. “That field down near the river.”
“I’m not in the market,” Mart says. “You could try Mr. Hooper here. He could do with something to keep him occupied.”
“I’m not offering. I’m only saying. If there was gold on it, or even if your man went looking for gold on it, I could triple the price.”
“Out you go with a spade, then,” Mart says, smiling at him, “and start digging.”
The guy’s jowls set mulishly. “Maybe your man’s granny said there was gold on your land, but she never said there was none anywhere else. Johnny Reddy can’t be keeping this to himself and his pals.”
“I’m no pal of Johnny Reddy’s, bucko,” Mart says. “But I’ll say this for the man: he’s wise to start small. Let you bide your time, and see what way the wind blows.”
The guy grunts, still dissatisfied. His eyes are on the alcove, where Dessie is putting plenty of bawdy winks into a song about a guy coming home drunk and finding various unexpected items in his house, and Rushborough is laughing. “See you again,” he says, picking up his glass and giving Mart a brief nod. “I’ll be back in soon enough.”
“D’you know what Johnny Reddy’s real failing is?” Mart asks, considering the guy’s back as he wades through the crowd towards his table. “He doesn’t think things through. It wouldn’t take a psychic to predict that fella, and plenty of others like him, but I’d put money on it that he never once occurred to Johnny.”
“That guy doesn’t look like a happy camper,” Cal says.
“I did consider sending him in to have the chats with Mr. Rushborough,” Mart says, “just to watch what wee Johnny made of that. But that fella has no subtlety about him. He’d go putting a sour taste in Paddy Englishman’s mouth, and then where would we be at all?”
“Do people know?” Cal asks. And, when Mart cocks his head inquiringly: “That Johnny’s aiming to salt the river.”
Mart shrugs. “There’s no telling who’d know what, around here. I’d say there’s a dozen different stories going around this same pub, and a few dozen different ways that people wanta get in on the action. We’re in for an interesting wee while. Now come on back, before that chancer robs our seats on us.”
The night proceeds. Gradually the singing runs out of momentum; Con puts his guitar back in the corner, and Rushborough buys him and everyone else in the alcove a double whiskey. The pub has started to run out of momentum, too. The non-locals have reached the maximum level of drunkenness at which they still consider it reasonable to drive home on unfamiliar roads. The old people are getting tired and heading for their beds, and the young ones are getting bored and taking bags of cans back to each other’s houses, where they’ll have more scope. The girl in pink leaves with the potato-faced fucker’s arm around her waist.