“Huh,” Cal says. “You know what, I had a feeling it was gonna be something along those lines. Maybe I’m psychic.”
“Sure, you’re a man of experience,” Johnny explains. “A man that’s seen as much of the world as you have, he can spot when another man’s taken against him. It happens sometimes, no rhyme nor reason to it. But you see where that leaves us, don’t you? If you were to stay on board with this, Rushborough’d only keep getting edgier, till in the end he’d decide, Ah, here, I’m not enjoying myself any more. And off he’d go, back to London. So…” He gives Cal a regretful look. “I’ll need you to step back outa this, Mr. Hooper. You won’t be leaving empty-handed, now, don’t be worrying about that; myself and the lads, we’ll make up your share outa what we get. ’Tis fierce unfair, I know that, but we’ve a delicate situation on our hands, and ’tis this or lose the man altogether.”
“Yeah,” Cal says. “Like I said, no surprises there. Now it’s my turn. Run whatever con you want, I don’t give a shit. Like you said, I’m not from around here. But you don’t get to bring Trey into it. She has to live here, once you and Whatshisname are done and gone.”
He watches Johnny think about going into outraged-daddy mode, and then think better of it. He goes for baffled innocent instead. “Man,” he says, spreading his hands, injured, “I didn’t bring her into anything. Maybe I shoulda checked that she wasn’t listening in, but how was I supposed to know she’d go digging? And where’s the harm in it, anyhow? There’s plenty there for everyone, no need to grudge the child her bitta fun—”
“Johnny,” Cal says, “I’m not in the mood. You gave the kid that piece of gold. There’s nothing to find.”
“Ah, God,” Johnny says, rolling his eyes in exasperation, “there’s always one. The feckin’ pessimist. Debbie Downer, isn’t that what you Yanks call it? Here, I’ll tell you what we’ll do: I’ll give you back your few quid, so you won’t need to be worrying about what’s out there, and you can jog on. That way we’re all happy.”
“Nope,” Cal says. “You’re done here. Pack your stuff, pack your Brit, and get out.”
Johnny rears back in the moonlight, eyebrows going up. “Ah, here. Are you joking me? You’re trying to order me outa my own home place? You’ve got some brass neck on you, Hooper.”
“I’ll give you two days,” Cal says. “That oughta be long enough for you to come up with a story that’ll keep the kid clear.”
Johnny laughs at him. “Jesus, man, who d’you think you are? Vito Corleone? You’re not in the States now; that’s not how we do things round here. Relax on the fuckin’ jacks. Get yourself some popcorn, sit back, and enjoy the show. It’ll all be grand. Rushborough’ll go away happy, whatever we find or don’t find—”
“Johnny,” Cal says. “I’m trying real hard to be patient here, but you need to cut the bullshit. You’re not running a con on Rushborough; you and him are running it on the guys. The more cash you scam out of them, the more flak the kid’ll take when the shit hits the fan. You’re done.”
Johnny looks at him with no expression at all. Then he lets out a short, meaningless laugh. He sticks his hands in his pockets and turns to scan the long slow curves of the mountains against the stars, giving himself time to pick his new tack. When he turns back to Cal, his tone has lost its lilting charm, turned crisp and businesslike.
“Or what, man? Quit throwing shapes and look at it straight for a minute. Or what? You’ll go to the Guards and tell them you and the lads are trying to run a scam on some poor tourist, only it’s not working out for ye? Or you’ll go to the lads and tell them they’re the ones getting conned? Here’s you making out you care so much about Theresa: how d’you reckon that’ll pan out for her?”
“There’s no ‘or,’ ” Cal says. He wants his gun. He wants to shoot the balls right off this little shitweasel for fathering the kid, when she deserves so much better. “You got till Sunday night.”
Johnny looks at him for a minute and sighs. “Man,” he says, in a new, simpler voice, “if I could, I would. Believe me. D’you think I wanta be here? I’d be gone in a second, if I’d the choice.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, he doesn’t sound like he’s trying to bullshit Cal. He sounds tired and powerless. When he brushes his hair out of his eye, screwing up his face and catching a sudden breath like a kid, he looks like he wants to lie down right there on the path and sleep.
“There’s four buses a day,” Cal says. “Right up on the main road. Pick one.”
Johnny shakes his head. He says, “I owe money.”
“That’s your problem. Not the kid’s.”
“She wanted to help. I never twisted her arm.”
“You shoulda said no.”
Johnny looks up at Cal. “I owe your man Rushborough,” he says. His voice is so sodden with defeat and fear that it weighs down the night air. “And he’s not someone you wanta fuck around with.”
“Great. Him and me got something in common after all.”
Johnny shakes his head again. “Nah, man,” he says. “Talk tough all you want. I seen that fella hold a wee girl down and slice lines in her arm with a razor—a child, like, no bigger than my Alanna—till her daddy paid up.”
Cal says, no louder, “So you brought him here.”
Johnny gives a shrug, wry and appealingly ruefuclass="underline" Gee, man, what do you want from me, a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. Cal, at long last, punches him right in the mouth.
Johnny never saw it coming and he goes down hard, hitting the verge with a thud and a crunch of undergrowth. But he recovers fast, and by the time Cal comes after him he’s got a foot up, aiming for Cal’s stomach. He misses and gets Cal in the thigh, and Cal falls on him, full weight, hearing the breath retch out of him. Things turn messy then, crowded with grunts and elbows. Johnny is a better fighter than Cal expected. He fights desperate and dirty, jabbing for the eyes and scrabbling for fishhooks. Cal welcomes it. He doesn’t want a clean fight, not with this guy.
Johnny is rolling them over and over among the rocks and brambles, trying not to let Cal get a solid purchase where his weight will tell, pressing close so Cal can’t get the reach for a decent punch. He smells of shitty fake-fancy aftershave. Cal sees flashes of his bared teeth, the heather, the stars. It streaks across his mind that if they roll too far and land in a bog, the mountain will take them and no one will ever know.
He gets Johnny by his pretty haircut and mashes his face into the dirt, but Johnny finds Cal’s ear, tries to rip it off, and twists away quick as a fox when Cal jerks backwards. Cal lunges after him, on hands and knees, blinded by the crisscross of moonlight and shadow, following Johnny’s scrabbles and the painful whine of his breath. He grabs a limb and drags Johnny back towards him, punching at anything he can reach, taking a vicious heel to the forehead. Neither of them yells out. Cal has never been in a fight this close to silent. If anyone or anything else is out on the mountain, neither of them wants to draw its notice.
He tries to get hold of Johnny’s arms, takes a thumb to the eyeball and sees a bright burst of stars, but the fresh shot of rage lets him force a knee up between their bodies and slam Johnny in the balls. While Johnny is curled up wheezing, Cal straddles him and lands one more punch to his nose, just to put a dent in his good looks, save a girl or two from falling for his wheedles. He forces himself to stop there. He wants to keep hammering the guy’s face till there’s nothing left of it, but he needs Johnny to hear what he has to say.
Johnny gets his breath back and tries to heave himself free, but Cal is a lot bigger than him. When Johnny goes for his eye, Cal catches his wrist and bends it backwards till Johnny yelps.