“Doesn’t mean he’s your guy,” Cal says, not biting. He’s not dumb enough to push Johnny on Nealon, even if he wanted to. “Blake coulda had something Johnny didn’t want you getting your hands on. Another phone, maybe.”
Nealon cocks his head at Cal, curious. “I thought Johnny had your vote.”
“I don’t have a vote,” Cal says.
“Well,” Nealon says, rocking peacefully, “even if he’s not my fella, I reckon he knows something. Maybe he saw someone while he was out wandering, or maybe Blake mentioned he was meeting someone, or had words with someone. Johnny’s being smooth with me—saw nothing, heard nothing—but he’s keeping something back, all right. I’ll get him talking. He should be easy enough to shake up; he has to know he’s in my sights.”
Cal nods agreeably. Nealon has moved on. If Cal’s not interested in being a mole, and not fazed by being a suspect, he can still come in useful. Nealon is handing him the scraps of bait that he wants scattered around the townland, to get those cages rattling. He wants it out there that he’ll be able to match Rushborough to a crime scene or a dump vehicle, that he’s tracking phones, that Johnny knows something, and that he’s going to spill it.
“Johnny likes talking,” he says. “Good luck.”
“I’ll take that. Well,” Nealon says, slapping his leg, “I’m not getting paid to sit here enjoying myself. Time to go ruffle some feathers.” He drains his glass and stands up. “I’ll need you and the young one to come into the station and sign your statements. At your own convenience, o’ course.”
“Sure,” Cal says. “I’ll find out when she’s free over the next coupla days, get her in there.”
“Make sure she knows,” Nealon says. “Once it’s in writing, it’s a different ball game. No going back.”
“She’s no dummy,” Cal says.
“I got that, yeah.” Nealon tugs his shirt straight over his belly. “If she was lying,” he says. “To shield her da, say. Or whoever else. What would you do about it?”
“Jeez, man,” Cal says, grinning at him like it’s a big joke. “Do I need to get a lawyer down here?”
“That depends,” Nealon says, just like Cal has said it a thousand times, grinning right back. “Is there a reason you’d need one?”
“I’m American, man,” Cal says, holding the grin. “It’s our national motto. When in doubt, lawyer up.”
“Thanks for the beer,” Nealon says. He swings his jacket over his arm and stands looking at Cal. “I’d bet a few bob that you were a good detective,” he says. “I’d’ve liked to have had the pleasure of working with you.”
“Likewise,” Cal says.
“We might still get the chance, one way or another. You never know your luck.” Nealon squints out into the field at Rip, who’s zigzagged himself dizzy and is staggering in circles, still jumping for the swallows. “Look at that,” he says. “Persistence. He’ll get one yet.”
—
“Tell me, Sunny Jim,” Mart says the next day, when he shows up at Cal’s door with a lettuce to repay Cal for the carrots—Mart has never shown any inclination to repay Cal for anything before. “What did the sheriff want with you?”
“He wanted to stir shit,” Cal says. He’s had it with dancing around things. The level of subtlety around here is pretty near bringing him out in hives, and if he’s a foreigner, he has every right to act foreign. “And he wanted me to help him. I’m not planning to oblige.”
“He’ll do grand without you,” Mart informs him. “He’s stirring plenty of shite all by himself, not a bother on him. D’you know what he’s after doing? He spent three hours this morning badgering poor Bobby Feeney. That’s dirty, so ’tis. Dirty warfare. ’Tis one thing going after the likes of me, that can enjoy a bitta give-and-take; ’tis another leaving a great soft eejit like Bobby practically in tears, thinking he’s about to be arrested for murder and no one to look after the mammy.”
“The guy’s doing his job,” Cal says. “He’s gonna go after the weakest link.”
“Weakest link, me arse. There’s nothing wrong with Bobby, once you let him go about his business and don’t be wrecking his head. We’d take the almighty piss outa him ourselves, but that doesn’t mean the likes of this fella has the right to swan in from the Big Smoke and upset him. Senan’s bulling, so he is.”
“Senan better get used to it,” Cal says. “Nealon’s gonna keep right on hassling whoever he wants.”
“ ’Tisn’t only Senan,” Mart says. His eyes are level on Cal’s. “There’s a loada people around here that aren’t happy campers at all, at all.”
“Then they all better get used to it,” Cal says. He understands what he’s being told. Mart said no one would hold this business against Trey, but that was before there was a dead body and a detective to be reckoned with. Cal knows, better than Mart does, how inexorably and tectonically a murder investigation shifts everything in its path. “You can thank whoever went and killed Rushborough.”
“Foolish fuckin’ thing to do,” Mart says with deep disapprobation. “I can see why someone would want to bang that shitemonger over the head, mind you; I’m not faulting anyone for that. I wanted to myself. But ’twas fucking foolish to do it.”
His indignation has cooled; he stands mulling it over. “This wee caper’s after letting me down something fierce,” he informs Cal. “I was expecting a nice bitta crack to while away the summer, and now look at the state of us.”
“You said it was gonna be interesting times,” Cal reminds him.
“I didn’t bargain for this fuckin’ level of interesting. ’Tis like ordering a nice curry and getting one of them ghost pepper yokes that’d blow the head clean off you.” Mart ruminates, squinting over at the rooks, who are huddled in their oak tree bitching raucously about the heat. “And apparently the man still isn’t stirring enough shite for his own liking,” he says, “if he’s trying to get you on board. What does that mean, now, Sunny Jim? Would it mean his investigation’s going nowhere? Or would it mean he’s on a trail, and he’s looking for something to back him up?”
“I got no fucking idea what it means,” Cal says. “Mostly I’ve only got half an idea what any of you guys mean, and I’m too worn out from getting that far to have any brainpower left over for this guy.”
Mart giggles like he thinks Cal’s kidding. “Tell me this much, anyhow,” he says. “The sheriff doesn’t seem like the kind that gives up easy. If he gets nowhere, I wouldn’t bank on him scuttling back to Dublin with his tail between his legs. Am I right or am I right?”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Cal says. “Not till he gets what he’s after.”
“Well,” Mart says, smiling at Cal, “we’ll have to give the poor man a hand, so. We can’t have him cluttering up the place forever, upsetting the weak links left and right.”
“I’m not giving anybody a hand with anything,” Cal says. “I’m out.”
“We’d all like to be that, Sunny Jim,” Mart says. “Enjoy the lettuce. I do mix up a bitta mustard and vinegar and shake it all about, but that’s not to everyone’s taste.”
—
Johnny runs out of smokes and sends Trey down to Noreen’s for more. This time she doesn’t argue. Maeve exaggerates, and she’d say anything she thinks their dad wants to hear. Trey wants to test the feel of the village for herself.
From outside the shop she can already hear Long John Sharkey’s voice, raised and belligerent: “…in my own fuckin’ house…” When she pushes the door open, he’s at the counter with Noreen and Mrs. Cunniffe, hunched close. At the ding of the bell, all three of them turn.