The hunter, p.9
The Hunter, page 9
“I know, yeah. He thought we’d be in a thatched cottage.”
“My land’s not a tourist attraction,” Senan says. He has his feet planted wide apart and his arms folded. “I’m not having some gobshite trampling all over it, frightening my ewes, just because his granny sang him ‘Galway Bay.’ ”
“He wouldn’t be trampling all over your land,” Johnny says. “Not to start with, anyway. He wants to start off panning in the river; easier than digging. If he finds gold in that river, even a small little biteen, he’ll be delighted to pay each and every one of ye a lovely chunk of cash for the opportunity of doing some digging on your land.”
That gets a brief, vivid silence. Con glances at Sonny. Bobby’s mouth is wide open.
“How much digging?” Senan asks.
“Samples, he’d want, first off. Just stick a wee tube down into the soil and see what it brings up. That’s all.”
“How much cash?” asks Sonny.
Johnny turns up his palms. “That’s up to yourselves, sure. Whatever you can negotiate with him. A grand each, easy. Maybe two, depending on what mood he’s in.”
“For the samples, only.”
“Ah, God, yeah. If he finds what he’s after, it’ll be a lot more than that.”
Trey has been so focused on her dad, she hadn’t thought about the fact that these men would be making money from his plan. The surge of helpless rage burns in her throat. Even if he knew about Brendan, Johnny would be grand with filling up Ardnakelty’s pockets, as long as he got what he wanted. Trey isn’t. As far as she’s concerned, all of Ardnakelty can fuck itself to eternity and beyond. She would rather pull out her own fingernails with pliers than do anyone here a favor.
“If there’s gold there…” says Con McHugh. He’s the youngest of the men, a big lad with rumpled dark hair and a handsome, open face. “My God, lads. Imagine that.”
“Ah, it’s there,” Johnny says, as easily as if he was talking about milk in the fridge. “My young one over there, she learned all about it in school. Didn’t you, sweetheart?”
It takes Trey a second to realize he means her. She forgot he knew she was there. “Yeah,” she says.
“What did Teacher say about it?”
All the men’s faces have turned towards Trey. She thinks about saying the teacher told them the gold was round the other side of the mountains, or that it was all dug up a thousand years back. Her dad would beat her afterwards, if he could catch her, but she doesn’t consider that worth factoring into her decision. Even if she said it, though, the men might not be swayed by what some teacher from Wicklow thought. Her dad is a good talker; he might still talk them round. And she would have wasted her chance.
“He said there’s gold at the bottom of the mountain,” she says. “And people usedta dig it up and make things out of it. Jewelry. It’s in the museums in Dublin now.”
“I saw a program about that on the telly,” says Con, leaning forward. “Brooches the size of your hand, and big twisty necklaces. Beautiful, so they were. The shine offa them.”
“You’d look only gorgeous in one of them,” Senan tells him.
“He wants them for Aileen,” Sonny says. “Great big lad like him fits in her pocket—”
“How’d you get out tonight, hah, Con?”
“She thinks he’s off getting her flowers.”
“He went out the back window.”
“She’s got one of them GPS trackers on him. She’ll be banging on the door any minute.”
“Get in behind the sofa there, Con, we’ll say we never saw you—”
They’re not just having the crack. Each of them, even Con reddening and telling the rest to fuck off, has one eye sliding to Johnny. They’re making time, to assess what they think of him and his story and his idea.
While they’re doing it, Trey’s dad gives her a tiny approving nod. She gives him a blank look back.
“I’m only saying,” Con says, when he’s shaken free of the slagging and the other men have settled back, grinning, into their seats. “I wouldn’t say no to a shovelful or two of that stuff.”
“Would any of ye?” Johnny asks.
Trey watches them picture it. They look younger when they do, like they could move faster. Their hands have gone still, letting their cigarettes burn away.
“You’d have to keep a bit,” Con says. His voice has a dreamy hush. “A wee bit, only. For a souvenir, like.”
“Fuck that,” Senan says. “I’d have a Caribbean cruise for my souvenir. And a nanny to mind the kids on board, so the missus and meself could drink cocktails outa coconuts in peace.”
“California,” Bobby says. “That’s where I’d go. You can go round all the film studios, and have your dinner at restaurants where your woman Scarlett Johansson does be sitting at the next table—”
“Your mammy wouldn’t have any of that,” Senan tells him. “She’ll want to go to Lourdes, or Medjugorje.”
“We’ll do the lot,” Bobby says. His color is up. “Feck it, why not? My mammy’s eighty-one, how many more chances will she have?”
“And this drought can go and shite,” Sonny says, on a rising burst of exuberance. “Bring it on, hah? If there’s no grass and no hay, I’ll buy in the best feed, and my cattle can eat like lords all year round. In a brand-new barn.”
“Jesus, will you listen to this fella,” Mart says. “Have you no sense of romance, boyo? Get yourself an aul’ Lamborghini, and a Russian supermodel to ride in it with you.”
“A barn’ll last longer. A Lamborghini’d be bolloxed in a year, on these roads.”
“So would a Russian supermodel,” says Dessie, snickering.
“The Lamborghini’s for your road trip across America,” Mart explains. “Or Brazil, or Nepal, or wherever puts a glint in your eye. I wouldn’t say the roads in Nepal are much better than ours, mind you.”
Johnny is laughing, topping up Bobby’s whiskey, but Trey catches his watchful eye on Mart. He’s trying to figure out whether the encouragement is sincere, or whether Mart is playing at something. Obviously he remembers this much, at least: Mart Lavin is always playing at something.
He remembers Francie, too. Francie is saying nothing, but Johnny leaves him to it without so much as a glance. Francie doesn’t like being nudged, even a little.
Trey adjusts her thoughts on her father. With her, he’s so ham-fisted he doesn’t even realize it, but with other people he’s deft. Scuppering his plan is likely to be harder than she thought. Trey has little practice trying to be deft with anyone.
“I’d have the finest ram in this country,” P.J. says with decision. “I’d have that young fella from the Netherlands that went for four hundred grand.”
“Sure, you’d have no need to wear yourself out raising sheep any more,” Mart tells him. “You could just sit back and watch the gold pop up outa your land. With a butler bringing you food on toothpicks.”
“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?”
“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.”
