The Hunter

“Not only us,” Mart says. “He handed over our parents and our grandparents and all. Fed Paddy Englishman fulla their stories, fattened him up on those till he could talk like he had genuine Grade-A Ardnakelty blood, and then let him loose here. He did a good job, did wee Johnny; I’ll say that for him. Once your man gave us a round of ‘Black Velvet Band,’ I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.”

“Your man knew about my great-granddad falling down the well,” Francie says. “That story was none of his fuckin’ business. The man nearly died; the whole townland worked their arses off, getting him out. They didn’t do it for some fuckin’ English gombeen in poncey shoes to try and con me outa what’s mine.”

“I’ll tell you what else of ours Johnny sold to Rushborough,” Mart says to Cal. “He sold him our bad luck. It’s been a hard year for us, boyo, and getting harder every day without rain. Other years, we mighta laughed in Paddy Englishman’s face, but this summer we were ripe and ready for any flimflam merchant that’d offer us some hope to think about when we were low. Johnny knew that, and he handed it over.”

The men are still shifting, slow and heavy, turning their necks and rolling their shoulders like men readying for a fight.

“D’ye know the word ‘outlaw’?” Mart asks the table in general. “D’ye know where that comes from? Back in the day, a man that done the dirt on his people was put outside the law. If you could catch him, you could do whatever you chose to him. You could tie him up hand and foot and hand him over to the authorities, if you wanted. Or you could beat the shite outa him, or hang him from a tree. The law didn’t protect him any more.”

“You’re the law,” Francie says to Cal. “Would you be in favor of that? It’d be awful convenient. Some wee shitehawk, that you probably didn’t like anyhow, wouldn’t be your responsibility any more.”

“He wouldn’t be my responsibility anyway,” Cal says. “I’m no kinda law around here.”

“Exactly,” Mart says to Francie. “Isn’t that what I’m after telling you? Shut your trap and listen to me, and you might learn something by accident. The only sensible thing an outlaw could do was leg it. Head for the hills, get himself a safe distance away, and start over somewhere no one knew him. And I’d say Johnny’s been giving that option plenty of consideration, the last coupla days.”

“I’d be giving it more than consideration,” Malachy says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a sweet smile, “if I was in his shoes. I’d run like a rabbit. Johnny must be a braver man than I am.”

“Ah, not braver,” Mart says, waving a finger at him. “Wiser, maybe. Tell us, Sunny Jim: let’s say the bold Johnny ran. What would Detective Nealon make of that?”

“I only met the guy one time,” Cal says. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Don’t be acting the maggot,” Mart says. “You know what I’m getting at. If that was you investigating, you’d think Johnny legged it because ’twas him that kilt Paddy Englishman. Amn’t I right?”

“I’d wonder,” Cal says.

“And you’d go looking for him. Not just yourself; you’d have people watching out for him, here and over the water. Red flags on his name on the aul’ computers.”

“I’d want to find him,” Cal says.

“Johnny knows that,” Mart says. “That’s why he’s still hanging about. He’s keeping the head down, he’s not strolling into Noreen’s to sprinkle his charm over any poor soul that happens to stop in, but he’s there.” He nods to the window. Outside, the light is fading; it puddles sullenly in the stained glass. Cal thinks of Johnny, trapped and humming with tension somewhere on the darkening mountainside, and of Trey methodically going about the business she’s set in motion.

“And he’ll keep hanging about,” Mart says, “being a blot on the landscape, till one of three things happens.” He holds up a finger. “Nealon hauls him away in handcuffs. And then he’ll sing like a wee birdie.” A second finger. “Or Johnny gets frightened enough—of Nealon, or of someone else—that he makes a run for it.” A third. “Or else Nealon hauls someone else away, and Johnny feels safe to jog on.”

“If Nealon went after him hard,” Francie says, “he’d jog on all right.”

“Life’s a balance, Sunny Jim,” Mart says, to Cal. “We’re always weighing up the things we’re most afraid of, and seeing which one weighs heaviest. That’s what Johnny Reddy’s doing this minute. I’d like to see his personal balance tilt the right way. Wouldn’t you?”

Cal can think of few things he would like better than setting Nealon on Johnny’s trail. He has no doubt that the guys have an excellent strategy all ready to roll, and that having him on board would help it go down smoothly with Nealon. He finds he doesn’t give a shit about the prospect of lying to a detective, as long as it would get rid of that little asswipe Johnny once and for all, shut down this Rushborough business before it gets out of control, and whip Trey’s plan out of her hands before it can detonate.