The Hunter

“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.”

—