The Hunter

“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.”