The Hunter

“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.”

“And maybe I’ll shite diamonds. What happens if he doesn’t?”

“Grand, so,” Johnny says, with a sigh. “Let’s say, only because you’re never happy unless you’re miserable, let’s say there’s not a speck of gold anywhere in this county. Rushborough’ll make himself a fine tie pin, with a harp and a shamrock on it, outa the bit we put in the river. He’ll reckon the rest is stuck under this mountain somewhere, too deep for him to get at. And he’ll go off back to England to show off his bitta heritage to his pals, and tell them all about his adventures on the old sod. He’ll be only delighted with himself. And ye’ll all be a grand or two richer, and so will I. That’s the worst-case scenario. Is that so terrible that you’re going to sit there all night with a puss on you?”