Chapter Thirteen #3
“This is a small country you’re in, sunshine,” Mart says gently.
“Dublin feels awful far away sometimes, but a man down here can pull a string up there, no problem, if he’s got the string ready in place.
Tommy’s donated plenty to Dickie O’Shea, and whatever he’s concocting, I’d bet my life Dickie’s got in on the ground floor.
Let’s say you convinced some detective to go sniffing around Tommy, on nothing but bitsa suspicion.
Tommy’d hear all about it, from his pocket policemen.
Then Tommy has a word with Dickie, Dickie has a word with one of the high-ups in the party, the high-up has a word with a high-up in the Guards, and next thing you know… ”
He mimes blowing the whole thing off his hand into the air, like a piece of thistledown.
“Gone,” he says. When he sees Cal’s face: “I’m not saying Tommy couldn’t get in hassle, if he done anything on Rachel.
He might, or then again he might not. But there’d haveta be some solid proof, before we’d have a chance in hell; something that couldn’t be brushed off as just locals getting themselves in a tizzy.
And the aul’ solid proof’s a wee bit thin on the ground. ”
He smiles at Cal, all his wrinkles creasing up. “No: we’re better off leaving the Guards outa this. We mostly are, sure. I can’t remember the last time bringing the Guards on board improved matters.”
“OK,” Cal says. “OK. So what do we do?” He doesn’t notice the we until he catches the flicker of a grin on Mart’s face.
“You do nothing,” Mart says, “and say nothing. I know that’s not your style, but don’t be worrying: ’twon’t be for long.”
“If you want me to wait around,” Cal says, “Tommy needs to lay off Lena. And Trey. Starting now.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Mart says. “But we might as well be honest with ourselves, man: things could get worse before they get better.”
“No,” Cal says.
Mart watches him. This time Cal recognizes the patience in his eyes: the underdog’s patience, made endless by necessity. “If you go rogue,” he says, “you’ll only do more harm than good. You know that as well as I do, or you wouldn’t be here. Stick to the plan.”
Cal says, “What is the plan?”
He doesn’t expect an answer—Mart’s core protocol is never to tell anyone anything unless he has no choice—he’s just registering his opinion that he has a right to be kept up to speed. To his surprise, Mart cocks his head to one side, considering him.
“Tell me something, Jean-Claude,” he says. “If Tommy hadda had the good sense to leave you and your family alone, would you have brought this to me anyhow?”
Cal feels the weight of the question land on him. It seems like a long time ago that Mart warned him about crossroadses, and they just keep on coming.
“Yeah,” he says.
“And let’s say we’da needed a hand from you to deal with it. Would you have been on board?”
Cal says, “Yeah.”
Mart nods for a long time. “I thought that, all right,” he says. “Well: we’ve a few angles at our disposal, boyo. I’d say we’ll start with the direct route. Sure, you know I’ve always been the straightforward type.”
“What’s the direct route?” Cal asks. He can’t imagine what Mart’s definition of the term would look like. He isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone around here, except Trey and Lena, go at anything direct.
“I’ll spread the word to the right people,” Mart says, “build up a bitta momentum, and half the townland can explain to Tommy that if he keeps on going with this loada shite, he’d wanta have his holiday home abroad bought and paid for, because Ardnakelty won’t be an option for him.
Clodagh wouldn’t like that,” he adds, parenthetically.
“She’s awful fond of being the queen of the canapés around here; I wouldn’t say she’d fancy starting over from scratch, even in Puerto Banús. ”
Cal says, “Explain to him.”
“We’ll use small words,” Mart says. “That fella’s not as bright as he thinks. The direct route might do the do, and it’ll be great if it does, but I’m not getting my hopes up too far. If that doesn’t work out for us, then we’ll haveta get a wee bit more subtle about it all.”
“What kinda subtle?” Cal asks.
“God almighty, cool the jets there, Speedy Gonzales,” Mart says, giving him a reproachful stare. “You’re only after dropping the bombshell on me five minutes ago. I haven’t had time to consider our options in detail.”
When Cal keeps looking at him, he sighs and rubs his fluff of gray hair to help himself think it over.
“Offa the top of my head,” he says, “something might come out about Eugene—maybe Rachel stumbled on the stuff he was looking up on the internet, and that’s what sent her into the river. That oughta keep him off the council.”
“I was talking to Sheila Reddy,” Cal says. He has that feeling again, like he’s back on the job working out a case strategy with a partner, only upside down and backwards in some bizarre mirror. “Tommy gives her any more trouble, she’s gonna spread it around that Eugene was beating Rachel.”
Mart considers this, intrigued. “That’s not bad,” he says. “There could be mileage in that.”
Cal says, “This is gonna get messy.”
“Oh, God, it is,” Mart agrees. “Wear your wellies for this one, boyo.”
“If you hassle Tommy, he’s gonna whip up some momentum of his own.”
“He’ll do that, all right,” Mart says. “And we can all have a good look at whose momentum is bigger. I’m betting on mine, but sure, doesn’t every man?” He gives Cal a sharp glance. “Are you getting cold feet on me, Sunny Jim?”
“Nope,” Cal says. “Just want to be sure we’re all clear on where this is headed.”
“Sunshine,” Mart says dryly. “I been living here since before your daddy had his first impure thought about your mammy. I’m clear as crystal. If there was a nice civilized way to get this done over a cuppa tea and a biscuit, I’d be only delighted, but there isn’t.”
Cal says, “And you figure your way can do it.”
Mart looks at him. He says, “Tommy shoulda known better.”
Behind him the low layer of mist shifts over the fields, so they look like they’re slowly twisting, pulled by unknown gravities.
Cal feels in the back of his neck the two kinds of power unfurling across them: Tommy’s, suited and badged, sleek with money and assurance and legal phrases; this other thing, rising up wordless and bare of any outside weaponry, smelling of earth and blood.
“Man,” he says, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“We’ll find out soon enough, sure,” Mart says. “Till then, you’ll just have to trust me. Can you manage that?”
“I don’t have much choice,” Cal says.
“Ah, that’s lovely, so ’tis,” Mart says, smiling up at him. “I’m honored. For now, anyhow, all you have to trust me to do is have the chats with the right people. Is that fair enough?”
Cal says, “I’d rather you didn’t put it around that this came from Lena.”
“I’m not planning to, Jean-Claude,” Mart says gently. “I’ve no wish to drop your missus in the shite. And above and beyond that, the pair of us know Lena’s as reliable a source as you could wish for, but not everyone does.”
“Right,” Cal says. “Yeah.”
“I’ll say it came from Dymphna Duggan, is all.
Even His Lordship knows better than to go up against that one.
But before I get stuck into that nonsense,” Mart adds, on a different note, “I’m going to seal up them eaves tighter than a duck’s arse, and see what that Raffles fucker makes of that.
” He holds out a hand for his backup frying pan.
“D’you know what you oughta do? You oughta train them rooks of yours to hunt squirrels. They might as well come in—”
Midway through turning back towards his front door, he freezes like a pointer dog, his whole body aimed at an oak tree in the corner of the yard. A gray squirrel is spreadeagled halfway down the trunk, head lifted to stare at them.
“Wouldja look at that, Sunny Jim,” Mart says, barely moving his lips. “He’s been watching us this whole time. I shoulda brought my rifle.”
He takes one slow-motion step towards the tree. The squirrel cocks its head and lets out a sharp, insulting chatter.
“Get ta fuck!” Mart roars, brandishing the frying pans. His voice spreads like a shock wave over the silent fields. The squirrel turns and whisks up the tree trunk to disappear among the branches, waving his tail at them all the way like a big furry middle finger.