Chapter Sixteen #2
“We can’t afford subtle,” Cal says. “How long would it take us to even get a lead on who’s got what we need?
Once we do, how long is it gonna take me to convince them I’m not Tommy’s stooge, sniffing around so I can rat them out?
Even say I manage that, how do I convince them they’ll be safe talking to me, if I’m so scared of Tommy I’m sneaking around in corners dropping hints?
By the time we get even halfway there, Tommy’s gonna hear about it, and he’s gonna come down on us like a ton of bricks, before we’ve got one thing to fight back with. ”
Senan is staring down into his pint, his mouth set in a stubborn line.
Cal doesn’t know how to show him what he’s seeing, the generations’ worth of extravagantly tangled thickets that, if they try to navigate a way through, will snag them and hold them trapped for Tommy to pick off; how their only chance is to charge at the whole damn mess, full speed, and try to leap it.
“We gotta be loud,” he says. “No one’s gonna bring us squat unless we’re shooting our mouths off like we don’t give a shit. ”
“I’m bored of being subtle,” Mart says. “This’ll rattle Tommy’s cage, all right. No one’s ever returned fire on the man before; it’ll be a new experience for him. I’m interested to see how he takes it.”
Senan’s eyes are still on his glass. Francie is leaning back on the banquette and drinking, dour and unreadable. P.J., troubled, looks from one face to another.
“We tried your kind of direct,” Cal says. “Now let’s try mine.”
“Exactly,” Mart says, raising his pint in approval. “Time to mix it up a wee bit. Shock and awe, motherfuckers.”
Senan glances up again. He says, “I’ve Angela and the kids to think about. Tommy fights dirty.”
“I know that,” Cal says. “If you want to stay clear, no one’s gonna blame you. Get up like I pissed you off, call me a couple of names, walk out, don’t hang with us till this blows over. It’ll be fine.”
They look at each other, across the table.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, boyo,” Mart says.
“Watch this.” He twists around on the stool.
“Hey! Bernard! Sonny! Alla ye lickarses! The whole lot of ye oughta be ashamed of yourselves, talking shite about a widow woman who never done anything on anyone, when everyone knows ’twas Tommy Moynihan that fed Rachel Holohan the antifreeze and threw her off the bridge. ”
Every head in the pub rises and turns to Mart. He pops the last hunk of toastie in his mouth and looks back at them, chewing, unfazed. There’s a silence, while the room receives the fact that the terms of engagement have been transformed.
Bernard McHugh puts down his glass. Bernard is a square-set, quiet guy, known to be the brains of the McHugh family.
In Tommy’s plant, he’s worked his way up to be some kind of manager; he always smells clean, a marker that has meaning in this place full of farmers and meat-workers.
Cal, going mainly by the fact that Bernard keeps trying to get Trey on the GAA team he coaches, has always liked him.
“The hell are you at, man?” Bernard asks, a little reproachfully.
“That’s what I’m asking you,” Mart says, pitching his voice to keep everyone’s attention, not that they need any encouragement.
“Lena Dunne’s got her wedding to organize, to this fine specimen here; she can’t be dealing with your nonsense.
And here’s you trying to put her in jail to cover Tommy Moynihan’s fat arse.
If your mammy finds out what you’re at, she’ll take the wooden spoon to the lot of ye. ”
Bernard gets up, brushes down his pants, and comes over to the alcove. Every pair of eyes watches him all the way.
“Mart,” he says, deliberately lowering his voice to turn this into a private chat. He glances at the banquette, but no one moves to let him sit down. “I know you’ve doubts about the factory coming in. That’s only natural, sure. But this isn’t the way to go about it.”
“I haven’t a doubt in the world, man,” Mart assures him, happily and loudly. “I’m not having the council take my land off me to give to Tommy and his golf pals, when that wee hoor’s-melt should be rotting in jail for murder.”
It strikes Cal that for someone with no practice being up-front about stuff, Mart is taking to it remarkably well. As far as Cal can tell, he’s having the time of his life.
“Ah, for God’s sake,” Bernard says. “Have some decency and leave the poor girl out of it. If you’ve problems with Tommy, go talk to him. Don’t be dragging in some young one that should be left to rest in peace.”
“I’m not the one that dragged Rachel into this,” Mart says. “I hardly knew the girl. I’da been only delighted to leave her outa things, if Tommy had.”
Cal is watching the pub. The initial identical stunned looks are starting to separate themselves and take on form.
Some of the faces are puffing up with outrage at Mart’s nerve; some are avid for the coming explosion; some look just plain scared.
Others are intent, quick-eyed, absorbing the change and assessing its meaning.
Old F.X. Deery, clasping his pint in both shaky hands and turning his good ear to catch the words, looks like all his remaining Christmases just came at once.
Cal is watching the alcove, too. Senan and Francie and P.J. are less easy to read. Since Mart started shooting his mouth off, none of them have moved.
Bernard sighs, exasperated, and runs a hand over his neat hair.
“Look,” he says. “No one’s taking anyone’s land.
People have themselves worked into a state about compulsory purchases and megafarms, but that’s all shite talk.
Maybe there’ll be the odd CPO on an acre here and there, so the factory can get up and running.
That’s not the end of the world. It happened with the plant, sure, and everyone survived.
The rest is rumors. Pure fuckin’ imagination. ”
“We’re all just a buncha foolish yokels getting ourselves in a tizzy over nothing, is it?” Mart inquires. “And we oughta go back to our sheep and not worry our simple wee heads?” Somewhere across the room, there’s a low mutter of anger.
Mouth McHugh has followed Bernard over and is standing in the entrance to the alcove, thick arms folded like a bouncer, chin tucked into where his neck ought to be.
Mouth is Cal’s least favorite of the McHugh brothers.
He once told Cal that he almost went into the Guards, and Cal knows exactly what kind of cop he would have made.
“I have it straight from the horse’s mouth, man,” Bernard says.
“Our Con got himself so worked up he couldn’t sleep, thinking his farm was going to be taken off him.
In the end I said I’d go ask Tommy straight out, just to put the young fella’s mind at rest. You coulda done that yourselves, any one of ye, if ye wanted to know the facts. That’s the kind of man Tommy is.”
“Ah, God, isn’t he a great fella altogether,” Mart says. “Making time for the little people.”
Bernard ignores that. “D’you know what Tommy did, when I asked him?
He laughed his arse off and told me whoever came up with that one would wanta lay off the poteen.
Everyone’s overwrought right now, is what he says, so they’re getting hysterical about nonsense they wouldn’t give a second thought to any other time.
No one’s coming for this townland, man. I’ve Tommy’s word on it. ”
“And d’you know what I have?” Mart says, grinning at him. “I’ve a bridge to sell you. A lovely big one, all covered in diamonds. I’ll take cash.”
“I’ve had shites that were worth more than Tommy Moynihan’s word,” P.J. says, good and loud, and looks astounded at himself. Somewhere there’s a snort of laughter, and somewhere else a growl.
“You,” Mouth says, pointing at P.J. “Have some fuckin’ respect.”
“I never had any respect for the Moynihans,” P.J.
tells him. “They’re like big babas, throwing things when they don’t get their way.
Grown men shouldn’t behave like that.” Cal wasn’t sure P.J.
even knew how to get loud, but apparently he’s had a gift for it all along, just lying latent until the moment came.
“Mart,” Bernard says, silencing Mouth with a raised hand and moving closer to the table.
His tone has shifted; he sounds like he and Mart are alone, sitting together late into the night with a bottle of whiskey between them.
“Think long-term for a minute. This was always a one-horse town, and the horse is on its last legs, man. The post office is gone. The hardware shop’s gone.
Lydia’s talking about closing the boutique.
Farming’s getting tougher every year—sure, who am I telling?
The young people get out as soon as they’re able, ’cause there’s nothing here for them.
Look around you: the place is dying. Is that what you want? ”
“Well, holy God,” Mart says to the pub. “Here we are, dying, and no one told us; we thought we were doing grand. Musha, God love us, what’ll we do at all? Thank God we’ve Tommy to save us.”
“Tommy’s going to bring people to this place, man,” Bernard says. “Young people. Families. He’ll bring it alive again. Even if it did take more than a few acres, don’t you wanta see that?”
“And instead of this street,” Mart says, smiling sweetly at him, “we can have Moynihan Plaza, with a McDonald’s and a multiplex and a phone shop, and a big gold statue of Tommy where Our Lady is now. It’ll be only gorgeous. I’d say you’ll leave flowers in fronta the statue every day, will you?”
Someone snickers. Mouth shifts his weight ominously. Bernard throws him a quelling look and takes a breath to keep his patience. “I’m grateful to Tommy,” he says. “I’m not ashamed to say it. He’s given this place a lot. There’s no harm in him getting something back.”
“So ’cause he gets the potholes fixed,” Francie says, “I’m meant to hand over my fuckin’ land. Have I got that right?”