Chapter Twenty-One #2
Tommy shrugs, still amused. “I suppose sheep always find a sheepdog,” he says.
“But ye might wanta think twice, before this one herds the lot of ye into a bog. Have sense, for God’s sake.
All that rubbish”—he flicks a dismissive finger towards Cal’s phone—“what’s it worth?
Fuck-all. If those are spade-cuts, and I don’t think they are, then who’s to say when they got there?
Let’s be honest, a few of ye have a grudge against me.
I’m not saying ye’d go as far as framing me for murder—sure, I’d like to hope no Ardnakelty man would do that on another—but if push came to shove, it’d be awful hard to prove either way. ”
“So what about the video?” Cal asks. “We look like we’ve got the tech skills for deepfakes?”
“I’ll tell you what I think about that video,” Tommy says.
He tucks his glasses neatly back into his pocket and gives them a pat.
“I think if I’da done what you’re accusing me of—which I’d call a grotesque allegation—and if someone had been videoing me, and if they’d been close enough to get my face on camera in the black dark, I woulda spotted them.
There’s no video. If there is, all it shows is dark. ”
“You want to bet on that?” Cal asks. He could whip out a whole spiel about probable cause, how they’ve got enough that the Guards will track Tommy’s phone and test the dirt on his spade and match his footprints to the scene, and he could throw in an account of video enhancement technology that would scare the bejesus out of anyone who’s ever watched CSI.
He has it all ready to go and he’d be using it, if it wasn’t for that sliver of movement, almost too faint to hear, at the door.
He wants this conversation to sound, to a listener, like Tommy is winning.
“Let’s see this video,” Tommy says. He’s smelled blood.
“You don’t make demands here, Tommy,” Cal says. “That’s not how this works.”
He can feel the other guys around him, like there’s a hard heat coming off each one of them. He doesn’t look to check whether this is shaking them. All he can do is trust that their faith in him will hold.
Tommy is grinning. “Listen to the big man. Are you hoping if you bluster hard enough, I’ll panic and confess to something I never done?
Maybe that worked on your suspects back in America, but I’m telling you now, boy, I’m not some halfwit teenager that robbed a petrol station for his fix. You’re taking on the wrong man.”
He settles back in his chair, to finish this off at his leisure. “I wouldn’t know about America,” he says, “but around here, we’ve got laws against slander. And I’m not the type to lie back and take this kinda vile attack on my reputation.”
“You want to air all this out in court,” Cal says, “I’m in. I’ve got nothing better to do with my time. Your business buddies gonna like that?”
“Maybe you’ve nothing better to do, but I’d say these lads have.
Amn’t I right, lads?” Tommy looks the men over, giving them plenty of time to answer him.
No one does. “And it’ll never see a courtroom.
I’ll have the lotta ye bankrupted long before that.
One phone call to my solicitor, that’s all it’d take. Will I get on to him right now?”
Out of the corner of his eye Cal can see Bobby and P.J. glancing at him, worried. He says nothing.
“I’ll tell you what,” Tommy says. Under the righteous outrage, he’s swelling with victory. “If ye’re out that door by the time I count ten, we’ll say no more about this. By rights I oughta demand apologies from the lotta ye, but I’ll make allowances. One. Two.”
The room has the lush silence of rich people’s houses, triple-glazed and thick-curtained. Francie is sunk into the couch, arms folded, like it’ll take a crane to get him out. Senan is on the edge of his cushion, ready to rumble. Behind Tommy, the sun is a red coin balanced on the horizon.
“Three,” Tommy says. He reaches into his pants pocket and takes out his phone. “Four.”
At Cal’s shoulder, the living-room door opens.
Eugene’s been caught without his finance-bro outfit; he’s wearing a gray hoodie and black tracksuit bottoms, and he’s in his sock feet.
He looks younger, and tightened to snapping point.
Cal has seen that look before, on guys who were past caring how many punches they took, as long as they landed some good ones.
“All this shit about Mart Lavin,” Eugene says. He’s talking to Cal.
“Not now, Eugene,” Tommy says, like a six-year-old is up past his bedtime, but the glance he gives Eugene has a hard warning. “I’m just finishing up a little chat with these lads. You go inside and watch the telly with your mammy, and I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Eugene blinks, but he keeps his eyes on Cal. “Fuck Mart Lavin,” he says. “What about Rachel?”
“I told you what about Rachel,” Cal says. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the other guys’ heads turn towards him, but all he can do is keep relying on them. “We got witnesses putting your daddy at the bridge at the right time—”
“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Tommy says. “This is getting beyond a joke. I’m a one-man crime wave, is it? Ye need a better hobby, lads.”
“But if we want to do anything about it,” Cal says to Eugene, “we’re gonna need what you’ve got.”
He feels the rest of the guys drawing breath, repositioning themselves, as they start to take in what he’s been doing.
“Right,” Tommy says, loud and crisp. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and stands up. “We’re done here. I’ve cut ye some slack because of the day that’s in it, but you’ve crossed the line. Eugene: upstairs, now. The rest of ye: outa my fucking house.”
Eugene snaps, “Sit down.”
His voice has a high, uncontrolled, dangerous note, and his hands are shaking. Something, Cal would love to know what, has cracked the dam open.
Tommy recognizes it too. “Eugene,” he says. His tone has changed; he’s gone calm and firm, a headmaster expertly managing a tantruming child. “This isn’t the day for any more drama. Everyone needs to let the hare sit a while, and we’ll come back to this when there’s cooler heads all round.”
Eugene ignores him. “You want the whole thing,” he says to Cal, “you can have it. Just fucking do something with it.”
“You already got my word on that,” Cal says.
“Story time,” Senan says. “I love a good aul’ story.” He sprawls back on the couch, spreads his legs wide, and folds his arms, ready.
“If you’ve had enough of our company,” Cal says to Tommy, “we’ll all get outa your hair. Eugene can say what he’s got to say somewhere else.”
After a second, Tommy heaves an exasperated sigh and sits down. “All right,” he tells Eugene, adjusting the knees of his pants into place. “Whatever nonsense this is, I might as well hear it. But make it quick. I’ve had enough nonsense for one night.”
“We’re in no rush,” Cal tells Eugene. “Start from the start, take your time.”
Eugene doesn’t hear either one of them. He’s already talking.
“So that morning, the morning before Rachel died. I told her the whole plan he had in mind.” He jerks his chin at Tommy.
All his life, the two weightiest words have been my father.
He’s done with them. “I was supposed to keep my mouth shut about it, but I was planning to propose to her that weekend, and I wanted to get this angle squared away first. I thought Rachel’s initial reaction might need some managing, and I didn’t want to end up dealing with that in the middle of wedding planning. ”
His voice is cold and clipped, like he’s giving a work presentation to people he despises.
“And yeah, no, she wasn’t happy. At all.
I’d expected this to be just one of those humps you have to get over, every couple has those, no big deal, right?
But Rachel acted like this was huge. I explained to her: OK, some people would throw fits at first, but once they saw all the advantages in practice, they’d think this was the greatest thing since sliced bread. They always do.”
That gets a low growl from Francie. Eugene doesn’t even notice.
“But Rachel…She didn’t want anyone hating us, but it wasn’t just that.
She couldn’t stand the idea of making people unhappy.
That’s—” Eugene catches his breath sharply.
“That’s what she was like,” he says, after a moment. “That’s what she was like.”
“She was a good woman,” Senan says. “You’ll get no argument on that from anyone here.”
“You shoulda deserved her better,” P.J. says.
“No shit,” Eugene says, with a bitterness heavy as stone.
“Ah, now,” Tommy says compassionately. “You treated young Rachel like a princess—and she deserved it, I’m not saying she didn’t. All I’m saying is, you’ve nothing to reproach yourself with.”
For a man of his experience, Tommy isn’t showing the level of judgment Cal would have expected.
Unsurprisingly, Eugene doesn’t bother answering him.
“We spent the whole day on it,” he says.
“We went for a drive, we found somewhere for lunch, we drove around some more, and the whole time Rachel kept going back and forth—one minute she was all, ‘I trust you, if you think it’s a good idea then it’ll probably be fine in the end,’ and the next minute she’d be going, ‘No, everyone’ll be devastated, you have to stop him… ’ ”
He lets out something like a jagged laugh. “Like it was that simple. ‘Just say it to him, tell him you won’t run for the council, tell him you won’t have anything to do with it—’ I couldn’t get it through to her that yeah, no, it wasn’t actually that easy.”
Cal catches the quick, savage flicker of Tommy’s grin.
He spent Eugene’s life making sure it wouldn’t be that easy.
“And you were right, o’ course,” he assures Eugene.
“Let’s be serious: a man doesn’t put years of work into something, and then throw the whole plan in the bin ’cause some young one doesn’t like the look of it.
Rachel was a grown woman, not a child; she shoulda known that herself. ”