Out of nowhere, Trey finds herself browned off right down to her bones. She should be over the moon with herself, everything is going great guns, but she hates her dad’s guts and she misses Cal so hard she wants to throw back her head and howl at the sky like Banjo. This is idiotic, when she spent half the day with him, but she feels like he’s a million miles away. She’s grown accustomed to the sense that she could tell Cal anything; not that she does, but she could if she wanted to. What she’s doing now is something she can never tell him. Trey is pretty sure Cal’s code doesn’t allow for straight-out lying to detectives about a murder to dump innocent men in the shite. When it comes to his code, Cal is inflexible. He’s equally inflexible about keeping his word, which he takes as seriously as Trey does, and if he doesn’t see this the same way as her, he’ll think she’s breaking her word about Brendan. Cal would forgive her many things, but not this.
She can’t remember how any of this is worth it. In practical terms, this makes no difference: she isn’t doing this because it’s worth it, but because it needs to be done. But it lowers her spirits even further.
All she wants is in fact to go to sleep, but at this moment she despises her dad too much to stay that near him, now that she’s done what she needed with him. “Going to meet my mates,” she says. “Just came back to leave Banjo. Too hot for him out here.”
It might as well be true; she can go over the mountain and find a couple of her mates, and start putting out her story. Once it takes root, it’ll spread, change shape, shake off her mark, and find its way back to Nealon.
“Don’t forget to talk to Alanna,” Johnny reminds her, as she turns away. “You’re great with her altogether; she’ll do anything you say.”
“Do it when I get back,” Trey says, over her shoulder. Sheila is still standing in the window, watching them.
—
The minute Cal is wrist-deep in harvesting carrots, Mart appears, stumping across the defeated grass with the brim of his donkey hat flapping. Rip bounces up and tries to get Kojak to go for a run, but Kojak is having none of it; he flops down in the raggedy shadow of the tomato plants and lies there, panting. The heat is thick as soup. Cal has already sweated right through the back of his T-shirt.
“The size of them carrots,” Mart says, stirring Cal’s bucket with his crook. “Someone’ll rob one of them and give your scarecrow a fine big mickey.”
“I got plenty to spare,” Cal says. “Help yourself.”
“I might take you up on that. I got a recipe offa the internet for some Moroccan lamb yoke; a few carrots’d liven it up. Do they have the aul’ carrots in Morocco?”
“Dunno,” Cal says. He knows why Mart’s here, but he’s not in the mood to do the work for him. “You can go ahead and introduce them.”
“I won’t get the chance. There’s not a lot of Moroccans around these parts.” Mart watches while Cal pulls up another carrot and brushes the dirt away. “So,” he says. “Paddy Englishman, Paddy Irishman, and Paddy American walked into a gold rush, and Paddy Englishman never walked out. Is it true ’twas your Theresa that found him?”
“Yep,” Cal says. “Took the dog out for a walk, and there he was.” He has no idea how Mart came by that information. He wonders if some mountainy man was watching from the trees, the whole time they were by the body.
Mart pulls out his tobacco pouch and starts rolling himself a cigarette. “I saw the Guards calling in to you earlier,” he says, “doing their aul’ detectivating and investimagating. That car won’t stay shiny for long, on these roads. What kinda men were they?”
“The uniform didn’t say much,” Cal says, yanking up another carrot. “The detective seems like he knows his job.”
“And you’d be the man to spot that. Wouldja look at that, Sunny Jim: after all this time, you’re finally coming in useful.” Mart licks the rolling paper in one neat sweep. “I’m looking forward to having the chats with them. I never talked to a detective before, and you say we’ve got ourselves a fine specimen. Is he a countryman?”
“Dublin. According to the kid.”
“Ah, fuck’s sake,” Mart says in disgust. “I won’t be able to enjoy myself talking to him, if I’ve to listen to that noise the whole time. I’d rather have a tooth drilled.” His lighter isn’t working; he gives it a pained look, shakes it, and tries again, with more success. “Didja get any idea of what way he’s thinking?”
“This early on, probably he’s not thinking anything. And if he was, he wouldn’t tell me.”
Mart’s eyebrow lifts. “Would he not? And you a colleague?”
“I’m not a colleague,” Cal says. “I’m just another guy who could’ve done it. And I sure as hell won’t be a colleague once he hears about us fooling around in that river.”
Mart shoots him an amused glance. “Musha, God love you. Are you after getting yourself all in a tither about that bitta nonsense?”
“Mart,” Cal says, sitting back on his haunches. “They’re gonna find out.”
“Did you mention it to him, didja?”
