The guy’s not even outside his door and he’s managed to irk Cal a second time over, acting like last night was his personal party and Cal was some gatecrasher he decided to humor. “Thanks,” Cal says. “You sounded pretty good yourself.” Johnny, inevitably, sang “The West’s Awake,” in a poignant tenor with plenty of grandeur on the big notes.
Johnny laughs that off. “Ah, I can carry a tune, is all. It’s in the blood, sure: everyone from around here can hold their own in a singsong.”
“Sure sounded like it,” Cal says. “You got a minute?”
“I do, of course,” Johnny says graciously. He strolls across the yard towards the gate, letting Cal follow and leaving the door open, to make the point that this can’t take long. In the sunlight, his hangover shows; there are bags under his eyes, and redness in them. It sits poorly with his boyish mannerisms, giving them a tawdry, used-up air. “What can I do for you?”
It’s been Cal’s experience that men like Johnny Reddy don’t deal well with being taken off guard. They’re used to picking the easiest victims, so they’re used to being the ones who set the agenda, the pace, and everything else. If someone takes that away from them, they flounder.
“I hear you’re looking for investors to get some gold into the river,” Cal says. “I’m in.”
That wakes Johnny up. He stops walking and stares for a second. Then: “Holy God,” he says, bursting into extravagant laughter. “Where’d that come out of?”
“The buy-in’s three hundred bucks. Right?”
Johnny shakes his head, grinning, blowing out air. “My God, Theresa musta got the wrong end of the stick altogether. What’s she after saying to you, at all?”
“She hasn’t said a word,” Cal says. “About that or any of it. And I haven’t asked her.”
Johnny hears the edge in his voice and backs off fast. “Ah, I know you wouldn’t do that,” he assures Cal. “Only you have to understand, man. This’ll be a wonderful opportunity for Theresa, I’ll be able to give her all kinds of things that she’s never had up till now—music lessons, she’ll be able to have, and horseback riding, and whatever she fancies. But I won’t have her put in the middle of it all. Being quizzed about what she knows, having to worry about what she should and shouldn’t say. ’Twouldn’t be fair on her.”
“Yeah,” Cal says. “I’m with you on that.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Johnny says, nodding gravely. “It’s great to be on the same page.” He brushes off the gate rail and leans his forearms on it, narrowing his eyes to gaze out over the mountain slope. “Then, if you don’t mind me asking, who was it said this to you?”
“Well,” Cal says, settling his back against the gate, “I gotta admit I was kinda surprised you didn’t mention it to me yourself. What with my land being right on the gold line, and all.”
Johnny’s face registers a twinge of embarrassed reproach, like Cal has committed a social error. “I’da loved to bring you on board,” he explains. “I need a chance to repay a wee biteen of all the kindness you’ve shown Theresa, while I was away. But that’ll have to wait a little longer. Man, no harm to you and no offense meant, but this is Ardnakelty business. Mr. Rushborough’s going to stick to taking his samples on land that’s owned by Ardnakelty men. You heard him last night: where to find the gold, that’s been passed down through his ancestors, and ours. Not yours.”
Cal is out of practice. He let Johnny use Trey as a sidetrack, and now Johnny’s had enough talking time to recover his footing and come up with an angle.
“Well, I can see why you’d take that into account,” he says, smiling at Johnny. “But it was an Ardnakelty guy that told me the whole story, and invited me along last night. He said I oughta remind you about me and my land being involved, just in case you’d forgotten. Does that set your mind at ease?”
Johnny laughs, his head going back. “Go on, let me guess. Mart Lavin, is it? He’s always been a terrible man for stirring the pot. I thought he’da outgrown it by now, but some people never learn.”
Cal waits. He’s had squirrelly little conversations like this with squirrelly little fucks like this before, hundreds of times: two-layer conversations where everyone knows what’s going on, and everyone knows that everyone knows, but they all have to keep playing dumb for the squirrelly little fuck’s convenience. The wasted energy always irritated him, but at least back then he was getting paid for it.
