The Searcher(13)

“You calling me a cheater?”

The guy is in his mid-twenties, too soft and too pale for a farmer; short, with greasy little dark bangs and something that has ambitions to be a mustache someday. Cal has registered him before, a couple of times, in the back corner with the huddle of other young guys who stare for a second too long. Without ever having spoken to the guy, he would be pretty confident listing a number of facts about him.

“I’m calling you nothing if you put that pot back,” Mart’s buddy says.

“I fucking won it. Fair and square.”

Behind Cal, the argument has stopped; so has the tin whistle. The realization that he’s unarmed hits Cal with a vivid shot of adrenaline. This guy is the type who would carry a Glock to make him feel like a badass gangster, and would have no clue how to handle it. It takes him a moment to remember that this is unlikely to be an issue here.

“You heard me say twenty,” the chubby guy says to his pal. “Go on and tell them.”

The pal is lanky and big-footed, with buckteeth that keep his long jaw hanging and a general air of being the last person to figure out what just happened. “I wasn’t listening right,” he says, blinking. “Sure, it’s only a couple of quid, Donie.”

“Nobody calls me a cheater,” Donie says. He’s getting a bull-eyed stare that Cal doesn’t like.

“I do,” Mart informs him. “You’re a cheater, and d’you know what’s even worse, you’re fecking useless at it. A babby’d do a better job.”

Donie shoves his stool back from the table and spreads his arms, beckoning Mart. “I’ll take you. Come on.”

Deirdre lets out a halfhearted yelp. Cal has no idea what to do, and this fact baffles him further. At home this is the point where he would have stood up, after which Donie would have either settled down or left, one way or another. Here, that doesn’t seem like an option—not because he’s short his gun and his badge, but because he doesn’t know how things are done in these parts, or whether he has a right to do anything at all. That feeling of lightness overtakes him again, like he’s perched on the edge of his stool like a bird. He finds himself wanting Donie to go for Mart, just so he’ll know what to do.

“Donie,” Barty says from behind the bar, pointing at the young guy with a glass-cloth. “Out.”

“I did nothing. This prick called me—”

“Out.”

Donie folds his arms and slumps down on his stool, bottom lip jutting, staring mulishly into space.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Barty says in disgust. He throws down his cloth and comes out from behind the bar. “Give us a hand,” he says to Cal, on his way.

Barty is a few years younger than Cal and not much smaller. Between them they pick Donie up by the armpits and maneuver him the length of the pub, dodging stools and tables, towards the door. Most of the old guys are grinning; Deirdre’s mouth hangs open. Donie goes limp and makes himself into dead weight, his feet dragging on the linoleum.

“Stand up like a man,” Barty orders him, wrestling with the door.

“I’ve a full pint back there,” Donie says, outraged. “Ow!” as Barty semi-accidentally whacks his shoulder off the door frame.

On the sidewalk, Barty hauls Donie backwards for maximum momentum, then gives him a hefty swing forwards and lets go. Donie flies staggering across the road, arms flailing. His tracksuit pants come down and he falls over them.

Barty and Cal watch, getting their breath back, while he scrambles to his feet and hauls at his pants. He’s wearing tighty whities. “Next time get your mammy to buy you big-boy underpants,” Barty calls across to him.

“I’ll burn you out of it,” Donie yells, without much conviction.

“Go home and pull your lad, Donie,” Barty calls back. “That’s all you’re fit for.”

Donie casts around and spots a discarded cigarette packet, which he hurls at Barty. It falls six feet short. He spits in Barty’s direction and stamps off up the road.

There are no streetlights, and only a couple of lights are on in the houses lining the road; half of them are empty. He’s invisible in seconds. His footsteps take longer, echoing off the buildings away into the dark.

“Thanks,” Barty says. “On my own I’d’ve put my back out. Fat little fucker.”

The lanky guy comes out of the pub and stands on the step, silhouetted against the yellow light, scratching his back. “Where’s Donie?” he asks.

“Gone home,” Barty says. “You go on, too, J.P. You’re done here for tonight.”

J.P. thinks this over. “I’ve got his jacket,” he says.

“Then bring it to him. Go on.”

J.P. lopes obediently off into the darkness. “That guy make trouble often?” Cal asks.

“Donie McGrath,” Barty says, and spits on the sidewalk. “Fuckin’ latchico.”

Cal has no idea what this means, although the tone implies something akin to a bum. “I’ve seen him in here before.”

“Now and again. The young lads mostly go into town, looking for the ride, but if they haven’t the money for that, then they come in here. He’ll stay away for a while, anyway. Then he’ll swan in with his pals, pretending it never happened.”