The Hunter

When Trey gets home, her dad is rearranging the sitting room. She stands in the doorway and watches him. He’s cleared the clutter off the coffee table and brought in the kitchen chairs, and he’s humming to himself as he spins them into place, stands back to get a better look, springs forward to adjust them. Outside the window behind him, the sun is still on the bare yard, but it’s a loose, late sun, relaxing its grip. Liam and Alanna are taking turns throwing a rusty garden fork, trying to make it stick prongs-down in the dry ground.

Johnny never stops moving. He’s wearing a shirt, faded blue with fine white stripes, in some rough material that looks fancy. He’s had his hair cut, and not by Trey’s mam—it tapers smoothly at the neck and ears, and the boyish flop in front has been expertly shaped. He looks too good for the house.

“Amn’t I only gorgeous?” he says, sweeping a hand over his head, when he catches Trey looking. “I took a wee spin into town. If I’m having guests, I oughta be in a fit state to welcome them.”

Trey asks, “Who?”

“Ah, a few of the lads are calling in tonight. A few drinks, a few laughs, a bitta catching up. Bit of a chat about my idea.” He spreads his arms to the room. His eyes have the same lit-up, overexcited sparkle they had last night. He looks like he’s had a drink or two already, but Trey doesn’t think he has. “Would you look at this, now? Fit for kings. Who says it takes a woman to bring out the best in a place, hah?”

Trey wanted to tell Cal about her dad’s idea. She wanted to ask whether he reckoned it was a load of shite, or whether he thought it might actually come to something. But Cal never gave her an opening, and she couldn’t find a way to make her own. As the day went on, she stopped trying. It occurred to her that Cal might be deliberately avoiding the subject of her dad because he has no desire to get mixed up in her family’s mess. She doesn’t blame him. He did that once before, when she made him, and got the living shite bet out of him for it. In certain lights, when it’s cold, Trey can still see the scar on the bridge of his nose. She doesn’t regret it, but she has no right to make him do it again.

She says, “I wanta come.”

Her dad turns to look at her. “Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

His mouth has an amused curl like he’s about to laugh her out of it, but then he checks himself and looks at her differently.

“Well,” he says. “And why not, I suppose. You’re no baba, these days; you’re a big girl that might be able to give your daddy a hand. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” Trey says. She has no idea what he wants from her.

“And can you keep quiet about what you hear? That’s important, now. I know Mr. Hooper’s been good to you, but what’s going on here tonight is Ardnakelty business. He’s got no part in it. Can you promise me you’ll say nothing to him?”

Trey looks at him. She can’t think of a single thing that he could beat Cal at. “Wasn’t gonna anyway,” she says.

“Ah, I know. But this is serious stuff, now; grown-up stuff. Promise me.”

“Yeah,” Trey says. “Promise.”

“Good girl yourself,” Johnny says. He props his arms on the back of a chair to give her his full attention. “These lads that are coming,” he says. “There’s Francie Gannon, Senan Maguire, Bobby Feeney, Mart Lavin, Dessie Duggan—I’d rather not have him on board, with the mouth on his missus, but there’s no way round it. Who else, now?” He considers. “P.J. Fallon. Sonny McHugh, and Con as well, if that missus of his’ll let him off the leash. That’s a fine bunch of hairy-arsed reprobates, amn’t I right?”

Trey shrugs.

“Have you had any dealings with any of them? Mended an aul’ window frame for them, built them a wee table or two?”

“Most of ’em,” Trey says. “Not Bobby.”

“Not Bobby, no? Has he got anything against you?”

“Nah. He just mends his own stuff.” He makes a pig’s arse of it. When Bobby helps out a neighbor, Cal and Trey get called in to repair the damage.

“Ah, sure, that’s grand,” Johnny says, dismissing Bobby with a sweep of his hand. “Bobby’ll do what Senan does, in the end. Now, here’s what you’ll do tonight. When this bunch of fine lads start arriving, you’ll answer the door. Bring them through to here, all lovely and polite”—he mimes ushering people into the room—“and make sure you ask how they got on with whatever bit of a job you did for them. If they’ve any complaints, you apologize and promise you’ll make it right.”

“They don’t have complaints,” Trey says flatly. She doesn’t like doing work for Ardnakelty people. It always has a taste of patronage about it, them patting themselves on the back for being noble enough to throw her the job. Cal says to do it anyway. Trey gives them the finger by making sure they can’t fault her work, no matter how hard they try.