Redemption - Leon Uris [14]
“Thanks, Wally.”
“Now, what about the squire?”
“Oh God, my da’s brains must really be unhinged now. We—he and I—are like one of his fine pieces of Waterford crystal. Ever see one of those things smash? It’s not into chunks and slivers but a billion little flakes that can’t be put together—not by the two of us, anyhow.”
“Have you got the guts to stay in New Zealand?”
“Stay? Hell! Don’t you understand, Wally? Conor was so tall he cast his shadow halfway around the world. Now it’s settling like a black cloud. Ballyutogue and Ireland and Uncle Conor have been left unspoken through the years except in snippets of fear. The ghosts of Tomas and Kilty and Ireland have been rankling every corner of our land and every inch of our house. Uncle Conor’s unseen presence can fairly choke you at times.”
“Your da is a good man,” Wally said.
“So am I,” Rory answered. “Don’t worry, between the squire and Mom Larkin that station will prosper till eternity.”
“Ah, jumping Jesus,” Wally moaned.
“Let’s heist a couple,” Rory said rising.
“There’s a bunch of beasts in there from the mine including Oak Kelley.”
“Good,” Rory said, “Oak is just the ticket.”
“Wait, I’m coming with you.”
“‘S’truth, Wally, take my word, I’m sober as the Virgin.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. Your face isn’t cleaned up from your last donnybrook up in Wellington. I don’t want a homicide on your record as well.”
The barroom had a certain raunchy stateliness to it. It was sturdy and its walls told of the hunting and fishing glories of the South Island in heads stuffed and fish embalmed in fighting poses. It was aged and sturdy and reeked lovely with a magnificent blend of ale, whiskey, tobacco, and various aromas from the pens outside.
Wally nodded to his big Maori bartender to be alert. Times like this were why Wally kept the furnishings simple. The lowering of all voices and the entry of tension was automatic as Rory found a space at the end of the bar and Wally stood slightly behind him.
The four mashers from the copper mine quickly positioned themselves on either side of Rory. The chief troublemaker quickly took charge of his role. They called him Oak and he was known as a terror around the mining camps. Oak won most of his fights without throwing a punch, he was that fearsome-looking, with pocked face, red beard, and hands the size of cannonballs.
“I hear some pigshit by the name of Conor Larkin attacked a British fort in Ulster,” Oak said for openers.
“Bloody disgrace,” a mate chimed in, “what with Irish boys in the trenches in France having dirty traitors stabbing us in the back.”
“And I’m drinking to the man who blew Larkin’s guts out,” the third said.
“Yeah,” said the fourth, completing the alliance. “Us fighting a war, our lads dying in France, and that murdering jailbird committing treachery.”
“If you’ve spoken your piece,” Wally said, “would you mind retiring to a table so as further commerce won’t suffer interruption.”
“I want to know how this Larkin boy here feels about the matter,” Oak said.
“I’m very sad,” Rory said softly.
Too softly. Wally knew what Wally knew. The big Maori bartender reached down and wrapped his hand around a staying pin.
“We’d like you to step outside so we can express our sorrow as well,” Oak taunted, “but first, what say about a toast to our beloved King.”
“Ah now, gentlemen,” Wally said. “It’s four against one. That’s kind of unsporting, Oak.”
“Aye,” Rory agreed, “that’s indeed cowardly. Isn’t that cowardly!” he shouted to the room.
“Tell you what we’ll do,” Wally said quickly. “I’ll put twenty on Rory here, but no four against one.”
“Then I’ll only have to fight them two at a time?” Rory asked.
“That’s still cowardly, isn’t it?” Wally asked the bartender. The big Maori nodded.
“Tell you what. Twenty on Rory Larkin and I’ll give two-to-one odds he lays out the four of you. Even money on the side says that one or more will require hospitalization. Clear back a few tables there