"Nice boat," I said.
The man barely looked up from his work. "Yen. Thanks," he replied.
"Who owns it, do you know?"
The man ignored me, continuing to painstakingly clean the gunwales, inch by inch.
"Anybody know who owns this boat?" I said, turning to three old men sitting on a bench on the pier.
"Paddy Gilhooly," said one of them. This was not the name I was expecting, but an interesting one nonetheless.
"Do you know where I might find him?"
"He's not far," the old man said. The second man cupped his hand around his ear to hear better and laughed.
"Yer lookin' at him," the second man shouted, pointing to the man working on the boat.
I suppose I should have known from all the guy-and-his-boat behaviour, which is remarkably similar to the guy-and-his-car ritual, that this man was the owner, even if he didn't look as if he could afford it. In vain, I searched his face for a glimpse of Eamon Byrne, having decided that the reason the family despised him was because he was an illegitimate son of Byrne. If the resemblance was there, I couldn't see it. "Is that true?" I asked him. "Are you Padraig Gil-hooly?" The man ignored me still. I took that to be a yes. "I've been looking for you."
Still the man said nothing.
"Too bad about that pea green paint scratch on the bow," I went on. "Unusual color. You should be more careful."
"Have we met?" the man said suddenly, and not just a little belligerently, tossing his rag into his pail and standing up. He was tall and wiry, a little too thin perhaps, dark hair and very dark and intense eyes, and dressed in overalls and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and heavy work boots. For a moment I almost lost my nerve.
"Yes," I said, taking a deep breath. "As a matter of fact we have. To be more accurate, it was our boats that met, this one and the one I and a couple of friends of mine were sailing, the Maire Malloy."
"So you've come to apologize for hitting my boat, have you?" he glowered. "And to offer to pay for repairs, no doubt?" There was a sarcastic edge to his voice.
This conversation wasn't going exactly the way I had intended. "This is your way of pretending that you didn't notice you hit and swamped us, I suppose," I said. I was getting so annoyed, I was no longer afraid of him. "Not only swamped us, but left us to drown, I might add."
Gilhooly stared at me. "What are you goin' on about?" he said at last. "I never hit nobody. And if I did, I most certainly wouldn't leave them to drown."
"Then where'd you get that pea green scratch on your boat?"
"Did those fecking bastards up at Second Chance put you up to this?" he asked. "Because if they did…"He raised his fist and I backed away quickly.
"No," I replied from a safe distance, "the fecking bastards, as you so delicately put it, did not. The truth of the matter is they wouldn't put me up to anything at. all, and frankly I expect they'd just as soon I went back home. Now, could we start again, do you think?"
He glowered at me for a second or two and then slowly lowered his arm. "How do you do," he said finally. "I'm Paddy Gilhooly, owner of this here boat, the one called Lost Causes. And you are?"
"Lara McClintoch. How do you do."
"A Yank, are you?"
"I'm here visiting from Toronto."
"Canadian. Not a friend of that fellow, Alex something or other who got Rose Cottage by any chance?"
I nodded. "His name is Alex Stewart. He's a friend of mine."
"Aye," he said. "I heard there was a woman with him. My solicitor told me," he added. "He was there, but you know that, seeing as you were too. Now what's all this about my boat. Beautiful, isn't she?"
"She is," I said, "unless you happen to see her first coming right at you, and then later disappearing into the distance as you swallow gallons of seawater from her wake."
"And this supposed event would have been when?" His tone turned aggressive again.
"Yesterday afternoon. Ask your pals here," I said gesturing toward the three men on the bench. "They'll tell you the Maire Malloy got towed in late yesterday afternoon, with the gash in her stern, and her crew rather damp."
"That so, Malachy?"
One of the old men on the bench nodded. " 'Tis so, Paddy." Gilhooly frowned. "So was Lost Causes docked then?"
Malachy thought slowly and carefully about that. "Difficult to say, Paddy," he said finally. "Difficult to say. Close on sunset. We'd been over at the pub for a spot of refreshment. Lots of the boats coming in, and this one," he said, pointing at me, "being towed. Plenty of excitement all round." The second old geezer cupped his hand to his ear and looked at Malachy. "Do you recall if Paddy's boat was in when they towed this one in?" Malachy yelled at him.
"Can't say as I recall," the second man said after a moment or two of contemplation.
"No use asking this one," Malachy said, pointing to the third man, who had turned away from us and was looking out to sea. "He's elsewhere most of the time."
"Well, Malachy, since you'll be on telling me about her story," Gilhooly said, "perhaps you'll also be verifying mine."
"Which is?" I asked.
"Cork," Malachy said. It sounded more like Cark to my ears, but I figured it was Cork. "In Cork, he was, our Paddy. Took the train first thing. Not a sight of him here all day. Not that I can see so good, mind you. But Kev can, can't you Kev?" he shouted. Kev nodded.
"So now that we've got that out of the way," Gilhooly said, "I'm sorry to hear about your boating accident, but it's got nothing to do with me."
"Any chance Conail O'Connor could have taken your boat?"
"Conail O'Connor!" Gilhooly exclaimed. "Conail O'Connor can kiss my royal Irish arse!"
" 'Tis James Joyce he's quoting," Malachy said solemnly. "Ulysses.""Was that a no?" I said acidly, James Joyce or not. "How about Sean McHugh?"
Gilhooly remained silent, but I could see his jaw working, and he looked as if he was about to burst a blood vessel.
"I assume your lawyer told you about Eamon Byrne's little game," I said.
"He did. Bloody nonsense. I'd have credited him with more sense. Though I suppose you can't blame a dying man."
"I'll tell you our clue if you'll tell me yours," I said.
"You mean the one about the sea-swell? My solicitor was there, remember."
"I know another one, Michael Davis's," I replied. Actually I had two, if you counted the one that was currently being painstakingly dried out in my room at the inn in hopes that something remotely legible could be found, but it didn't seem to be a good idea to give everything away at once with this bunch. "A couple of us thought it might be entertaining to try and find this thing, whatever it is."
"Entertaining, you call it? There is nothing entertaining about those people up at Second Chance, I can tell you. Nothing whatsoever." Gilhooly tossed his rags into the bucket and started to walk away.
"Are you going to sue the family for a share? Byrne suggested you might, and your solicitor was there. What's his name?"
"Dermot Shanahan. And I would be paying his legal fees how?" he asked bitterly.
I was tempted to suggest he could sell his beloved boat, but decided to be nice. "Can I buy you a beer or something?" I asked him. Maybe, I thought, his tongue would loosen and I'd learn what the bad blood between him and the Byrne family was all about. "Where I come from, girls wait to be asked!" he called over his shoulders as he left.