“Baker’s dozen the other day,” said Delahunty. “Including that Mulhall fella.”

Minogue didn’t like the light-heartedness in his tone.

“Canoodling with his mate’s wife, I heard,” Delahunty added. “‘Lying low?’”

“How many’s that for the week now?” Burke asked.

“Eight in the last ten days,” Delahunty said. “Spring cleaning is what they’re saying. And a fine Hundred Thousand Welcomes to our friends from across the water.”

Quite the pair, Minogue thought. He drew on his cigarette, and realized he had no idea what Delahunty meant.

“Welcome to Ireland,” said Burke. “‘We have enough of our own bad guys and gougers thanks very much. So bang bang, and pip-pip. Home in a box.’”

Delahunty turned to Minogue with renewed interest.

“But sure you’d be the man of the hour on that,” he said. “Wouldn’t you? Liaison keeping tabs on the flotsam and jetsam washing up here from wherever?”

“Hardly,” said Minogue. “I’m only a runner-in there. Learning the ropes.”

Neither man believed him, Minogue was sure. The subject was gone after a brief lull. It was Minogue’s chance to disengage.

Burke had read his mind apparently. He demanded to know what Minogue thought of the big upset at the Munster Finals last year. Minogue mustered his own staged indignation.

“I’m always upset by Cork hurlers,” he declared. “Especially the one or two good ones they seem to be able to muster.”

“Oh the diehard Clare fan,” said Burke. “Go away with you, and the rest of the Clare crowd. Department of Lost Causes.”

Minogue managed to make his way back down the road, alternately eyeing the saturated mash of dirt and humus by the ditches, and the mountain slopes in the distance.

He elected to finish his cigarette standing by the passenger side of his Peugeot.

Kilmartin stepped out presently.