by Nick James
“Better bring her in for a full body search,” someone said, and a number of people laughed.
“It’ll take days. God only knows what you’ll find,” another replied, which brought more laughter from everyone.
“She’s one for you, Brady. But you’d have to take tops.”
Dillon looked at one of the monitors. Surprise, surprise: his seat mate in the pink moo-moo was taking up the entire screen and then some. Other passengers waiting in line were staring at her. You could see a couple of them whispering a comment which would then bring a smile to the recipients face.
Try sitting next to that for six hours, Dillon thought.
“God bless. But would you look at that. Unbelievable,” someone said, and a silence seemed to fall over the room as her massive figure drifted into the back of the line.
“She’s smuggling a dog in,” Dillon said to no one in particular.
One of the guys in front of a monitor spun round in his desk chair and studied Dillon for a long moment. He wore a blue uniform shirt just like Ann Dumphy’s, though nowhere near as interesting. He grabbed a white mug with a Dublin Airport logo in his right hand, took a long, slurpy sip, then pushed his glasses back up on his nose and said, “What? You know her?”
“I said she’s got a dog. She has the thing hidden somewhere in that gigantic pink outfit. I had to sit next to her on the flight. Honest to God, she took up two seats and she had this small, little brown dog hidden in her cleavage. The damn thing growled at me.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. She calls the thing ‘Mr. Nibbles.’”
“Her tits?” someone called out, and the comment brought laughter from the group.
“No, the dog. She called him ‘Mr. Nibbles.’ A little brown furry thing, not much bigger than a cheeseburger. And it’s mean, like I said he growled at me. More than once.”
“I’m not sure we’ve a holding room big enough for her,” the guy with the mug said, then picked up a phone, pressed a button and began to speak a moment or two later. “Yeah, Kevin, far back of the line a very large woman in an absolute tent of a dress.”
“They call it a moo-moo,” Dillon said.
“Bloody tent is what it is,” someone replied.
“Moo, moo,” someone called sounding like a cow, and the room erupted in laughter.
The guy on the phone shot a quick look over his shoulder at the monitor, then spun his chair round to face it and said, “No thanks; I’ve a bad back. When she gets to the front of the line, pull her out and put her in interview room A. What? No, we’ve reason to believe she’s smuggling a dog in. Yes. Absolutely, a dog rescue, no doubt the thing is about to suffocate.”
That last line brought more chuckles from the group.
Once he hung up the phone he spun back round in his chair. “You’re the Yank? A US Marshal we hear.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
His accent was very different from the woman who had escorted him into the room, and Dillon had to concentrate to understand it.
“You disappoint me, Marshal. I was hoping for someone in a cowboy hat and boots. And your mates call you Dildo? Is that right?” he said, then looked left and right as everyone had a laugh. The redhead standing next to Dillon glanced at the floor and seemed to chuckle.
Dillon kept a straight face and silently cursed Olson and Douglass or whichever former friend it was who gave his nickname away.
“I’m here to escort an American citizen by the name of Daniel Ackermann back to the States. We’ve got room and board for at least the next seven years just waiting for him.”
“He sounds like a wonderful guy, and you’re welcome to him. Officer Ann Dumphy will take you to him. Humphy Dumphy, we call her.” A couple of guys laughed, but not everyone, and not Ann Dumphy, whose green eyes suddenly grew very cold.
“So everyone has a nickname,” Dillon said. “What’s yours?”
“Plonker,” someone called from behind, and that brought more laughter.
“Dumphy will get you settled in your accommodations. We’ve got you a room at the Gresham.” He turned toward Dumphy and asked, “You’ve got the packet of contact information?”
She nodded.
“You brought your paperwork, I trust,” he said to Dillon.
“All filled out according to your regulations,” Dillon replied and patted his computer bag.
“The Gresham?” he said to Dumphy.
“Yes, sir. I’m to bring him there, then the ‘Joy’ at three; bit of a tight timeframe,” she said.
“Maybe check into your room, get cleaned up. With that late arrival you don’t have much time before your initial meeting at Mountjoy prison. As long as your paperwork is in order, everything should go smoothly. We’d like nothing better than to get the cost of keeping this knacker off our books.”
Dillon nodded, thinking, not so fast, then said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Suel,” he said, standing from his chair. “Patrick Suel. My friends call me Paddy. It’s nice to meet you, Marshal. Listen, not to hurry you off, but it would be bad form to be late. With your initial appointment at three this afternoon, you’ve barely enough time to grab a shower and change. You’ll be at the four courts tomorrow morning. Time?” he said, and looked at Dumphy.
“The hearing’s at ten,” she said, then faced Dillon. “It’s all rather perfunctory at that point - that is, provided your paperwork is in order.”
“There you go, enjoy the rest of your day and welcome to Ireland,” Suel said, then settled back into his chair, spun round and studied the computer screens in front of him. “Now where is she, your woman in the pink woof-woof with the dog?”
“A moo-moo,” someone called further down the line.
“Yes, quite, a moo-moo. God only knows what else she’s hiding.”
“This way, Marshal. We’ll taxi into the city center. Do you have any luggage to claim?” Ann Dumphy asked, directing Dillon toward the door.
There was a part of him, perhaps a vicious part, that half-wanted to stay and watch the dog-smuggling interrogation of his seat mate, but apparently they were pressed for time.
Garda Dumphy led him through the airport baggage claim area, out a door, down a large escalator and then outside to wait in the queue for a taxi. The line was long, but fast. They didn’t have to wait more than five minutes before a taxi pulled up and they climbed in.
It was Dillon’s first experience with the steering on the right side of the vehicle, and he stared from the comfort of the back seat for a long moment. Not bad, he thought. Exotic international travel, as long as you ruled out his seat mate. A gorgeous redhead to escort him through the process and maybe even around town. He could get used to this life.
Traffic seemed to be just like the States, heavy and not making any progress. The cars were different, not just the right side steering but the size, smaller and more compact. Once they pulled off the Irish version of the interstate and onto a city street, things seemed to move even slower.
Chapter Six
It was just after two by the time the taxi dropped them off in front of the Gresham hotel on O’Connell Street in Dublin’s city center. The hotel was just across the street and up a block from the GPO, the General Post Office. It was one of the many historical structures that were shelled in the 1916 Easter Rebellion, back when O’Connell Street was called Sackville Street.
“I’ll grab a tea and wait for you down here so you can get cleaned up,” Ann Dumphy said as she climbed out of the back seat of the taxi.
Dillon slid across the seat, enjoying the view as she climbed out.
“We’re just going over to the ‘Joy’ to meet with staff, get some preliminary paperwork signed this afternoon. Come on, let’s get you checked in.”
“The ‘Joy’, that’s Mountjoy, the prison? That’s where Ackermann is being held, right?”
“Yes. The way we work it is, you meet staff this afternoon, they’ll do a quick check, make sure everything is in order. T
hen, tomorrow morning we go over to the Four Courts and appear in front of the magistrate at ten. Once we clear that hurdle you can meet with Mr. Ackermann if you wish. We’ll provide you with security to the airport on Sunday. The two of you will board the plane before anyone else and then you’re off to the States.”
“I’ve read his file, and I’ve got an 8 x 10 black and white photo, but I’ve never met the man. Have you? Met him? Ackermann? I’m curious to find out what he’s like, what he’s been up to these past seven or eight years.”
“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him. I’m part of the escort team, but at best I’ll only ever see him from a distance I’d guess.” She glanced at her watch. “We should probably let you get cleaned up. It would be bad form to be late for your first meeting. We’re not that far away.”
“I wouldn’t dream of being late, Officer….”
“Oh please, call me Ann. I’m to mind you for the next few days, so let’s both relax and we’ll get on just fine.”
“See you shortly,” Dillon said, and headed off toward the elevators.
Garda Dumphy watched him leave and made her subtle appraisal. Nice ass, she thought. And the rest of him isn’t half-bad either.
* * *
She waited for Dillon in the lobby while he hurried up to his room, showered and changed. He was back down in thirty minutes, tired, but able to get on with it at least for another hour or two. He took the time to notice she’d applied some fresh makeup, and there was just the slightest hint of a nice perfume in the air. Not that she needed any of it. She was the sort of woman who was naturally beautiful, with or without makeup and perfume.
“Oh, all ready to go. Perfect timing,” she said, setting a teacup back on the white saucer. She smiled as she stood and absently tugged along the sides of her shirt before they headed for the door. “We’d best take a taxi, Mountjoy is just a few minutes away. Come on.”
Dillon followed her out the door and across the street to where a queue of taxis waited. She walked toward the head of the queue where two drivers in shirt sleeves stood talking.
They turned as one and watched her approach, one half-whispering something to the other, who simply nodded. Dillon couldn’t hear what was said, but he thought he probably knew the gist of the comment, meant to be a compliment although probably fairly crude. Then the one who whispered the comment stepped forward.
“Right, Officer, now where are we off to?” he said pulling open the rear passenger door.
“Mountjoy, for the two of us,” she replied, sliding into the back seat.
The taxi driver gave Dillon a close appraisal, seemed to double check him, possibly looking for handcuffs on his wrists as he walked to the far side of the taxi and opened the passenger door.
“So the Joy it is then,” the driver said once he’d slid behind the wheel and stared at the two of them in his rearview mirror. He seemed to wait a long moment, hoping for some further response, God forbid an explanation. When it didn’t come he eventually started the car and drove off in the general direction of Mountjoy Prison.
“Right,” Ann said, and didn’t say anything further.
The taxi man glanced back at Dillon a few times enroute, thinking, He doesn’t look like the criminal type, but then again they’re exactly the ones you have to watch.
Chapter Seven
“This close enough?” the taxi man asked a few minutes later. He’d pulled up in front of a massive stone edifice two stories high with a heavy timbered blue gate centered in the tall, grey stone walls. A rounded window was set up high in the wall on either side of the gate, and below that was a long, narrow window with bars painted white. Ann sat in the back of the taxi for a moment and sent some sort of text message on her phone, then paid the ten-euro fare and asked for a receipt. As they stepped out of the taxi, Dillon looked up at the massive walls and just stared.
“Not the most welcoming structure in Dublin,” she chuckled.
“It looks more than a little imposing.”
“Built by the English around the 1850s, it was originally designed to house people who were to be deported. The English were,” she paused for a moment. “Efficient at their task.”
Suddenly a smaller door set in the large timber gate opened, and two smiling uniformed guards stepped out.
“You can never seem to get enough of this place, Ann. Always coming back for more. It must be my charming personality,” one of the guards said. He was big, heavy in a sort of farm labor way, and bald, with a very pink head. He had a natural smile and sparkling blue eyes. His partner was tall, lean, and maybe fifteen years younger with dark, close-cropped hair, brown eyes and a prominent nose. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down on his thin neck like a basket ball. He didn’t seem to respond to the charming personality comment.
“I’m always amazed you’re still working, Brian, as opposed to being a locked up. I just like to stop in and check on you from time to time, see if your status has changed from staff to resident,” Ann said. “This is US Marshal Jack Dillon. He’s going to be escorting one of your guests back to the States.”
The large guard with the pink, bald head smiled and nodded. “Nice to meet you, Marshal. Dildo, is it?” he asked then chuckled.
It had to be one of those two idiots Olson or Douglass, Dillon thought. Passing his nickname on - the two of them deserved a special hell for the effort. Once he got back to the States he’d come up with something.
“I see my colleagues have been in touch.”
“Oh, they got us up on all the trash about you. Come on, they’ve got you in conference room C, Ann. Fortunately, for a change, the man in charge seems to be in good humor.”
“That can’t last for long,” she replied, and they stepped through the door, walked about ten feet then stood in front of another entrance, this one adorned with cast iron bars painted a royal blue. Their two escorts each flashed a security badge in front of a scanner, then stood back and waited a good ten seconds before there was a loud buzz and the lock on the cell-like door snapped open. As they pushed the heavy door open it squeaked and groaned on its hinges.
“Bit of a security check, and then we’ll escort you to the conference room,” Brian the guard said as they walked down a short hallway. Dillon placed his computer bag on a counter then waited while an unsmiling guard searched it, removed the computer then scanned the empty bag.
“Turn the computer on so I can determine that it works,” the guard said in a monotone, sounding like he’d already given the instruction a few thousand times that day. Dillon turned the computer on. The moment it made the sound indicating it was starting the guard said, “Thank you. Now turn it off, please. I’ll need a photo ID.” Dillon handed him his passport along with his Marshal’s ID. The guard actually studied the ID for a long moment, looking from the photo to Dillon and back again.
“I know, the picture looks like I should be arrested for war crimes,” Dillon joked.
Apparently the guard didn’t quite see the humor in the comment, and studied the ID for a little longer. “Please read this form, sign at the bottom stating you’re in agreement, then return your computer to its case.”
Dillon scratched his signature across the bottom of the form without reading it, and handed it back to the guard.
“You didn’t read it,” the guard said.
“If I don’t sign it you’re not going to let me in, right?”
“I can’t let you in if you don’t sign, it’s against the rules.”
“There you go.”
“This way if you please, Marshal,” Brian the guard said, and Dillon followed him through a maze of halls.
“That guy back there must have had a long night. Not the most cheerful person I’ve met in Dublin.”
“Good thing you caught him on one of his better days,” Brian said. He didn’t appear to be joking. He led them into a conference room with a heavy wooden table that seated eight. The room had three windows with rounded tops looking out onto a small garden plot. W
hat looked like two rose bushes and maybe a half-dozen tomato plants inhabited the garden. The room was empty at the moment, but there were a number of stacks of official-looking documents lined up at one end of the table and a tablet of lined paper with a pen rested in front of four of the chairs.
“You’ll sit here,” Ann said, and pointed at one of the chairs positioned at the end of the table. “They’ll be here in a couple of minutes. Would you like a tea?”
“No thanks,” Dillon said just as the door opened and a heavyset guy with shirtsleeves rolled up over massive forearms strolled into the room. He gave a quick glance around and zeroed in on Ann. “Garda Dumphy, how’re you keeping?” he said, nodding, then extended a hand toward Dillon, “And you’re US Marshal Jack Dillon, I presume.”
“That’s right. Nice to meet you,” Dillon said, drawing out the last word, in effect asking the question without actually asking.
“Dougherty, Shane Dougherty. Shall we get started? Just some basic things prior to your appearance tomorrow before the magistrate. Are you at all familiar with the prisoner, Mr. Ackermann?”
“Only what I’ve read. I’ve never actually met the man. He disappeared from the States once he was due to surrender and begin serving his sentence. I’ve studied his photo, read up on the charges he was convicted of.”
Dougherty nodded in a way that suggested he was familiar with Ackermann’s history. “Based on our experience your transport should go fairly smooth. Nothing even remotely associated with any incidents during his three-month stay here. A model resident, you might say. I can only hope you’re in for a very boring return journey.”
“I hope that’s the case,” Dillon said.
“Well then, let’s get started. Please, have a seat.” Dougherty pulled out a chair, sat down and opened a file. “We’ll need you here on Sunday morning no later than….”
It took an hour and twenty minutes from start to finish, and then they were back outside the gate at Mountjoy, waiting for another taxi.