by Mike Faricy
“What are you…? How did you…? Did we?”
“I think so. At least I’m pretty sure. Umm, you were really good. I think.” He added that last bit, hoping to sort of smooth things over.
It didn’t seem to work. She gave a frantic glance at the digital clock on her dresser: 6:27. For the first time, he noticed the framed photo of her standing next to a very large man. She was wearing a bikini, a very small bikini, small enough to show at least the top of her cherry tattoo. The guy wore swim trunks, navy blue. He didn’t appear all that fat. In fact, upon closer examination, he didn’t seem to have an ounce of fat on him, anywhere. He had a square chin, a direct gaze, abs in a definitive six-pack pattern, a massive chest, and a muscular arm wrapped around her shoulder. His hands looked to be about the size of ten-pound hams.
“Oh God, he’s going to be really pissed off if he finds out,” she said. “Don’t you dare tell anyone, but you better get the hell out of here. Jimmy will be home in an hour.”
“Jimmy? Home?”
“My husband,” she said, rolling out of bed. She yanked the pillow out from underneath Dillon’s head, tore the leopard-print pillowcase off, and dropped it on the floor. She did the same with her pillow, then tore off the sheet covering Dillon’s knees and tossed it on the floor.
“He’s taking the red-eye in from Vegas. They land just after seven. He has to grab a taxi home, but, well, if you know what’s good for you, for both of us, you better get the hell out. What’d you say your name was?”
“Umm, Jack,” he said and held out his hand as if they were meeting at a church social function for the first time instead of staring nakedly at one another after a night of debauchery.
“Kitty,” she said, briefly shaking his hand. She quickly gathered up the sheets and pillowcases from the floor, gave a furtive glance around, then called over her shoulder as she hurried out of the room with the bed linens. “You better get dressed. Jimmy had a fight out at the MGM in Vegas two nights ago. He lost, so believe me, he won’t be all that happy.”
“A fight?” He had just pulled his boxers on and was casting a quick look around for his other sock.
“He’s a heavyweight, up-and-coming they say, that is if he can control that awful temper of his. Jimmy DiMucci.”
Dillon decided he didn’t really need to find his other sock and pulled his trousers on. His undershirt was on backward, but so what. He pulled his shirt on, figured he could button it in the car. Then thought, God, my car, where is it?
He hurried out of the bedroom, stuffing his feet into his shoes along the way. She was in a small laundry room down the hall. He stopped halfway to the front door and watched as she stuffed a load of bed linens into the washing machine. Somehow along the way, she’d managed to slip on a black thong. The lacy design tattooed across her backside seemed to awaken a hazy memory. He’d already forgotten her name, again, and took a wild guess.
“It was nice to meet you, Katie. Maybe we could hook up sometime when…”
“It’s Kitty, dumbass, and don’t hold your breath. Hey, just to be safe, maybe do a quick look around for a taxi unloading a big guy with two black eyes before you leave the building.”
That sounded like traveling music. “Nice meeting you,” he said, and hurried out the apartment door.
It was three flights down to the street level. The front door looked about a hundred years old and had a large, oval-shaped window of beveled glass. Dillon gave a quick look out the window, glancing up and down the street. Things appeared to be fairly quiet at this hour, so he opened the door, glanced left and right, then hurried down the half-dozen steps. He spotted his car halfway down the street in the middle of the block. The right front tire was resting up on top of the curb.
“Hey,” someone screeched.
He half-jumped, glanced around, and then looked up to the third floor in the brownstone. Kitty was leaning out of an open window, wearing just her thong and a sneer.
“You forgot your coat, dumb shit,” she yelled and tossed a navy-blue blazer out the window. A car drove down the street and honked, presumably at her hanging out the window. Dillon took a couple of steps and managed to catch his blazer a moment before it fluttered to the ground.
“Don’t even think of calling me, ever,” she shouted, then slammed the window closed.
Chapter Two
It was only a twenty-minute drive home. He pulled into the underground parking, hurried up to the fourteenth floor, and into his unit. He took a quick shower and remembered he had planned to do laundry last night until plans changed when he met that woman. He threw a couple of changes of underwear and the cleanest shirt he could find into a small suitcase and headed out onto the street to hail a taxi. Trying to get a taxi was another matter altogether and took about twice as long as the actual ride.
“Where to, pal?” the driver said once Dillon finally got a taxi to stop.
“Four hundred Pearl Street.”
“Some kind of trouble, is it?” he asked as he pulled away. He stared at Dillon in the rearview mirror.
“For me? No. Actually, it’s where I work.”
That brought a surprised look to the driver’s face, and he remained quiet for the rest of the drive. Dillon paid the fare, got a receipt and gave him a three-dollar tip. The driver looked at the tip, then at Dillon, but didn’t comment.
He wheeled his small suitcase into his office, checked his watch, then hurried to the break room for a cup of coffee. He smiled at a couple of the staff working from cubicles in the center of the office, but only one gave a casual nod in reply as he passed. She was blonde-haired, which immediately got him trying to remember what the woman’s name was last night. Kate?
“Dillon, all set for your vacation excursion?” Charles Dearborn. “Charlie” to his face, “Deadborn" behind his back. He was on the fast track. Destined for bigger things, but then that would only be natural if you’d never, ever made a mistake in your life. There was no love lost between the two of them.
“Hey, Charlie, how’s it going?”
“Wonderful as always,” he said, probably not joking. “Coffee?” he asked as he began to fill his mug.
“That’s why I’m here.”
Charlie topped off his mug, then set the almost empty pot back onto the burner. “Well, what do you know? Looks like you’re in charge of a fresh pot,” he laughed, took a sip, and headed out the door.
Dillon watched him leave the room, thought about giving him the finger, but waited for the expected move. Dearborn quickly glanced back just before he reached the door and stared, expecting to catch him in the act.
“Have a good day,” Dillon smiled.
Dearborn looked disappointed, then headed out the door as Dillon gave him the finger. He opened the top of the coffee machine, tossed the paper filter with the grounds into the trash, placed a new filter in, scooped in fresh grounds, added the water, and then waited. When a little more than a cup had been brewed, he pulled the pot out and filled his mug. Coffee kept dribbling out of the machine and onto the burner. Sizzling. The puddle made a hissing sound as Dillon replaced the pot on the burner. More coffee overflowed and ran down the front of the machine and onto the counter. He quickly grabbed a paper towel, mopped up the mess, then hurried back to his office.
He spent the rest of the day until mid-afternoon writing reports and filling out forms. At five minutes to three, he took a deep breath, walked down the hallway to the door labeled “Assistant Chief Deputy, US Marshal Service.” He took another deep breath and entered.
The room was paneled in dark wood with a large desk fifteen feet from the door and centered perfectly in the room. Behind the desk, sitting ramrod straight behind a spotless desk, sat Meredith Busby, Dahlquist’s keeper of the gate. Dillon had always figured she disliked him almost as much as Dahlquist.
Behind Meredith hung a framed painting of the man himself, Dahlquist. He wore a dark suit, with a lean jawline and piercing eyes. He held a rolled-up paper of some sort in his hand, and
his badge was pinned to his suit coat. There was an ongoing auction among staff to buy the painting and use it as a dartboard. At just this moment, Dillon couldn’t recall who had the lead bid.
“Marshal Dillon, here for your three o’clock appointment?”
“Yes,” he answered, wondering why the hell else he’d be here.
“The Chief Deputy is on the phone at the moment, and you are a few minutes early. Just enough time to perhaps hurry back and get your suit coat,” she said and raised her eyebrows, suggesting shouldn’t it be obvious.
“Be right back,” Dillon said and hurried back out the door.
He pulled his suit coat on over his rolled-up sleeves while hurrying back toward Dahlquist’s office. He paused outside the door, straightened his tie then entered.
“Oh, so much better. Please, take a seat. I’ll inform the Chief Deputy you’re here,” Meredith said.
Dillon considered reminding Miss Precise that Dahlquist was an Assistant Chief Deputy then quickly decided against it.
“Yes, sir, I have Marshal Dillon here for his three o’clock appointment. Yes, sir, he is. Yes. Very well, sir,” she said and hung up the phone.
“You may go in, Marshal. You remember procedure?”
“Yeah, knock.”
“Excellent.”
Dillon stepped in front of a pair of wooden doors. The doors had heavy brass knobs decorated with some sort of Victorian design. Each door boasted six inset panels with a beveled edge. He knocked on the door and waited.
“Enter,” a voice called from inside, and he turned one of the handles and opened the door.
The room was dark, with wooden Venetian blinds drawn across the four large windows. Two lamps on a carved credenza gave off soft yellow light that drifted over a massive carved wooden desk. There was an area off to the right with a comfortable looking couch and two winged-back chairs arranged around a coffee table. A floor lamp on either end of the couch was turned on and gave off more soft yellow light.
Seated behind the desk was a smaller man with long strands of thin hair combed back over his head. The lights from the lamps reflected off the top of his head and seemed to project the semblance of a halo. The top of the desk was spotless except for a sheaf of papers centered in the middle of the desk and a pen in an elaborate holder positioned at the very front of the desk.
“Be with you in a moment,” Dahlquist said without looking up. Dillon stood silently for a few minutes before Dahlquist reached across his desk and took a silver pen from the holder. He groaned slightly as he reached, then seemed to examine something for a moment before he wrote his signature at the bottom, gave a satisfied look, and set the pen back in the holder.
“Marshal Dillon, you may take a seat,” he said, looking up. No “Thanks for coming.” No “How are you?”
Dillon pulled one of three black leather client chairs back and sat down. Not surprisingly, the thing was uncomfortable.
Dahlquist studied him for a moment, then said, “Marshal, I’m going to be brutally honest.” There was a surprise. “I’m sending you overseas to escort Daniel Ackermann back to the United States because you’re the only one I can spare for the time this is going to take. Everyone else is too important, and I can’t spare them at the moment. You will be accompanied on the flight back by a member of Ireland’s Garda Síochána, their police force. I think it goes without saying we do not need an incident of any sort. You will be representing the entire service. I hope I’m making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir, very.”
Dahlquist gave a momentary look like he didn’t believe him. “Very well then, I’ll expect a full report Monday, upon your return.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any questions?”
“No, sir. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Hardly an opportunity, Dillon. You’re simply the only one I can spare. All right, then. Dismissed.”
Dillon stood up from the chair, repositioned it exactly where it had been arranged, then left the office.
“Finished so soon?” Meredith said as he closed one of the double doors behind him, then gave an evil smile.
“Yes. Enjoy the rest of your day,” he said and hurried out of the office. He grabbed another cup of coffee, made a couple of phone calls, and cleaned off his desk, then wheeled his suitcase out the door and down to the street. He hailed a taxi and headed out to meet friends.
“Where you off to?” the driver asked, taking in the suitcase.
“Quick trip overseas, back Sunday night.”
“That’s barely long enough to adjust to the time change.”
“Just long enough to have me even more screwed up when I return.”
“Ain’t that just the way. We go back to Spain every couple of years to see the wife’s folks. Lovely people, nice place, but I come back here and think, as screwed up as we are, this is still the best show in town.”
“Yeah, well, I’m headed to Dublin, so we’ll see if I feel the same way Sunday night.”
“Who you flying?”
“Actually, I just need to head down to the lower Eastside. I’ve got a meeting there first.”
“Busy man,” the driver said as he pulled away from the curb.
Chapter Three
“Here’s to you, Dildo.” Gary Olson smiled, then raised his glass of sparkling mineral water in a toast. Dildo, Dillon’s nickname ever since he’d joined the Marshals Service.
“Yeah,” Brian Douglass added. “I don’t know how in the hell you managed to pull this off, but well done Dildo.” He raised his glass as well, and they toasted Dillon.
“To Dildo,” the three of them said and clinked glasses. More than a couple of heads turned.
They were seated in a corner booth at Spitzer’s, a trendy bar on New York’s lower east side. They worked together, all three of them US Marshals. The occasion was Dillon’s evening flight to Dublin on assignment to escort Mr. Daniel Ackermann back to the US. Ackermann, a fugitive banker, wanted on a series of federal charges, had fled the States back in 2012 and disappeared. He surfaced in Ireland in early 2015. Two years of legal wrangling had finally come to an end. He’d been detained in Dublin after attempting to flee to parts unknown using a false passport. Dillon’s assignment, compliments of Assistant Chief Deputy Dahlquist, was to make sure Ackermann was returned to the States safe and sound. Six hours of watching a movie or reading a book and a so-so meal. Nothing like having an exciting weekend.
“The thing none of us can seem to figure out, Dildo, is how you managed to snag this gig. Time in Dublin, all expenses paid, compliments of the US Marshals Service. Have you been over painting Dahlquist’s house or working in his garden? How’d this happen?” Olson said.
Dillon smiled, sipped his Coke, and wondered if women in Ireland got tattoos like Katie or Kathy or whatever her name was. In truth, no one was more surprised than he was at receiving the assignment. His boss certainly wasn’t fond of him. His pals had been chomping at the bit to get the nod for this gig, but somehow it fell on Jack Dillon’s desk. He wasn’t about to question the fact that Dahlquist said he was the only one who could be spared. A dig at Dillon, yeah, sure, but who cared? He was going to Dublin.
“Don’t make it sound like a vacation. I’ve got to contact the Dublin cops the moment I arrive and turn right around and bring this prick back to serve his sentence. Seven years, I might add, plus whatever they tack on for fleeing. I’ll barely have a chance to adjust to the time change over there. Five hours, I might add. I’ll have just a moment or two to rest in whatever top-notch, exclusive hotel suite they’ve got me booked into.”
“Contact the Dublin cops? Are you kidding? They’re meeting you at the airport, probably the second you step off the plane. Christ, they’ll probably have someone lined up to carry your suitcase. Contact the Dublin cops that’ll take all of thirty seconds, and then you’ve got a couple of days left to try and hit every pub in Dublin. Not to mention trying to find some woman stupid enough to spend the night with
you.”
“I’m missing my mom’s birthday, for Christ’s sake, and, I might add, I’ll be working the weekend, giving my all for the service while you two are home relaxing.”
“Breaks my heart…not,” Douglass said and shook his head.
“Three little girls in dance lessons,” Olson said. “Saturday and Sunday at our place is crazy.”
“Look, guys, what can I tell you? Old pain in the ass Dahlquist looked at his staff, decided he’d want to avoid an international incident, and figured he’d just better send his very best. It’s not like it’s rocket science. Naturally, that was me and he—”
“Come on, Dahlquist? The bastard hates you. You’re usually the first one on the list for every lousy post that comes along. You must have something on him. You got pictures of him and that Meredith?” Olson said.
“Please don’t go there. I don’t even want to think about that,” Douglass said. “Dahlquist hates you? I’d say that’s putting it mildly. Then again, don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, the man hates all of us.”
“Maybe he’s had a change of heart. I think he’s finally seen the error of his ways, realizes even he can make a mistake once in a great while. Let’s just say I’m getting my just reward,” Dillon suggested and then thought, not for the first time, it really didn’t seem to make sense.
“Dahlquist has a heart? Dahlquist realized he made a mistake? You know, whatever it is you’re smoking is against the law. Got any to share?” Olson said, and they all laughed.
“I know, I know. I’ve been trying to figure it out, too. Then I started thinking, a six-hour flight from JFK to Dublin, with free wine, should give me plenty of time to ponder the complexities of the situation. I’ve put in a request with the airline to have a beautiful blonde seated next to me.” He immediately conjured up a foggy image of the woman he met last night. Her tattoos, the piercings, shaved in the shape of a martini glass. Her name started with a K; if only he could remember it, he could— but then just as quickly, he remembered the framed photo next to her digital clock. He’s an up and coming heavyweight if he could just control his temper. He decided not to go there and maybe best to leave their encounter as a one-night stand.