Dublin Odyssey

by Michael P. Cooney

  As Mickey approaches the portable catwalk on the left side of the plane he’s greeted by two female flight attendants with Irish sounding name tags and the copilot, a tall dark-hair man with light-blue eyes. His name tag says “Captain McNamara.” Centered above his name are silver wings.

  On each side of the silver wings are small flag pins. To the left, the Republic of Ireland’s flag and to the right and pinned just a tad higher is the American flag. The placement of the captain’s pins, Old Glory higher than Ireland’s, indicates to Mickey that McNamara was in the US military but is also proud of his Irish roots. Characteristics shared by Mickey Devlin, ex-Special Forces.

  “Thank you for flying US Air,” one of the flight attendants says.

  Then the captain addresses Mickey. “How were your accommodations, Mister Devlin?”

  “First class, Captain. Thank you very much.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Captain McNamara points to the stairs. “When you reach the end of the catwalk, turn right and go down one flight of stairs. There is an exit at ground level. There are two gentlemen waiting for you on the tarmac.”

  “Saw them when we docked. Thanks again, Captain.”

  This time the pilot addresses Mickey by rank. “My pleasure, Captain Devlin.”

  The two flight attendants look at each other and say, “So that’s the Philly cop.” McNamara confirms with a nod.

  Mickey follows the captain’s instructions and ends up outside the terminal and under the nose of the aircraft. He doesn’t take two steps when Michael O’Leary starts yelling his name and waving.

  “Mickey, over here. Want ya to meet somebody.”

  Mickey, holding his trench coat and bag in one hand, hurries over to his friend Michael and gives him a crushing one-arm hug. The two old friends exchange warm greetings. Then Michael turns to the uniformed man to his left.

  “This is my cousin, Francis Cooke. Francis is Chief of Airport customs. He’s gonna give you the dignitary treatment.”

  Mickey extends his free hand to shake the Chief’s hand.

  “Chief Cooke. Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Captain. How was your flight?”

  “Couldn’t have been better, sir.”

  “Good. But please call me, Fran.”

  “And I’m Mickey.”

  The Chief says, “I understand you’re here on official police business.”

  Mickey already feeling his roots answers in a strong voice, “That I am. That I am.” Then he puts down his bag and reaches in his suit coat pocket for the letter of authorization from the commissioner and hands it to the Chief. The Chief takes the folded letter, opens it, and takes a few seconds to read its contents, then hands it back to Mickey.

  “You hold on to that for the Garda. They’re a wee bit stickier ‘bout paperwork than we are.”

  “Heard that.”

  “All right then, Mickey. Now that you’ve cleared customs, what do ya say we get the rest of your luggage so you can be on your way?”

  Mickey looks at Michael and smiles. Then looks back at the Chief. “This is my luggage. I’m only here for a couple of days then it’s back to Philly.”

  “Very good then. Climb aboard and I’ll drive you two to the parking lot and Mike’s motorcar.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Fran.”

  The three men get in the Chief’s car and drive around the terminal to the customs employee lot. Mickey and Chief Cooke say their goodbyes and Michael leads Mickey to the rooftop parking lot and his private vehicle. A vintage 1960 Chevy El Camino, painted cherry red.

  Michael points to his classic ride and says, “What do ya think, Mick? Pretty cool or what? I had it shipped over from the US. My brudder Sean was keeping it for me in his garage. It’s got the original 235I engine.”

  “It’s beautiful. Looks just like the Chevy you used to work on all the time back in the old neighborhood.”

  “That’s because it is. Only 14,163 were built in ‘60.”

  “That’s right. And they stop producing those babies in ‘64.”

  “Sounds like ya know your GM history, Mick.”

  “Some! But I’m more of a Ford guy myself. Guess I never mentioned my ‘69 Mustang.”

  “Great minds think alike, brudder.”

  Both men laugh out loud and give each other a couple of high-fives in succession.

  “Okay then. Get in, Mick. Let’s get you situated.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “A generous man, they say, has never gone to hell.”

  Irish Proverb

  Michael drives out of the airport and goes south on N1 toward Dublin. As he gets closer to the heart of the city, he gives Mickey some little-known Irish history.

  “Bet ya didn’t know Dublin comes from a Viking word. Did ya, Mick?”

  “No. I never heard that, Mike. But I’ve always been fascinated with Ireland’s rich history. Including that period when the Norse established a harbor in Dublin. I think it was around the mid-800s when the Vikings sailed in and decided to spend the winter.”

  Michael with both hands still on the wheel smiles and gives two thumbs-up. “It was 841 to be exact. Ya know, looking at you, I’d say you got some of them there Viking genes running through ya. Blond hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders. Anybody ever tell ya that, Mick?”

  “Tons of people. When I was a kid, my Da used to tell me all kinds of stuff about the Vikings and about how the Irish chieftains persuaded them to leave Dublin.”

  “Persuaded! Right. That they did, Mick. But fifteen years later the devils returned and built a stronghold somewhere between Dublin Castle and Wood Quay. Back then it’s where the rivers Liffey and Poddle came together and formed a dark still body of water. The Vikings called the area Dyfflin, which means ‘black pool.’ And from Dyfflin we get Dublin.”

  “Cool!”

  “Absolutely! Ireland does have a rich history.”

  “Too bad most Irish-Americans are more into leprechauns and Guinness.”

  “It is too bad, Mick. I remember as a kid in Philly how the movies always portrayed the Irish as drunks, hoodlums or priests. I knew we were more than that. Not many Americans know how our people were treated by the home-growners in 19th century America. Even our own fathers experienced the ‘No Irish Need Apply’ bullshit. And, when the illegal Mexicans started moving their drug trade into our neighborhoods, I couldn’t wait to get back here. That’s why fifteen years ago or so I just gathered my things and caught the next flight to Dublin. And here I’ll stay.”

  “You know, there were a lot of rumors about your whereabouts back then, Mike. Some kinda ugly.”

  Michael laughs out loud. “You talkin’ ‘bout Sean whackin’ me rumors?”

  “Well, for starters, yes. Not that I ever believed it.”

  “I heard them, too. Obviously, all bogus rumors. But I heard the whole myth of Sean doing the Houdini on his own blood bolstered his street cred back in the Bog.”

  “You’re right. It did.”

  “So be it. But I wasn’t hiding. I’ve been out in the open since I returned. Nobody, not even the Philly PD, bothered to look any further than the myth. I think the PD was either too lazy or wanted the myth to get legs, for some unknown reason. No offense, Mick.”

  “None taken. Truth be known, it was probably all of the above.”

  Michael looks over at Mickey but doesn’t respond at first. “Anyway, if you get a chance, stop by the Dublinia exhibit. It’s right next to Christ Church Cathedral. It’s a couple of floors of Ireland’s Viking past. Lots of cool stuff. Hey! You being a cop and all. Did ya know the word law also comes from the Vikings?”

  “Got me again. I didn’t know that.”

  “Ya gotta check out Dublinia, Mick.”

  “I’ll sure try. But something tells me I won’t be doing much sightseeing this trip.”

  “Riiight. Ya got bad guys to catch.”

  “At this point only one, Mike. Only one.”

  “I hear t
hat. Ya know I’m here for ya, brudder. Anything you need.”

  Michael gets Mickey’s attention and looks him directly in the eyes. “And I mean anything.”

  Mickey doesn’t respond. But he knows exactly what Michael is offering. It’s the Irish way.

  Twenty minutes later, Michael pulls through the front driveway to the rear of number 93 Saint Stephen’s Green South. Michael’s home is a beautifully restored four-level Georgian-style home with a wide red front door, directly across from the park. Michael parks and turns off the car. “You’re on the top floor. It’s a nice and proper little suite overlooking Saint Stephen’s Green. And you can see Grafton Street. I know you’re familiar with Grafton.”

  “Of course. It’s my wife’s favorite place to shop in Dublin.”

  “Okay then. Grab your bag and let’s get you settled in. I know you’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Sounds good.”

  While Mickey gets himself together Michael locks up the car and they both walk to the rear of the property.

  “My family and I live on the other three floors. The fourth-floor suite is one I keep available for friends who come on holiday. Or, in your case, to arrest dangerous chaps.”

  “That’s the plan. When I was over in ‘90, I stayed at the Westbury, off Grafton.”

  “Sure! Nice place. A friend of mine in the NYPD likes to hang out at their bar when he’s over here. Goes there before he heads to my place for a late lunch or dinner. Maybe you heard of him. Brian Delany.”

  “Delany. Don’t think so.”

  “He’s actually a Dubliner. His family moved to New York in ‘61 when he was just a lad. Became a NYPD copper in ‘69. And his brudder became a cop a few years later. His mom never really liked New York. She moved back to Dublin a year after Brian’s Da passed. A good guy. A tough guy. Got a mug on him that could sink a ship.”

  “Sounds like a guy I’d like to meet.”

  “You two would get along. I’m certain of it.”

  “Who knows? Maybe one of these days our paths will cross.”

  “Maybe. Being in the same business and all. Well, here we are, brudder. Home sweet home.”

  “This is a really nice property, Michael. And what a great location.”

  “Yeah! Moved here in ‘91. It used to belong to some big-shot movie actress from Jersey, I think.”

  “Really! Got a name?”

  “Somethin’ Kelly. Or Kelly somethin’.”

  “Kelly something from New Jersey. I’ll have to check that out when I get back.”

  “Yeah! Let me know. Could mean somethin’ to the next buyer.”

  “Will do.”

  “We can take the private lift to the fourth floor from back here.”

  “Nice. That’s convenient.”

  “Makes it easy for guests. They can come and go without disturbing the rest of the house. I got your bag. Follow me.”

  Mickey follows his host off the lift and across the hall to the suite’s door. It has a roomy, well-lit living room facing Saint Stephen’s Green. That’s followed by a galley kitchen, a small bedroom, a hall bathroom and another larger bedroom in the rear of the building with a full-glass door leading to a small black-iron-railed deck with a tiled floor.

  “What a great spot, Michael. I could retire in a place just like it. I love it. I can’t thank you enough for the invite.”

  “Anytime, Mickey. Here’s the back-door key, the key to lift, and the key to the suite. Ya just got to promise me no dead bodies, right?”

  Mickey chuckles. “I promise, Michael. No dead ones in your suite. Not to worry.”

  “Okay then. I’ll let you be. I’m sure you’re tired and want to freshen up. I took care of that business with Superintendent O’Clooney. He said you were gonna call him around five o’clock, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, instead of calling him, I set up dinner at my pub at the same time. You can use one of my private serving rooms. How’s that fit your schedule?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Ya remember where my place is, right?”

  “Sure. Between the Ha’penny Bridge and the O’Connell Bridge on the Aston Quay.”

  “You got it. See ya at five. Oh, and feel free to use the phone. It’s a separate number. I got a great deal.”

  “Thanks. I left my cell and pager back in Philly. Figured they wouldn’t work over here anyway.”

  “Right.”

  “So then, O’Leary’s at five. I’ll be at your place with bells on. Thanks again for everything.”

  Michael leaves and Mickey unpacks and thinks about calling his wife to leave a “got here in one piece message” on her cell. But with the time difference he decides against it. Don’t want to wake her. I’ll catch up with her later. He’s not quite as concerned about leaving a somewhat-similar message on the commissioner’s office voice mail.

  He punches in the police commissioner’s private number at PD Headquarters and waits for the beep. “Commissioner, it’s Captain Devlin. Right now it’s 11:15 AM, here in Dublin. Just wanted to let you know things are going smoothly. I’m meeting with a high-ranking official in the Irish Garda at five o’clock, my time. I’ll touch base with your office later.”

  With over five hours till his dinner meeting with Superintendent O’Clooney, Mickey calls Irish Tours Car Rental and arranges to have them deliver a sub-compact American-made car to his location. The vehicle arrives a short time later and Mickey maps out the best route to Castleknock, just west of Dublin City. He figures now is as good a time as any to break the bad news of Jerry Drum’s death to his brother, Patrick.

  CHAPTER 17

  “To die and to lose one’s life are much the same.”

  Irish Proverb

  After driving around Saint Stephen’s Green a few times, to hone his skills for left-side maneuvering, Mickey takes R109 to toll #7, then M50 to the town of Castleknock. The town is a mix between upscale homes with front circular drives and glass solariums, and large stone-wall-divided plots of green set aside decades ago for Irish farmers and the pig and sheep ranchers.

  It doesn’t take Mickey long to find Patrick Drum’s sheep ranch. He does a drive-by first to get the lay of the land. Then he parks about a hundred yards down the snug tree-lined blacktop road from Drum’s main gate.

  Mickey takes his compact Bushnell binoculars from their leather case and does a slow scan of the forty-acre property. The sheep ranch is right out of an Ireland tourism pamphlet. It sits on deep-green picturesque rolling hills of countryside. It’s just down the road from an old-world village with scores of white stucco exterior homes and thatch roofs with stone chimneys.

  Endless three-foot high, oddly shaped, dark fieldstone walls cover the vivid landscape. The ancient walls divide the numerous grazing areas for the Drum flock and areas they rent to other smaller ranchers in the county. Hundreds of sheep graze in sync, all marked with six-inch circles of varying colors displayed on their backs to identify ownership, with red being the most common among them. At the farthest end of the field a half-dozen horses with long flowing manes and matching tails graze and roam freely. One white and gray mare is lying under a line of trees and appears to be ready to give birth at any time. A scene Mickey can’t resist. He puts down his binoculars and starts to take a series of photographs with his new “state of the art” Casio camera.

  Mickey’s photographic endeavor is interrupted by the sound of heavy machinery. He looks back toward Drum’s main gate and sees a red tractor driven by a man with bushy reddish hair peeking out from under a classic gray-wool Irish Jeff cap. The tractor is pulling two small wooden flatbeds stacked with hay covered with a large dark-tan canvas tarp over the top and strapped down with thick bands of rope. Both sides of the tarp are professionally labeled Drum Wool Inc. As the tractor approaches, Mickey picks up his map of County Dublin and raises it just enough to cover his face until the tractor passes. He glances in his rearview mirror to see if the man looks back at him.

  Good! Prob
ably thinks I’m just another lost tourist.

  Mickey waits until the man and his tractor disappear around the curve in the road about a quarter mile away. Then he starts his rental and drives up to and under the ornate white cast-iron archway that distinguishes the Drum Ranch. The dirt road leading up to the two-story white and kelly-green house with an out of place orange front door is about one hundred yards from the main thoroughfare. Mickey does a one-eighty, and parks a respectable distance from the small concrete front veranda, facing the main road. Just in case.

  For the most part, the property looks deserted. Mickey steps up onto the veranda prepared to knock on the double-panel door, but then backs off and instead does a leisurely walk around the perimeter of the house. On the way he snaps a few more shots of the area. The rocky grass area around the house is littered with little fluffy pieces of grayish-white sheep’s wool. About forty yards from the rear of the house is a massive two-level barn that’s easily twice the size of the house.

  The Drum house reminds Mickey of the house his aunt Maggie and her husband, John Turner, lived in just outside Philadelphia in Furlong, Pennsylvania. Also a sheep farm but with the added features of tomato plants and fruit trees lining the bottom twenty acres. Mickey does a quick look inside the dark barn and takes more general area photos through the open wood double doors. Nobody. It’s like a ghost town around here.

  He walks back to a chicken-wire fence leading to the open fields beyond the barn. Mickey takes a few more photos of the grazing sheep, the back of the barn, including another flatbed truck also piled with hay, and the grounds around the Drum house. One never knows.

  As Mickey makes his way around the opposite side of the house, he takes additional shots of the fields around the ranch. Just as he puts his camera back in its case attached to his belt, he hears, then sees, the same red tractor minus the two small flatbeds turn onto Drum’s private dirt road. He hurries back to where he parked and waits for the tractor to pull up beside him.

  The man driving looks like an Irish postcard: Jeff cap, ruddy complexion, wearing a blue lambskin turtleneck sweater, worn jeans and calf-high green rubber boots covered with red mud. The man turns off the motor and addresses Mickey.