“It’s a script.”
“Whatever! You want to get it dead-on, right? ‘The real thing,’ says you. You wanted an entry, so here we are. But it’s costing me, costing me big-time.”
“Like what? What’s it costing you? Nothing — that’s what.”
Murphy took a step back and he waved his finger like a windscreen wiper.
“Don’t go there. Don’t.”
“I’m the one paying,” Fanning said.
“Just ’cause you can’t handle it. That’s what it is. You want, what’s it again, gritty? I gave it to you. The real thing. Now you don’t like it?”
“I didn’t expect someone to pull out a gun and kill a dog.”
“That’s what you got to do sometimes. That’s how these things work! Get real here, or you’ll never get anywhere. Everyone has guns, everyone who’s anyone. And another thing-”
Murphy stopped. His eyes were fixed on the warehouse behind, and the opening doorway. Fanning looked around.
“Shite,” Murph said. He shoved keys at Fanning. “In the car. I’ll handle it.”
Fanning saw Murphy swallow hard, and then straighten up. Then, clearing his throat, he rolled his shoulders and he walked back toward the man in the leather jacket who had come out.
Chapter 12
Mrs. Klos — Anya Klos — was very, very shaky. Her hands trembled when she took out a pencil to place beside a pad of paper on the table. She was trying too hard to keep her head from trembling too. Minogue wrote the name of his section, a telephone number, and his email on the pad after the introductions.
Danute Juraksaitis’ narrow black-framed glasses said something to him: economist, doctor, lawyer. Something serious, thoughtful, exact. She made only the briefest of smiles at the exchange of cards. Then she took a small notebook from another bag by her feet.
Mrs. Klos blinked a lot. She seemed to be holding her breath.
Hughes began with condolences. He spoke slowly, and with a simple eloquence that impressed Minogue. The real Ireland still existed, he began to believe again. Hughes looked from one woman to the other, pausing often, and nodding for emphases. Did they understand what he was saying? Would they like anything repeated? Did they know that they could interrupt him at any time?
Danute Juraksaitis spoke to Mrs. Klos in Polish. A look that Minogue read as ironic crossed her features briefly, and she glanced at Hughes.
“Mrs. Klos has some of words in English,” she said. “The rest is up to me.”
Hughes made a sympathetic smile. Then he began with the times, the log of events that had preceded the arrival of the squad car to the laneway where Tadeusz Klos lay. He paused at the end of each sentence and waited for the translation, and a nod from Mrs. Klos.
“Ambulance?” Danute Juraksaitis said.
“The one phone call does ambulance and Guards,” said Hughes.
“They think he was alive then?” she asked. “That is why the ambulance?”
“Well that wasn’t clear,” Hughes replied. “That wasn’t what the two Guards believed.”
As Hughes’ reply was translated for her, Minogue studied the changing expression on Mrs. Klos’ face
“But the ambulance?”
Mrs. Klos’ face twisted up, and she quickly put her hands over her face. She shook her head and she turned away. Danute Juraksaitis put her notebook face-down on the table and stood up slowly, her hands clasped awkwardly. Then she placed a hand on Mrs. Klos’ shoulder. Sharp intakes of breath brought Mrs. Klos’ shoulders up, and they sagged again as the sobs seized her.
“Tea is needed here,” Minogue said. “Coffee. Something. Anything.”
He didn’t wait for a comment, but got up and headed for the door.
He took his time getting to the canteen. He was aware he was trying to remember that perfume. Those glasses on that woman were actually severe, in a way. The thought of her brought a mild confusion to him, and a twinge of something unfamiliar.
The coffee he found waiting for him had been sitting in the pot since Adam was a boy. He opted instead for two teapots of boiling water and four bags of Lyons’ Tea. The milk would be a problem, but it was a chance for a detour down to the cafeteria.
“I’ll bring the jugs back so I will,” he said to the cashier.
“How do they know you won’t rob them,” asked the sergeant in line beside him. Had he met him a few years back?
“The crime of the century,” he said to the sergeant, hiding his irritation. “All my plans ruined now.”
The Guard laughed as he counted out his own coins.
“I’ll vouch for this fella,” he said to the cashier. “One of Kilmartin’s crew.”
“And how is the bold Jim anyhow?” the sergeant whispered
“As ever.”
“Really? Well tell him I was asking for him, there’s a good man. Tell him ‘The old dog for the long road,’ will you?”
“‘The pup for the path’?”
“Exactly. Good man!”
Minogue trudged up the steps balancing the tray loosely. Was every Guard in Ireland going to be asking about Kilmartin? His thoughts returned to Tadeusz Klos, and his mother. She didn’t look Polish, he thought. But what did Poles look like, then? A Slavic or Russian look?
He was careful opening the doors from the stairs. He stepped into the hallway, and he paused, listening to the cylinder at the top of the door hiss softer as the door came closer to rest. There were voices from the open area beyond the conference rooms. Someone had recently had an egg sandwich. But unless his mind was playing tricks on him, there was the faintest trace of that same perfume again. Hardly possible, his mind declared, but there it was.
Hughes had a map of Dublin spread out on the table. He was pointing out where the hostel was.
“The city centre here is very walkable,” he said, and waited. Minogue saw him wince and move his hand reflexively to his lower ribs.
Mrs. Klos did not seem much interested in the map. Minogue laid down the tray. Danute Juraksaitis had finished noting something. Her gaze turned to the teapots and then met Minogue’s eyes for an instant.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Klos. Then she said something in Polish.
“You are so kind,” said Danute Juraksaitis. “Mrs. Klos said.”
Minogue looked at Mrs. Klos. Her eyes were red and there were blotches on her face from crying.
“Nothing stronger I’m sorry to say,” he said. Mrs. Klos waited for a translation. Hughes cleared his throat and continued while they waited for the tea to draw.
“The clubs serve drink,” he was saying. “Alcohol?”
He cleared his throat again, excusing himself as he did. A pallor had settled on his features, and Minogue thought he spotted beads of sweat near his hairline. He hadn’t realized that Hughes had been that nervous.
“Pretty well every night of the week is party night now,” Hughes went on. “Dublin is very busy. Very modern.”
Minogue could not understand one word that Danute Juraksaitis translated of this. Mrs. Klos nodded.
“It is the same in Poland Mrs. Klos said,” said Danute Juraksaitis. “The young they want… life. Fun. This is freedom.”
A rough translation, Minogue decided.
Hughes turned to Danute Juraksaitis, and cleared his throat yet again.
“So, in the light of what has happened since,” he said, tentatively. “What’s in the briefing here…”
Mrs. Klos leaned in slightly toward Danute Juraksaitis.
“Did Mrs. Klos need help understanding it maybe?” Hughes asked.
No, was Mrs. Klos’ translated response.
“It was forwarded to her by our federal police,” said Danute Juraksaitis.
Then she said something to Mrs. Klos. It was answered with a nodding of the head. Minogue saw now that Mrs. Klos’ head had begun to shake, and her face had taken on that slack, stricken look he had seen too often over the years. He looked to see where she might fall, if she was indeed to keel over in a faint.