“I think, Bourne, it is an important sign from God.”
“A sign?”
“Yes, Bourne. Who is the most important person in God’s life?”
Bourne laughed, imagining what kind of a life God might lead. “I don’t have a clue, your Eminence.”
“His mother, Bourne, his mother.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, this is a sign from God that abortion must stop now.”
“Now, Cardinal,” said Bourne, “you upset a lot of people—mostly Catholic politicians—last week when you had your little press conference with that fruitcake Cockburn.”
The strain showed on the Cardinal’s face as he gave a little laugh that signaled he didn’t want to get into Cockburn. “Oh,” said the Cardinal, “let’s give the Reverend Cockburn the benefit of the doubt. The press ambushed him.”
“Well, Cardinal, a lot of Catholic politicians wish that you’d give them the benefit of the doubt on this Wafer Watch you’ve imposed.”
“Bourne,” said the Cardinal severely, “you should not reduce the Holy Eucharist to such a frivolous term as ‘Wafer Watch.’”
Trying to get a straight answer—or a funny one—out of Sweeney was beginning to grate on Bourne. He went right after the Cardinal, saying, “You’ve been accused of politicizing the Eucharist.”
The Cardinal shifted in his chair and turned reflective. “You know, Bourne, maybe you’re right. Maybe we should all take a breath and reflect on the events that have taken place in the last week.”
Bourne was so surprised by the answer that he stammered, “Are you apologizing, your Eminence, or perhaps flip-flopping?”
The Cardinal would not be baited. “You know, Bourne, you made a good point. Maybe we have become too combative with each other. Maybe all of us should allow each other ‘the benefit of the doubt.’ It couldn’t hurt.”
“What’s wrong with him?” said Costello through clenched teeth as he bolted from the booth, ran into the studio, and pulled a chair up alongside of the Cardinal, startling the old man. Dowd was shocked and his mouth dropped open in surprise. Bourne frowned on the interruption, but there was nothing he could do. “We’ve been joined by the Reverend Dr. John Costello, an old friend of the Bourne-in-the-Morn program. How are you today, doctor?”
“I’m fine, Bourne,” Costello replied with a canned affability. “Could I interest you in a SWIFT FOR CONGRESS button or a SAVE THE FETUSES bumper sticker?” For some reason, all Bourne could think of was Flipper.
“Sure, Doctor,” said Bourne without enthusiasm, “anything you say.” In the control booth, Dowd wondered what made Costello tick. He was pushy, but his answers to difficult questions were platitudes printed on bumper stickers and campaign buttons.
Costello was about to insert a little backbone into Declan Sweeney. “I just want to reiterate,” said Costello, commandeering the Cardinal’s microphone, “what the Cardinal said the other day about denying the Eucharist to politicians who flout the Church’s teachings.”
“Dr. Costello,” said the Cardinal, placing a hand on Costello’s right arm.
Costello ignored the Cardinal. “It is objectively dishonest for Catholics who publicly dissent with the church’s pro-life teachings to receive Communion,” said Costello. “No one has an absolute right to the Eucharist.”
“Are you saying—” said Bourne.
“John,” said the Cardinal gently, tugging on Costello’s sleeve.
Costello ignored both of them and continued, “Any Catholics who vote for candidates who stand for abortion, illicit stem-cell research, or euthanasia suffer the same fateful consequences. It is for this reason that these Catholics, whether candidates for office or those who would vote for them, may not receive Holy Communion until they have recanted their positions and been reconciled with God and the Church in the Sacrament of Penance.”
“Cardinal Sweeney,” said Bourne, “do you agree with that?”
“We should all strive for some middle ground,” said the Cardinal, before Costello cut him off.
“Anyone who professes the Catholic faith with his lips,” said Costello, quickening the pace, “while at the same time publicly supporting legislation or candidates that defy God’s law, makes a mockery of that faith and belies his identity as a Catholic. On the basic moral teachings of the church, there is no wiggle room.”
Dowd wanted to reach out and grab Costello by the neck. The Cardinal sat there, resigned, as Costello, his voice rising by the second, continued his rant as he found his cadence. “Abortion is an act of violence!” said Costello, slamming his open hand on the desk. “Violence never corrects violence.” Another hand slam. “A woman has been raped.” Hand slam. “I can understand the desire for an abortion, but then she is inflicting violence on the unborn and she’s inflicting further violence on herself. And the violence is never dissipated,” he said as both hands hit the table hard, causing the Cardinal to jump in his seat.
“So,” asked Bourne, surprised and suddenly tentative, “you are against abortion even in cases of rape and incest?”
“I am,” said Costello, spittle shooting out of his mouth. “I always compare the killing of four thousand babies a day in the United States, unborn babies, to the Holocaust. Now, Hitler tried to solve a problem, the Jewish question. So kill them, shove them in the ovens, burn them. Well, we claim that unborn babies are a problem, so kill them. To me it really is precisely the same.”
“Surely,” said Bourne, “you’re not equating an abortion on an incest victim to the Holocaust?”
“Of course not,” said the Cardinal.
“I am!” said Costello. “What’s the difference?”
Dowd was red in the face. He took his hand and slammed it on the control room glass, which caught Bourne’s attention. “We’ll be back,” said Bourne, signaling for his engineer to cut to commercial, “after these messages.”
Dowd bolted into the studio. “You have no right,” he said sticking his finger under Costello’s nose, “to put words into the Cardinal’s mouth. No right.”
“I was only,” said Costello, “trying to clarify what the Cardinal meant.”
“You were only,” shot back Dowd, “making matters worse.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Bourne, maybe the only sane man in the room.
“Fathers,” said the Cardinal, “please.”
“The interview is over,” Dowd told Bourne. “The Cardinal has other appointments this morning.” Dowd helped the Cardinal out of his chair.
“You better watch your step,” Costello finally said to Dowd. “I know important people in Rome.”
Amid the havoc, the wide-awake Bourne didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll be right back with Tim Russert of Meet the Press and his take on Our Lady of Greenwich Village.”
28.
“Bourne-in-the Morn,” sang the jingle as the commercial ended. A deep announcer’s voice boomed, “Welcome to Hide the Eucharist, the game show where the Cardinal has the host and the Democratic politician has to find it! And here’s our M.C., Declan Cardinal Sweeney!”
“Ah, good mornin’ Bourne, and God bless,” said one of Bourne’s actors in an Irish accent that would have embarrassed Barry Fitzgerald.
“Ah, good morning, your Eminence,” said Bourne with a chuckle. “It’s great to have you back on the show two days in a row.”
“Ah, it’s grand to be back here, Bourne.”
“So, your Eminence,” said Bourne playing the straight man, “where have you hidden the Eucharist?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out, you worthless bag of shite.”
“Your Eminence,” said Bourne in a mock shock, “watch your language.”
“Ah, ya enema bag, ya.”
“Cardinal!” said Bourne. “Now let’s get back to the show. Where have you hidden the Eucharist from the pro-abortion Democrats?”
“That’s for Our Lady of Greenwich Village to know, and you to find out.”
“I don’t think
you want to go in that direction, Cardinal,” said Bourne in ersatz admonition.
“In that case,” said the Cardinal, “is it in altar boy number one? Altar boy number two? Or altar boy number three?”
By this time Bourne was laughing so hard that he couldn’t go on. “We’ll be back tomorrow to see in which altar boy’s hide we’ve hidden the Holy Eucharist,” said Bourne, still enjoying the effect of his third Fish-pack.
“God bless ya, Bourne,” said the ersatz Cardinal and a commercial ended the charade.
Monsignor Burke walked into the kitchen where the Cardinal and Father Dowd sat at opposite ends of a table, listening to the radio. Dowd turned it off.
“I’m ruined,” said the Cardinal. “My God, I ruined it for everybody.”
“Did you hear Bourne?” Dowd asked Burke.
“I did.”
“What are we going to do?”
“The first thing we’re going to do,” said Burke, “is stop taking advice from Father Costello.”
“You’re right, Monsignor,” the Cardinal said. “I should have listened to you.”
With that Father John Costello entered the kitchen. “You’ve ruined us,” the Cardinal told him.
“What are you talking about?” said Costello.
“Did you hear your pal Bourne this morning?” said Dowd.
“No, I didn’t.”
“He made a mockery of the Cardinal,” continued Dowd. “They invented a game show skit called Hide the Eucharist.”
“Oh,” said Costello with a discursive wave of his hand, “it’s only Bourne having a little fun.”
“He insinuated,” said Burke in a frozen voice, “that the Eucharist is hidden in the rump of an altar boy.”
“It’s only harmless fun,” repeated Costello.
“I don’t find it funny at all,” said Burke. “And I don’t want you bothering the Cardinal anymore. If you have anything to say to the Cardinal, come through me. Maybe it’s time to go back to Niagara Falls—or wherever you’re from.”
“But Eminence,” said Costello, ignoring Burke completely, “I have you booked on Rush Limbaugh later in the week, and Liam Hanrahan next Monday.”
“There will be no more bookings,” said Burke.
“I want to know what his Eminence thinks,” said Costello, heading towards the Cardinal, who was still seated at the table. As Costello approached, the Cardinal shifted away, as if in fear.
Seán Pius Burke put his powerful body between Costello and the Cardinal. “Get out,” he said to Costello. “I don’t know what your game is, but I want you out.”
“My work here is not done,” insisted Costello.
“You mean Opus Dei’s work, don’t you?”
Costello was taken by surprise. A smirk came over Costello’s face and he fingered the crucifix that hung around his neck. “I’ll go when the nuncio says my work is done—and only when it’s done. I take my orders from the nuncio, and the nuncio takes his orders—”
“The pope,” Burke interrupted.
“You’re very bright, Monsignor. Maybe too bright. If the Cardinal will excuse me,” said Costello with the conceit of the well-connected. “I’ll take my leave now.”
After he was gone, the three priests were silent.
“He’s a bugger,” was all the Cardinal could muster.
“What can we do?” Dowd asked.
The Cardinal held his hand to his jaw, as if he had a pounding toothache. “Maybe Congressman Swift can help?” the Cardinal said without too much hope.
“The last person to deal with Costello, I think, is Jackie Swift,” said Burke. “I’ll think of something.”
Burke wasn’t too concerned. He had already asked Tone O’Rourke to find out what he could about Costello. A sweet smile of conspiracy crossed Burke’s face. “This,” said the Monsignor, “just might be a job for the Fenians.”
29.
“It’s Stinky!”
“What?” asked O’Rourke.
“You don’t want to know,” said Baroody laughing.
“Oh, yes I do,” said O’Rourke emphatically as he pulled the snapshot of Costello out of Baroody’s hand. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Where?”
“Paris in the late ’70s,” replied Baroody.
“What’s his MO?” asked O’Rourke.
“Bagman.”
O’Rourke was silent for a minute. “For whom?” he said deliberately, the two words stretched wide apart.
“Back then,” said Baroody, “it was Solidarity in Poland. His bank in Madrid wired the money into the papal nuncio’s account in Paris.”
“The nuncio, your boss?” interrupted O’Rourke.
“Yeah,” said Baroody. “The nuncio would withdraw it, then carry it to Wojtyla in Krakow who made sure Solidarity got it.”
“Karol Wojtyla?”
“That’s right,” smiled Baroody, “the present pope.”
“Son of a bitch,” was all O’Rourke could muster.
“But that’s not why they call him Stinky,” said Baroody, with a gleam in his eye.
“Let me guess.”
“You got it.”
“You guys,” said O’Rourke, trying to be diplomatic, “hang out together?”
“No,” said Baroody, “I’m not into that.”
“Good to hear.”
“Well,” said O’Rourke, “we know why he’s here.”
“Money?”
“Exactly. This guy likes to spread the Opus Dei wealth around. Right now I think he’s spreading it around this congressional district.”
“You get yours yet?” said Baroody, trying at humor.
“No, I didn’t,” replied O’Rourke, “and I don’t think I’m going to get any of that money. But I bet Lamè is getting it, and I’m sure Jackie Swift is stuffing his safe deposit box with cash. If we don’t remove Costello from the equation, we’re in trouble.”
“How you do that?”
O’Rourke hesitated for a second. “Maybe,” he said, breaking a smile, “a little Belfast justice is in order.”
30.
“Did you get my check?”was the first thing that O’Rourke said to the monsignor when he heard his voice on the phone.
“I did indeed,” said Burke, “but that’s not what I’m calling about.”
“Costello?”
“That’s it.”
“Meet me.”
“Where?”
“Union Square. Under General Washington’s balls. Three o’clock. Lose the collar.” Before Burke could ask what the hell he was talking about, O’Rourke hung up on him.
O’Rourke, Burke knew, loved being cryptic. Burke, dressed in civilian clothes, left the chancellery and walked over to 51st Street and Lexington where he took the downtown local to Union Square. He emerged across the street from what was, in his youth, “S. Klein on the Square,” the renowned department store for the working stiff. Burke smiled. He could still envision those large tables on the ground floor where twenty or thirty women would fight and pull and scratch as they grabbed for that perfect brassiere. It was Bloomingdale’s for the poor. He also recalled that there was an Automat around the corner on East 14th Street between Fourth Avenue and Irving Place. He remembered it was there that he had his first sampling of creamed spinach—fresh from its little glass ten-cent door. That was the New York that Burke grew up in and loved. Now Klein’s and the Automat had been replaced by a tall, spiritless structure that annoyingly blocked his view of the clock in the Con Edison tower on East 14th Street.
General Washington’s balls. Some clue. He walked along 14th Street to Broadway and looked across into Union Square. He saw a man on a horse and went to see who it was. It was George Washington all right. Burke went behind the statue and saw Wolfe Tone O’Rourke sitting on a parapet staring into a manila folder.
“Hello, Congressman,” said Burke.
O’Rourke, his focus broken, looked up to see the monsignor. “And how is the sagart of Hell’
s Kitchen today?” he asked, using the Irish word for priest.
Burke laughed. “Tone,” he said, “the sagart of Hell’s Kitchen is in big trouble.” O’Rourke pointed to the parapet, and Burke took a seat. “Where are they?”
“What?”
“Washington’s balls?”
“Washington ain’t got any balls,” said O’Rourke with a smile, then pointed under the tail of Washington’s horse.
Burke laughed. “So they’re not really George’s balls.”
“Technicality.”
It was time to get down to business. “I know you’re busy, Tone, with the campaign and all, but I had to talk to you about this guy Costello.”
O’Rourke stuck his hand out and wiggled his fingers downward, telling Burke to lower his voice. “I had Clarence Black, my investigator, take a look at the life and times of the Reverend Dr. John Costello,” said O’Rourke, almost in a whisper, as he held up the folder for Burke’s inspection. “He’s a busy man. That him?” said O’Rourke holding out a photo of Costello for Burke to identify.
“That’s him. He isn’t from Dublin, is he?” queried Burke.
“Nope,” said O’Rourke. “An orphan lad from Leitrim. Brought up by the Irish Christian Brothers.”
“Maynooth?”
“In his dreams,” laughed O’Rourke, “and part of his legend. Spent his vocation in England where he was ordained. Been with Opus Dei since his teen years. He’s spent a lot of time in Spain, home of Opus Dei. When Wojtyla became pope, he moved to the Vatican. He has an apartment in Niagara Falls, on the Canadian side, but he spends a lot of time in Washington with the papal nuncio.”
“He’s not even affiliated with a church up in Canada?”
“No,” said O’Rourke. “He’s a free agent. If we were talking spies, I’d call him a ‘sleeper.’”
“What’s his game?”
“Money,” replied O’Rourke. “Very active Canadian bank account.”
“That’s it,” said Burke, snapping his fingers. “The son of a bitch is Opus Dei’s bagman in this country.”
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