He went to serve his country when others were running away to Canada.
Where, exactly, was Jackie Swift in 1970, and why wasn’t he in Vietnam?
Come to think of it, our glorious Australian ally was also in Vietnam in 1970. Why weren’t you there, Wellington? I’m just saying, if the Boots fit, wear ’em.
60.
“Well,” said Vito, “that was a fucking disaster. Any other great ideas?”
Madonna-Sue spoke up. “Mulvaney’s column was a disaster,” she said, “but the premise behind it was solid. Let’s face it, Mulvaney doesn’t carry much of a punch anymore.”
“That’s an understatement,” agreed Brogan.
“But that terrorist story can still work,” insisted Madonna-Sue.
“How?” asked Vito.
“In commercial form,”said Madonna-Sue. “A few pictures of Saddam Hussein and Yasser Arafat next to O’Rourke, and we’re on our way.”
“There’s only one problem,” injected Brogan, “money.”
“Yes, that is a problem,” said Madonna-Sue, “but I think we know where we can get some.”
“The RNC won’t budge,” said Vito. “We’re on their shit list. If Giuliani was running, it might be different.” At the sound of her name, Julie-Annie started to howl.
“Hush, hush,” said Madonna-Sue, rising from the chair to walk the infant around the room. The child calmed. Madonna-Sue looked over the baby’s shoulder and spoke to her father. “It’s about time you called in some chits, Daddy.”
“Like who? I told you the RNC won’t go for it.”
“Fuck the RNC,” said Madonna-Sue. “Let’s go to all the friends you’ve been doing business with over the years. The developers, the drug companies, the whole lot of them. You were their boy, now get something for it!”
“Okay,” said Vito, “I’ll make some calls.”
“Just don’t make calls, get some money,” demanded his daughter. “Let’s get enough money to get a commercial together. I’ll call the stations and the cable company myself and see if they’ll wait a week or so until we can pay for the blitz after Election Day.”
“Well,” said Vito, “that’s fine, but where are we supposed to get the money to pay for the commercial itself?”
“That’s where Manny comes in,” said Madonna-Sue. “Manny, how about calling Father Costello?”
“Are you crazy?” replied Manny Mandelstam, who was sorry he was mixed up in this whole sordid business. He had been keeping a low profile. His instincts told him that the Fopianos were nothing but a disaster waiting to happen. The less contact, the better.
“Let’s make a call,” said Madonna-Sue.
“One call, Manny,” added Brogan.
“I have a secured cell phone here,” said Vito, “from the RNC.”
“What do I ask him?”
“Money!” they all said together.
“Call him,” said Vito, holding out the phone. Mandelstam took it and dialed.
“Hello,” said the voice at the other end.
“Reverend Dr. Costello?”
“Yes, this is he.”
“Reverend, it’s Rabbi Mandelstam.”
“Rabbi, how are you?”
“I have a problem, Reverend.”
“What’s your problem?”
“Jackie Swift’s campaign is broke. Could you help us out?” There was silence at the end of the phone. “Perhaps I could travel to Canada to meet with you?”
“No, rabbi,” said Costello, “our last meeting did not go well.” Then a pique of paranoia hit Costello. “Is this phone secure?”
“Yes, it is. From the committee.”
“Yes,” said Costello, “the committee.” There was a pause. “No, I will not meet with you, but I will meet with Congressman Swift.”
“Ah,” said Mandelstam, “the congressman is presently indisposed. Perhaps you could meet with Mrs. Swift.” Madonna-Sue shook her head at the mention of the married name she never used. “. . . Or Congressman Fopiano?”
“No,” said Costello, “it’s Jackie, or nothing.”
“Would an electronic transfer be possible?” Manny inquired. Manny could see himself in Leavenworth right now, dressed to the nines in jailhouse pinstripes.
“I do not think so. Your FBI and the RCMP are keeping a very close eye on me. How much will you need?”
“How much?” repeated Manny. Vito help up the five fingers on one hand and one digit on the other hand. “Six figures,” said Manny into the phone.
“That is quite a lot,” said Costello, “but I might be able to pull it off.”
“Should we send Jackie up to Canada to meet you?”
“No,” replied Costello, “I’ll reenter the country at Windsor, Ontario, across from Detroit. One of the border guards there belongs to the organization and can get me in.”
Vito was rolling his hand to tell Mandelstam to hurry up. “When do you want to meet Congressman Swift?”
“How about this coming weekend?”
“In New York?”
“Yes,” said Costello, “New York. Maybe I can combine a little business with pleasure. I’ll call Congressman Swift on the weekend, if that’s convenient.”
“Yes, Reverend Doctor,” replied Manny. “That would be very convenient,” and the phone went dead.
“What now?” asked Vito.
“We gotta spring Jackie from Betty Ford,” said Mandelstam, “and fast.”
61.
The commercial appeared just before the 11 p.m. Eyewitness News broadcast.
“In this time of international terrorism,” the actor’s voice said as a film showed a bus exploding on the streets of Jerusalem, “we must be on guard against terrorist threats.” There was a film of Jackie Swift shaking hands with Ariel Sharon. The voiceover continued: “We need a representative in Congress who knows the threat and is part of the solution—not the problem.” At this point there was a picture of Wolfe Tone O’Rourke laughing with Gerry Adams at a White House reception. “We know the threat to our country,” said the voice as pictures of Arafat, Adams, Hussein, and O’Rourke flashed quickly on the screen, “and Jackie Swift is part of the solution. On election day, vote to keep America safe. Vote for Congressman Jack Swift.” The commercial ended with Swift saying, “I’m Congressman Jackie Swift and I endorse this message.”
It took all of thirty seconds.
62.
“The fucking has begun,” said O’Rourke, and Black cursed.
“Nothing,” said Black, “nothing, no indication of any money.”
“Cash and carry,” said McGuire.
“What does Monday’s internal poll say?”
“We’re dropping fast on the Upper West Side,” replied Baroody. “We were 55 percent two weeks ago; now we’re at 46 percent. That commercial hurt.”
“Yeah,” said O’Rourke, “let’s get moving. Simone, is the agency ready?”
“Waiting for you.”
O’Rourke pulled pictures of George Washington, Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King, Jr., Michael Collins, Eamon DeValera, David Ben-Gurion, and Menachem Begin out of an envelope and threw them on the desk. “Okay, we’re ready. Let’s go to the agency and see if we can get this on the air on the 11 o’clock news tonight.”
“Tonight?” asked McGuire with alarm.
“Tonight,” repeated O’Rourke and he scooped up the photos and headed for the door.
63.
The film was of the president’s inauguration on March 4, 1933: “We have nothing to fear,” said Franklin Delano Roosevelt, “but fear itself.” The voiceover minced no words. “They are trying to scare you, pure and simple. When there are no ideas, they get desperate, and the desperate love fear. They say that Tone O’Rourke is a terrorist.” The pictures begin to roll: “Was George Washington a terrorist, or was he a freedom fighter, driving the unwanted British from these shores? Was Martin Luther King, Jr., a terrorist when he broke the law in the South trying to overturn the American apartheid? Was Nels
on Mandela a terrorist when he spent thirty years of his life in jail so his country could emerge from a history of bigotry? Were Michael Collins and Eamon DeValera terrorists when they told the British it was time to leave Ireland after seven hundred years? Were David Ben-Gurion and Menachem Begin terrorists when they helped birth the nation of Israel?
“Remember: You have nothing to fear but fear itself. Vote out the fear mongers on Election Day.” A picture of O’Rourke, Gerry Adams, Teddy Kennedy, and Bill Clinton taken in Belfast after the Good Friday Agreement was signed filled the screen. O’Rourke read his own tagline: “I’m Tone O’Rourke, and I approved this campaign commercial.”
64.
“How are the daily internal polls?” asked O’Rourke at the morning meeting.
“Better,” McGuire and Baroody both replied. “You’re back over 50 percent on the Upper West Side,” Sam continued. “Overall, you’re still at a solid 54 percent throughout the 7th CD.”
“Did Swift go on the air last night?”
“No,” said Black, “he didn’t. Maybe they’re saving their money.”
“We have to know,” said O’Rourke. “The only way they can beat us is with money. You can’t find anything?”
“Not a thing in any of their accounts,” said Black. “And the RNC has shut them down.”
“It’s got to be that fucking Costello,” O’Rourke said finally.
“He’s not allowed in the country,” reminded McGuire.
“Allow and enter are two different words, sweetheart. Clarence, can you get someone to check on Costello up in Canada?”
“Will do.”
“You know who we haven’t seen lately?” said Sam.
“Who?”
“Jackie Swift.”
“You get one guess,” said O’Rourke.
“Betty Ford,” said Black.
“Let’s see if he shows up this week,” said O’Rourke.
“For a fundraiser?” said McGuire.
“You have a devious mind,” laughed O’Rourke.
“So do you,” said Sam, rubbing her basketball-sized tummy.
65.
The dirty deed was left up to Brogan, and she felt guilty about it. She had flown out to California to fetch Swift from Betty Ford so they could get the dough from Costello. Jackie’s doctor told her that she was interfering with the treatment, and there would be no cure for Jackie without his doing the full program without interruption.
Jackie was glad to see her. But she did not beat around the bush. She read him his poll numbers and told him the only way to win was to hit the airwaves—and they couldn’t do that without money. The Reverend Dr. Costello was willing to come up with one hundred big ones, but only if Jackie accepted it in person. Jackie listened patiently to what Brogan had to say, but she could see he was itching for the powder. She thought they would have to lock him up for a good six months for the cure to take.
They caught the first flight back to New York, and she insisted they fly first class. It was bad enough having to fetch him, but she didn’t want to be disturbed by little old ladies in tennis shoes who wanted to see the Blessed Virgin’s favorite congressman. The sight of Jackie Swift brought them out of the woodwork.
As they boarded they were offered a drink, and Brogan saw that Jackie had that look in his eye. “You might as well have one, Jackie, because Vito and Madonna-Sue will cut you off as soon as you hit Manhattan.” He got a double vodka on the rocks with a slice of lime and savored the entire thing before takeoff. Once the plane was airborne, he switched to double vodka gimlets.
Brogan sipped a chilled white wine and wondered how Jackie had gotten from Paul O’Dwyer to Vito Fopiano. He certainly didn’t believe all the crap about family values and abortion that Vito spit out like gospel truth. Jackie was a go-along to get-along kind of guy. He couldn’t care less what you did in your bedroom. But power had a way of changing people. Sure, it was nice being a congressman and being fussed over and making 160 grand a year for doing basically nothing except appearing on the Sunday morning talk shows. But there had to be more to life than that. Then Brogan thought of Madonna-Sue again. She had kept her legs shut and still came up with the baby. Then they compounded the felony by naming it Julie-Annie. Brogan had had enough.
She put her wine down in the little compartment for drinks between their seats. “That’s it, Jackie.”
“That’s what?” he asked. He had a nice glow, and he hoped they were not going to discuss the terrible campaign again.
“We’re through.”
“We’re what?”
“Through. As of Election Day, November 7, I resign. But you’re leaving the apartment tonight.”
Jackie was in shock. “But that’s my apartment!”
“That was your apartment. You’re getting out. You’re going to live with Madonna-Sue from now on. You are going to be a father to Vitoessa and Julie-Annie. You, for once in your life, are going to do the right thing. Do you understand me?” Jackie could see that Brogan was getting red in the face. “You are going to do the right thing—win or lose! Is that understood?”
Jackie hesitated for a second. “Could we talk this over? I really need that apartment.”
“No, we are not going to talk this over. It’s over. O-V-E-R. Let’s get on with both of our lives. There has to be more to life than this lie of ours.”
“But the apartment.”
“If you get the apartment,” said Brogan, “you also get the front page of the New York Post.”
“What?”
“How does FIRST PIX OF CONGRESSMAN’S LOVE NEST grab you?” She had Swift between a rock and Madonna-Sue and Jackie knew it.
The flight continued in silence. “We’ll be on the ground at Newark’s International Airport within ten minutes,” the pilot said over the intercom.
“On the ground,” Swift said aloud, “without an apartment.” Then he began laughing, knowing full well that the party was almost over.
66.
O’Rourke loved red-sauce joints.
They were the old-fashioned Italian restaurants that were quickly becoming extinct around the Village. They came by their name honestly—they covered everything with lots and lots of red sauce. They were usually run by families and you could always expect a stiff drink and a red-checkered tablecloth along with your veal parmigiana. Gene’s, which had been on 11th Street since 1919, was one of his favorite places, and home to the blue-hair set. It wasn’t unusual to see eighty-five-year-old women in long elbow-length white gloves banging down Manhattan after Manhattan at its small bar. The food was delicious, plentiful, and inexpensive. It felt like you were being served in your own living room by your own personal chef.
On the Saturday night before Election Day O’Rourke had invited Monsignor Séan Pius Burke to join him and McGuire for dinner. The place—as usual—was a mad house, but O’Rourke had managed to secure a table for the three of them. The Monsignor showed up with his collar on.
“You trying to frighten people with that outfit, Johnny Pie?”
“Hey,” said Burke, “when I’m in civilian clothes, you tell me I look like a cop. If I wear my collar, I’m scaring people. I can’t win with you.” Burke seated himself between McGuire and O’Rourke and ordered a martini from the waiter.
“I’m glad you could come, Father,” said Sam. “We needed a night off from the campaign and couldn’t think of better company.”
“Thanks, Sam,” replied Burke. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good. I get tired, and the campaign takes a lot of work, but I’m holding up.”
“Tough week, Tone—with that commercial blitz by Swift.”
“I’d just like to forget the whole thing,” said O’Rourke. “It was a fucking nightmare.”
“Tone,” said Sam, pointing at the monsignor, “your language!”
O’Rourke smiled. “I’m an old dog—”
“—with no new tricks,” finished Burke. The three of them laughed.
“We wanted
to ask a favor of you, Father,” said Sam. Burke nodded. “Will you baptize our baby when she arrives?”
“I’d be honored,” replied Burke, touched. “I’ll look forward to that.” The waiter took their order, and they toasted each other. “To the conclusion of a successful campaign,” said the monsignor.
“And the birth of a beautiful baby girl,” added the proud father. Glasses clicked again.
“The Cardinal sends his regards.”
“You’re kidding,” said O’Rourke.
“Not at all. He’s been following the campaign closely. He was,” Burke stopped to find the correct word, “piqued by Jackie Swift’s commercials on you.”
“Next you’ll be telling me he’s changing sides.”
“I think he changed sides a long time ago.” McGuire and O’Rourke looked at each other. “After you got rid of Costello and had that meeting with the Cardinal at the chancellery I think the old man started rooting for you.” McGuire, who knew nothing of the meeting, looked at O’Rourke. He obviously didn’t tell her everything. “And that six-figure donation didn’t hurt either,” laughed Burke.
“What six-figure donation?” said McGuire in a louder than normal voice.
“Nothing, dear,” said O’Rourke. “Just a small contribution to the archdiocese.” O’Rourke gave Burke a look that said shut the fuck up! “I hope the Cardinal has some connections upstairs,” added O’Rourke, “because I’m going to need them.”
“Does it look bad?” asked Burke, concerned.
“It doesn’t look good,” said Sam, still eyeing O’Rouke. “Swift is marginally ahead of Tone for the first time. Those commercials are having an effect.”
“He’s killing me on the Upper West Side with the terrorist ties,” said O’Rourke. “It’s heavily Jewish up there and they think I was a bomb thrower in Belfast thirty years ago. The only reason I’m still in it is because I have the west side sewn up from Battery City up through the Village, Chelsea, and Hell’s Kitchen. You’re old neighborhood loves me almost as much as the gays do.”
Our Lady Of Greenwich Village Page 35