Our Lady Of Greenwich Village

by Dermot McEvoy

  Burke laughed, then said: “For a guy who may be going down in three days, you don’t seem that annoyed.”

  “Marriage has changed me.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said McGuire.

  “No,” continued O’Rourke, “it has. Now I have a wife, and a child on the way. They are my two most important things in my life. Johnny Pie, I’ve been on one long campaign since Bobby back in 1968. I’ve gotten some good guys elected. I’ve gotten some bad guys elected. I fought in two wars for my two countries, and I have the scars to prove it. Enough is enough. I have more than enough money, and I want to make sure this child grows into a positive human being who cares about people. Maybe my wars are over. Maybe it’s time for some reflection. I still expect to win, but there are other more important things in life.” O’Rourke took his left hand and placed it on Simone’s big belly. “You know what I mean, Monsignor?”

  Séan Pius Burke nodded. “Yes, Tone. Yes I do.”

  Zeus, the Moat’s three-hundred-pound bartender was keeping an eye on Jackie Swift. He hadn’t seen Swift in the Moat in years and wondered why he would show up three days before the election. Swift stood off to the side, Irish whiskey neat, and kept a close eye on the door. Every time the door opened Swift’s eyes shot to it. He was obviously waiting for someone. Jackie looked wired, thought Zeus. He kept rocking back and forth on his heels, nervous about something.

  The door opened and in stepped a man in a black overcoat and hat, carrying a briefcase. Swift’s empty hand shot up into the air and he called out “Doctor, doctor, over here. ”The man went to Swift and shook his hand. He whispered a few words into Jackie’s ear, then handed him the briefcase. There was some banter back and forth between them with Swift gesticulating, as if giving directions. Maybe the man was lost in the maze of Village streets. They shook hands again and the man quickly exited the bar.

  Jackie came up to the bar, drink in one hand, the briefcase in the other. “Zeus,” he said, “another Jameson neat.” Zeus made the drink and handed it to Swift.

  “What brings you around?”

  “Needed some fresh air,” replied Swift. “Tough campaign, you know.”

  “Yeah,” said Zeus, “I’ve been watching your commercials.”

  Jackie looked at Zeus and knew it was not the right time to ask him if he liked them or not. He knew Zeus and O’Rourke went back a long way. The whiskey calmed Jackie. He had made his contact, now he could relax. “Any sign of Fischbein?”

  Zeus looked at Swift, suddenly knowing his game. “He’s expected. Soon.”

  Swift wanted to say “Thank God,” but only uttered, “Good.”

  Zeus walked to the end of the bar and pulled his cell phone out, then dialed the number.

  “Hello,” said Sam McGuire as she put her after-dinner coffee down. “Yes, Zeus, he’s right here.” She handed O’Rourke the phone. “Zeus from the Moat.”

  “Yes, Zeus,” said O’Rourke.

  “Tone, Swift is here, and he’s waiting for Fischbein. Maybe you should pay a visit. Can’t talk. He’s at the other end of the bar.”

  “Thanks, Zeus. I’ll be right there.”

  “Let’s go, guys. Jackie Swift is trying to buy dope from Fischbein at the Moat.” O’Rourke signed the check, and the three of them were out the door. O’Rourke and Burke would have walked, but Simone was lagging behind. “We better take a cab.” O’Rourke hailed a cab and it sped across West 11th Street, then made a left on Seventh Avenue, pulling up at Christopher Street in front of the Duplex.

  The three of them headed straight for Hogan’s Moat. As O’Rourke descended the steps into the Moat he could see a kerfuffle at the end of the bar. There were several men on the floor, and Barney was yapping at them. O’Rourke rushed in and Zeus joined the fray. O’Rourke saw Jackie Swift on the floor in the fetal position, covering a briefcase with his body. Barney was barking and growling and nipping at his shoulders. Fischbein was trying to inch away, and Zeus pulled him back by the cuffs of his trousers. All the while, Hogan tried to control his dog, who was in an absolute frenzy, white powder covering his nose.

  “Must be some good shit here,” said O’Rourke, knowing that Barney was a connoisseur of blow.

  Monsignor Burke tucked Sam into the far corner and went to investigate. Zeus was beginning to straighten out the bodies. As Hogan held Barney back, Jackie Swift slowly got up off the floor, the briefcase firmly in hand. The floor was covered with white powder, and Hogan had to hold Barney by the collar to keep him from going totally berserk. Then Burke saw it on the flap of the briefcase:

  I.

  H.

  S.

  “Where’d you get this, Jackie?” asked the priest.

  “None of your business,” said Swift, clutching the briefcase to his chest.

  “This is Costello’s briefcase!”

  “You cocksucker,” said O’Rourke, “that’s the money to pay for those commercials!”

  “Where is he?” demanded Burke.

  Zeus pushed Jackie Swift against the wall. Burke went face to face with him. “Where the fuck is Costello?” he demanded.

  O’Rourke looked for Sam. He found her in the corner with her cell phone pressed to her ear.

  “This is 911. What is your emergency?”

  “I’d like to report a drug bust at Hogan’s Moat Saloon, 59 Christopher Street,” said McGuire. “Please send the police, there’s a terrible altercation going on here. Someone might get hurt.”

  The person who might get hurt was Jackie Swift. Zeus was worried that Séan Pius Burke might put him through the wall into the kitchen. “One last time, Jackie, where the fuck is Costello?” Burke grabbed Swift by the necktie and twisted it and Jackie’s face looked like it had been painted red. Burke torqued the tie one more time and asked again, “Where is he?”

  “He’s gone to the Romper Room on Little West 12th Street.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just gave him directions.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” said the priest.

  The squad car from the 6th Precinct was pulling up as Monsignor Burke let the tie loose and Swift slumped to the floor. His beautiful suit was covered in white powder, the result of a broken Fish-Pack.

  “I should have known,” said Burke to O’Rourke. Burke’s black clerical stock was also covered with cocaine.

  “Known what?”

  “That fucking Costello was a pedophile.” Then Burke thought back to young Felipe sitting on Costello’s knee at breakfast. “Short and sweet” popped into his head and he felt an awful pain in his gut. “Costello’s at the Romper Room,” said Burke to O’Rourke. “It’s a bar for pedophile priests. I thought the cops shut it down years ago when I was cleaning these bums out of the archdiocese. They must have reopened. Swift says it’s on Little West 12th Street. Let’s go.”

  O’Rourke put his hand on Burke’s shoulder. “No, Monsignor. We’ll let the cops handle this one. It’s over.”

  And it was over, but Séan Pius Burke felt responsible for the child that was probably sitting on the Reverend Doctor Costello’s lap right now, probably holding his silver and gold crucifix. He should have known. In fact, he did know.

  67.

  New York Daily News, November 6, 2000

  Eye on New York By Cyclops Reilly

  HOW DO YOU SPELLSCHADENFREUDE?

  I told you about these bums, didn’t I?

  Well, this morning I feel like an obese Cheshire cat who’s had his fill and is now getting his belly rubbed for eternity.

  I believe this is what those guys with high IQs and precise pronunciation call “schadenfreude.” It’s one those great German words, like wiener schnitzel or sauerbraten. You know, the kind of words you use to rouse up the masses before you take the backdoor into France and invade Belgium again. “We will have wiener schnitzel for our people, or there will be sauerbraten to pay!”

  I was informed by Webster’s College Dictionary that it is the combination of two German words, sch
aden, the word for harm, and Freude, for joy. That’s how we get the wonderful word “harmjoy.” Well, not exactly. Schadenfreude is defined as “pleasure felt at someone else’s misfortune.”

  Well, that’s right on the money. Because you cannot imagine the pleasure I find in the misfortune of Congressman Jackie Swift and the Reverend Dr. John Costello. Saturday night, Swift was found at Hogan’s Moat Saloon on Christopher Street with a snootful of cocaine and a suitcase full of one-hundred-dollar bills, $100,000 in all. Dr. Costello, the papal nuncio’s bagman in this country, was found bouncing a naked 6-year-old boy on his knee at the Romper Room, the underground playpen for pedophile priests in the Meatpacking District. Presently, both are occupying cells at the 6th Precinct on West 10th Street in Greenwich Village. Enjoy the comfort, boys, before you go off on your island vacation—Riker’s Island, that is.

  It should not be overlooked how pivotal Aloysius Hogan, the proprietor of Hogan’s Moat, and his cocaine-hunting dog, Barney, were in the apprehension of Swift and Costello. If it wasn’t for the total surveillance that Hogan keeps at the Moat in trying to deter the scourge of cocaine, Swift might have never been apprehended. And without Swift’s apprehension and his subsequent cooperation in pointing to the whereabouts of Costello, we would not know how deep the pedophile scandal runs in Holy Mother Church. Few saloon owners would go to the trouble of adopting a former DEA cocaine-detection dog in order to keep our saloons safe from the terrible addiction of cocaine. Hogan and Barney, you are our heroes.

  Now there is only one more thing to do. Tomorrow is Election Day, and every New Yorker in the 7th CD should go out and vote with all your heart and soul for Wolfe Tone O’Rourke. O’Rourke may be a lot of things, but he is one of us. He eats, sleeps, and especially drinks in this grand city of ours. He’s not in it for the money, the glory, or to compete with Senator Schumer on the Sunday morning talk shows. He’s in it for us, to see that those thieves in Washington ante up what belongs to New York. If you think he’s a lot of trouble around here, just imagine what he’ll do to those pompous asses in Washington.

  And while I’m at it, I want to throw a bouquet to Declan Cardinal Sweeney for the wonderful homily he gave at St. Patrick’s during yesterday’s mass. He admitted he was wrong about Jackie Swift and the Fopiano Gang, and while he didn’t endorse Tone O’Rourke, he did say that Tone is “a decent and

  genuine man and a much better Catholic than many of us are.” That’s high praise coming from a man like his Eminence.

  As for the rest of you, you have your marching orders for Election Day: Vote for Tone—like the Fenians say, early and often.

  68.

  The election was as anticlimactic as the primary had been. O’Rourke rented the Queer Independent Democrats headquarters on Sheridan Square and the party began early. By 6:30, O’Rourke knew from exit polls that he had won. CNN called his number at 9:35 p.m.

  The party already had started at Hogan’s Moat. It seemed so much different than only three nights before when Barney had apprehended Jackie Swift with his dope and his bag full of money. Sam looked tired and she sat in O’Rourke’s seat at the end of the bar and held onto his arm.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Just very tired. Let’s get over to the QID and get this over with. Campaigning is hard enough. Campaigning with a sevenpound belly is even harder.” O’Rourke kissed Sam on the forehead and announced they were going across the street for the victory celebration.

  The QID was unbelievably hot with all the television lights. CNN, NY1, ABC, CBS, and NBC were all there. Even Fox had shown up, probably hoping for a clip of some O’Rourke outrage they could show over and over again for the next forty-eight hours.

  With a great effort, O’Rourke helped McGuire up on the stage where the podium was situated. He looked for Thom Lamè and Lizzie Townsend, but could not see them. “Bad losers,” he thought to himself. There were cheers and whistles from the crowd, and O’Rourke actually felt embarrassed. He really didn’t like the attention. He held Sam’s hand tight and said, “This will be over in the minute.”

  “Thank God,” she said, looking a little wobbly.

  O’Rourke held his hand up for quiet, and the room settled down. “My name is Wolfe Tone O’Rourke,” he began, “and I believe I’m the Congressman-Elect from New York’s 7th Congressional District.” Cheers went up, and O’Rourke smiled broadly. McGuire pressed a smile onto her own lips. “I want to thank all of you who worked so hard to make this night possible. I want to thank especially Clarence Black, your own Nuncio Baroody, and most of all, my campaign manager and my wife, Simone McGuire O’Rourke.” There were loud cheers. O’Rourke wanted to thank—but knew he couldn’t—two other people, Cyclops Reilly and Declan Cardinal Sweeney, who had helped the campaign in more ways then they even realized.

  “It’s getting late,” said O’Rourke, “and it looks like we’re going to have a long night waiting for the results of the presidential election. Let’s hope for the best with Al Gore, for God help this country if George W. Bush becomes president of the United States of America. That man is dumb with a capital D.” There were no cheers for the red meat O’Rourke had just thrown out. It was as if the notion of a second President Bush had sucked the energy out of the room. “The booze and the food is on me. Thank you again. Good night and God bless.” With a triumphant wave to the TV camera, O’Rourke realized that his campaign for Congress was over.

  It took O’Rourke and McGuire a good ten minutes to work their way through the crowd of well-wishers. Both of them knew everyone loved a winner, especially in America. If they had been losers, the joint would be empty.

  Going down the stairs, Sam felt as though she had to take a desperate pee. “Oh my God, Tone, I don’t think I can hold it.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, God,” she said. She felt wet. “I can’t believe I peed on myself.” She gripped the banister, as if for dear life. Then it hit her. “Oh my God, Tone. I think my water just broke.”

  “What?”

  “My water broke!”

  O’Rourke had heard the line a thousand times in movies and, like most men, he knew absolutely nothing about a woman’s plumbing. Especially a pregnant woman’s plumbing.

  “But the baby isn’t due for another six weeks,” he said, as if that had something to do with it.

  “Baby ain’t gonna wait,” said McGuire, looking terrified.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said O’Rourke looking around for Clarence Black. He saw him at the top of the stairs talking to one of the guys from the Moat. “Clarence, come here,” he said, and when Black didn’t immediately break away, added “right now!”

  “What’s up, Tone.”

  “Sam’s water just broke. Let’s get to St. Vincent’s. Go get a cab.” Black went down the stairs in front of them and hailed a cab on Seventh Avenue and brought it around to West 4th Street. Black got in first, then gingerly helped Sam into the middle of the back seat, then O’Rourke piled in.

  “St. Vincent’s Hospital,” O’Rourke said to the Arab cabdriver.

  “I don’t know . . . ” the driver said.

  O’Rourke lined the Village streets up in his mind and wanted a direct route. “Drive,” he said, “to West 12th Street and make a right.” The cabbie put the car in gear and did what he was told. After the right turn O’Rourke told him to go to Seventh Avenue and make another right. Within five minutes, they were in front of St. Vincent’s ER. O’Rourke turned Sam over to a nurse and got Black to call Dr. Moe Luigi.

  “Yes,” snapped Luigi. He was already asleep at 11 p.m. “Moe, it’s Tone. I’m at St. Vincent’s.”

  Luigi was instantly awake. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Moe. Simone’s having the baby.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Luigi, rising from the bed.

  “Can you get over here?”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Sam was taken to the maternity ward. O’Rourke and Black waited
for Luigi in the lobby. “You don’t look to good,” said Black.

  “I don’t feel too good, either,” replied O’Rourke.

  Luigi arrived within minutes. “I’ll take over from here, Clarence,” he said, and Black wished O’Rourke luck.

  “Every time it gets exciting,” said Clarence, “you send me home!”

  “Yeah,” said O’Rourke, “exciting.”

  Luigi brought O’Rourke up to the maternity ward where they were informed that McGuire was in labor. “Why don’t you gown up and join her?” Luigi helped O’Rourke into a hospital gown. He could see that he was literally in shock from what was happening.

  Hesitantly, he followed Luigi into the birthing room. “How’s it going, Sam?” asked Luigi.

  “It’s tough, doc. It’s tough.” She saw O’Rourke, almost hiding behind Luigi, and said, “Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.” Even O’Rourke was forced to smile with her Oliver Hardy quote.

  God, did O’Rourke hate hospitals. There were probably only two good reasons to be in one and they were to get born or to die. At least this would be a positive experience—he hoped. They were working between Sam’s legs and O’Rourke, for once, couldn’t look.

  “I think this one is going to come quickly,” said the birthing nurse.

  Soon Simone was pushing and groaning and there was sweat on her forehead. O’Rourke was up top holding her hand and she was in intense pain.

  “Come on, honey, push it,” said the nurse. “Push it out.” With a shriek, Simone pushed, literally, for dear life and O’Rourke heard his child’s voice as it cried for the first time.