“Moe, I’m tired of fighting. I just want to snooze for a while.”
“My boy, you’ll be snoozing for all eternity. Have fun now. What did the great Red Smith say about the eternal snooze? ‘Dying is no big deal. The least of us manage that. Living is the trick.’ See you dumb mick, living is the trick!”
“Moe,” said O’Rourke, turning dead serious, “I’m having second thoughts.”
“About what?”
“This business I’m in. It stinks. It’s a filthy business full of filthy people.”
“What does that make you?” said Luigi, blowing smoke in O’Rourke’s face by way of punctuation. It was not the answer O’Rourke wanted to hear. “You think,” continued Luigi quietly, “they give you all that money for doing good?”
“And that,” said O’Rourke, “is part of the problem.”
“Problem?”
“I should be ashamed of myself for consorting with these bums, these politicians,” said O’Rourke. “What a bunch of scumbags.” O’Rourke was becoming animated. “I’m not even talking about the right wingers,” said O’Rourke. “I’m talking about the fucking phony liberals I get elected. They don’t believe in a fucking thing, and the only thing that qualifies them for office is their mommy’s money. Trust fund patriots. Jack Kennedy said, ‘I’m an idealist with no illusions.’ Well, I’ve become an illusionist without ideals.”
Luigi saw O’Rourke was in genuine distress. He knew O’Rourke liked to avoid confrontation if he could, and now it was obvious that O’Rourke couldn’t look him in the eye. He was slowly turning his body away from Luigi as they talked. “It’s alright, Tone,” Luigi said quietly, feeling for his friend, “it’s just the dybbuk.”
“The what?”
“The dybbuk,” repeated Luigi. “You got the dybbuk.” For a minute O’Rourke thought it was a disease. “You’ve been possessed by a demon.” O’Rourke looked skeptical. “It’s from Jewish folklore,” Luigi added.
“A dybbuk?” said O’Rourke.
“A dybbuk,” repeated Luigi, then added, “you always try to do good, Tone, but there’s a terrible side to your business, politics. It is a business of the bought and sold. No matter what good you do, your means of doing it—deception fueled with money and lies—has its evil side. You want to do good like your heroes—Roosevelt, the Kennedy brothers—but they sold part of their souls to do good. You are no exception. First and foremost, you are a politician, and that puts your soul in jeopardy. Most of them don’t care; they check their conscience at the door. You, Tone, I’m glad to say, are different.”
“Moe,” said O’Rourke, “I think you’re more priest than doctor.” Luigi smiled. “I must be the perfect politician,” O’Rourke went on sadly, “because I am delighted by idiots and thrilled by stupidity.” Dybbuks, thought O’Rourke, fucking dybbucks.
He still possessed the conscience of his mother and the nuns. There was right and there was wrong and O’Rourke knew the difference. It had been taught to him first by his mother and the indoctrination had continued with the Sisters of Charity at St. Bernard’s Parochial School on 13th Street in the West Village. He still remembered the time he had stolen a peapod at an Italian fruiters on the corner of West 4th and 12th Streets in 1950. He had been apprehended by his mother who made him apologize and surrender the kidnapped pod to the proprietor. He had never forgotten that. Later, the good nuns had continued his mother’s work with the help of the Baltimore Catechism. The Red Chinese and all their devilish brain-washing schemes had nothing on the Sisters of Charity and the Baltimore Catechism. He still remembered what Sister Perpetua had said to her first grade class: “What you are in the first grade, you’ll be for the rest of your life.” Years later he sometimes thought about what Sister Perpetua had said, but discarded it as the philosophy of a narrow, sheltered woman. But lately he had begun to rethink Sister Perpetua’s logic and realized she was probably right. Nearly half a century later he thanked both his mother and Sister Perpetua for the strong hand they had applied to his moral till.
Suddenly he brightened. “Did you see this?” He picked up the Daily News headline about Jackie Swift. “Do you believe we have morons like this representing us?”
Luigi read and started laughing. “The Virgin Mary,” he said, “has Swift flipped his lid? What’s the story, Cyclops?”
“Swift,” said Reilly, “had nothing to do with the story. The Virgin shit, it’s pure fiction, I guarantee it. That drunken press secretary of his, Drumgoole, must have fucked up the real story from his chief of staff, Brogan. I bet the story behind the story is a doozy. What I do know is that they were screwin’ and snortin’, and Swift’s heart attacked him.”
“Is that really true?” asked Luigi.
“Sure it is,” said Reilly. “Word on the street is that Smilin’ Jack loves the white powder.”
“I’ve heard rumors,” said O’Rourke.
“Well,” said Reilly, “Jackie Swift has been in and out of Betty Ford more times than Jerry. He’s disappeared about three times in the last three years. Supposed to be on some fucking fact-finding tour of Southeast Asia. Vito and Madonna-Sue packed him off to Betty Ford to clean up his act. He can’t get straight. Loves the shit too much.”
From the other end of the bar Nuncio erupted: “Moses, Moses, King of the Jews. Wiped his arse in the Daily News!” Baroody hit the deck as Cyclops’s shot glass shattered against the wall where his face had just been.
“Fuck you, and fuck James Joyce,” Reilly yelled in Baroody’s direction. He clearly was in no mood to have his scoop belittled by the likes of Nuncio Baroody.
“How do you prove the Virgin story is bogus?” asked Luigi as if the histrionics in front of him never happened. “You know there are true believers.”
“I’ll have to pump my source,” said Reilly.
“You have a source?”
“I have a mole.”
“Where?”
“Deep inside the GOP.”
O’Rourke threw out the first name that popped into his head. “Vito Fopiano?” he surmised.
“Close,” said Reilly, putting his index finger to his lips to keep his secret, “but no cigar.” Both Luigi and O’Rourke looked at him with renewed admiration. Cyclops was on a roll, and he knew it. “Moe, would you do me a favor?” he asked.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Luigi. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”
Reilly’s query had roused the politician in O’Rourke. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” O’Rourke asked his buddy.
“Fucking A,” replied Cyclops.
“Moe,” O’Rourke said, “do they do toxicity tests when a patient comes in? You know, for drugs and stuff.”
“That would be part of the blood work-up,” said Luigi.
“Would you take a little peek for me?” asked Reilly, sweetly.
“You two are something,” said Luigi. He knew they were both rogues, and he couldn’t resist them.
“Well?” said O’Rourke.
“I’ll see,” said Luigi as he took the cigarette out of its holder and snuffed it out in an ashtray, then threw a five-dollar tip on the bar. “I’ll see.” With that Luigi got up and exited the bar.
“What do you think?” asked Reilly.
“I’ll guess we’ll see, like Moe said,” returned O’Rourke. Two more drinks were placed in front of them.
J. Howard Byrne ambled over. “Nice job, Cyclops,” he said gesturing toward his copy of the Daily News. “This Swift guy is something. I was on a TV show with him after some kid shot his calculus teacher in Rathole, Montana, last year, and he said we should get rid of all the gun control laws. He even said, God help me, ‘Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.’”
Both O’Rourke and Reilly laughed. “Well,” said Reilly, “he’s right. If he dies it will be: ‘Pussy doesn’t kill people. Cocaine doesn’t kill people. But the combination of both will give you a hell of a send-off.’”
“What do you think this ‘v
isitation’ means to Swift’s career?” asked O’Rourke.
“It’s a fucking mess,” said Reilly. “How’s he going to undo the Virgin Mary? Every religious nut in the country will be coming out of woodwork to embrace him. Just watch.”
“Maybe it will go away,” said O’Rourke.
“My job is to make sure it doesn’t go away,” said Reilly. “How’s the Family Values congressman going to explain away the girlfriend?” Reilly got a twisted look on his face. “I’m going to stick it to him.”
“What will your cousin Johnny Pie think of that?” said O’Rourke, referring to Monsignor Seán Pius Burke, Reilly’s first cousin and the Cardinal’s right-hand man.
“He knows,” said Reilly. “You expect him to tell his boss, the Cardinal?”
“Declan Cardinal Sweeney might be very interested,” said O’Rourke.
“Monsignor Johnny Pie ain’t gonna tell the Cardinal squat about Jackie Swift. Swift is the Cardinal’s favorite congressman. Right-to-Life and true-blue to Holy Mother Church. I can read my cousin like a book. I’m older than he is, but remember, we grew up in the same tenement together. No fucking way. Johnny Pie will keep quiet, won’t rock the boat, and be a fucking bishop before he knows it. Shit, he’s no help. He’s a fucking politician just like Swift—and the Cardinal, too, for that matter too. There’s got to be a better way.”
“Another two here,” said O’Rourke.
“You know, Tone,” Reilly said changing the subject, “I saw her the other day.”
“Who?”
“Deirdre.” Something flip-flopped in O’Rourke’s stomach. Deirdre was his last lover and he didn’t want to think about her. He didn’t say a word. “She still has the face of the Irish Madonna.” All of a sudden, O’Rourke wanted to smash Reilly’s fucking mug. It had been a year, and it still hurt. “Tone, she’s so fucking beautiful.”
“I don’t want to talk about her. Forget it. Leave me alone.” But Reilly had the arrogance of the drunk and would not be silenced.
“What a face. What a body!” he said.
What does he know of her body, thought O’Rourke. He’s never seen it. Or has he? Probably tried to make her like the rest of this fucking bar. O’Rourke would be at her place when the phone would ring. He would pick it up and as soon as they heard his voice he would hear the click of a hang-up.
“You expecting a call?” he would ask the lovely and mendacious Deirdre.
“No,” she would say, looking innocent.
But she was expecting a call and she would lie and deceive and O’Rourke had had enough. He was going to make sure that Deirdre was the last woman who would ever hurt him. He hadn’t slept with anyone since. He just drank.
“That’s your problem, Tone,” slobbered Cyclops, “for you to get laid you have to love them.”
And Reilly was right. O’Rourke remembered them on leave in Saigon. While Reilly would be down at the local whorehouse, O’Rourke would sit in a bar alone, drinking until he could hardly see. O’Rourke looked at Reilly. It was thirty years since Saigon. The anger, the hurt, of a moment ago was gone. Reilly was now just another drunk.
“Cyclops,” said O’Rourke, “you don’t tell me about my romantic inclinations, and I won’t tell you when you’ve had enough to drink. Okay?”
Just then the Moat’s phone rang. “Cyclops, telephone,” yelled the barman.
“Moe Luigi here,” said the voice on the phone. “Your source is right. Cocaine was found in Congressman Swift’s system.”
“Christ!” said Reilly.
“I’ve got another surprise for you, too,” said Luigi. “His Eminence, the Cardinal, will be making a private visit within the hour.”
“I love you, Moe Luigi, even if you do drive a Lambor-guinea.”
“You’re incorrigible,” said Luigi, breaking into a smile on his end of the phone. “Just do me a favor, Cyclops: Forget where you learned this. Forget my name.”
Reilly heard the click as the phone line went dead. He returned to the bar, threw back his drink, and said, “I got to get to St. Vincent’s.”
“Why?” asked O’Rourke, still morose over Deirdre.
“Big shit happening. See you later.”
O’Rourke shrugged and went to the head. At the urinal O’Rourke stared straight ahead at the smudged graffiti, looked down at his limp member—as it always seem to be now—and watched as steam rose up off his piss as it contacted the stone cold urinal. He then thought of Deirdre Gonegal and wished he was dead.
4.
“My cock is killing me,” said Jackie Swift. He was closer to the truth than he knew. Swift slowly opened his eyes. Even in his anesthetized state, he was in agony. “Pain,” he mumbled. “Get me something for the pain.”
“The worst is over,” said Peggy Brogan reassuringly. “The doctor says the Demerol should be enough.”
Swift wanted to say “fuck the doctor,” but he didn’t feel he had the strength. Swift was in the cardiac ICU at St. Vincent’s and had an oxygen tube up his nose, an IV in his left arm, and wires running out of his chest, which were hooked up to a monitor that displayed his heartbeat in a red-line that jumped up into a miniature Gibraltar every time his heart pumped. His chest was sore, but his penis was pounding. He motioned Brogan closer to him. She put her ear close to his mouth. “My cock,” whispered Swift.
“What?”
“It’s awful sore.”
Brogan lifted his smock and surveyed his genitals. “It’s the Foley catheter,” she said.
“Foley,” said Swift, alarmed. “Get that cocksucker away from me!”
It took Brogan a second, but she realized that Swift was talking about fellow Republican congressman Mark Foley of Florida, who had a penchant for chorus boys and congressional pages. Foley hated the closet, but so far the GOP leadership had managed to bar the door.
“No,” said Brogan. “Your pee tube, it’s called a Foley catheter.”
“Oh, okay,” said Swift, relieved. “My balls feel like they’re swollen.”
Brogan looked again. They had run a tube up through Swift’s groin to do the angioplasty and he was all black and blue down there. “They look okay,” she said to him. If everything was normal, Brogan knew, Swift would have asked her to rub them for luck. No matter how sick Swift was, Brogan knew she had to bring him up to speed. It was her job as his chief of staff, and she would do it. “Honey,” said Brogan, “I have good news and bad news.”
Swift couldn’t believe he was hearing such drivel. “Do I have a choice?” he said in a hoarse voice. Brogan shrugged her shoulders. “Bad first,” he finally said. Brogan held up the Daily News headline: MIRACOLO!: BLESSED VIRGIN APPEARS TO GOPer. Swift read the headline and turned red. “What the hell is this?” he said trying to use the elbow of his free arm to push himself up in the bed. “What Virgin? What the fuck are they talking about?”
Brogan was in a fix. She could see that Swift was getting more agitated by the second. The last thing he needed was another heart attack. She would have to break the news to him gently. “Honey, remember The Song of Bernadette last night on the TV?” Swift shook his head no. Brogan was taken aback. “Don’t you remember,” she said lowering her voice, “when we made love?”
“Of course.”
“And your attack?” Swift nodded. “Well, remember The Song of Bernadette?”
Oh my God, thought Swift. The Song of Fucking Bernadette. He closed his eyes as his head landed hard on the pillow and everything became frightening vivid.
The mirror rested on the bed between the two naked bodies.
Swift shook the vial of cocaine in his fist as if it were dice. He unscrewed the cap and tapped it onto the mirror. The razor scratched the mirror as Swift laid six lines. Neat in reflection. Glassy gutters to give them dimension. A thing of beauty.
He took the straw to his nose and snorted once left and then right. Four sat. “For you, Brogan. You can handle it. You’re younger.” He smiled at her.
“Yeah,” said Brogan. �
��I can handle it.” Left, then right like a shot. She took her index finger and wiped line five onto her upper gum, front, then left. Then six.
She reached between his legs and took his balls in hand. “Ah,” said Swift. “Jesus,” followed as his dick shook and things started to look up. Brogan’s head went for it with a gigantic lick. Swift fell back on the pillow, almost in orgasm already. Hard now, Brogan in control, Swift’s cock rode the coke wake between Brogan’s lips and tongue. In and out as it grew. Harder still, she pumped, until he was purple, hard, and anaesthetized. Ready for action.
Brogan went to turn out the light. “Ah, don’t do that,” said Swift. “You know I like to fuck to light.”
“It’s too bright,” said Brogan, who had fought this losing battle before. “Here,” she said, reaching for the remote as compromise, “let’s use the TV for light.”
That was fine with Swift. “Let’s go,” he said. “Get on top.”
“You always make me do all the work,” said Brogan, telling the truth about their relationship. “If you want it, take me from behind.” She got on her knees and stuck her rump into the air. “Oh,” she said, laughing as she reached into the drawer of the night table, “I forgot something.”
A buzzing filled the room as she revved up the vibrator.
“Oh,” said Swift, “not that fucking thing again. Ain’t I man enough for you?”
“Yes,” Brogan said, a touch of unctuousness in her voice, “you’re man enough, but men do need help sometimes, you know.”
“Great.”
“Did you know that some woman in Texas was arrested last week for using one of these?” asked Brogan. “You should ask your pal DeLay about that.” It was a gentle jab at Swift because Brogan knew that when Tom DeLay—the Texan Republican enforcer in congress known as The Hammer—said “jump” Swift replied “how high?” “I wonder if Mrs. DeLay has one?” opined Brogan.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Swift, and they both laughed.
“It’s better than a hammer,” said Brogan coyly, “that I can assure Mrs. DeLay. If DeLay ever finds out how great these things are for women, he’ll be introducing bills banning them on moral grounds. Sometimes makes you wonder if you even need a man.”
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