Our Lady Of Greenwich Village

by Dermot McEvoy

  “You’re paranoid,” an exasperated O’Rourke finally said.

  “No,” said the friend in dead earnest, “I’m not paranoid. I’m real annoyed.”

  It wasn’t working. Hardly surprised—having suckered himself—O’Rourke went back to the bathroom for more. This time the whole contents of the aluminum foil went up O’Rourke’s desperate nose. That was better.

  Coked up, O’Rourke stood, just looking at people. Wondering what it all meant. It was beginning to catch up with him. All the work, the drink, the loneliness—they were all too much. He couldn’t think straight. He felt depressed. Or was it repressed? Was there a difference? His lack of functioning, his lack of life, his lack of women. He lacked everything except drink, and that, there was too much of. O’Rourke knew that his alcoholism was nothing more than a manifestation of his fear. Alcohol fueled his inability to change, to do something about his stagnant life.

  Then he thought of Sam McGuire and smiled. She was now an integral part of his team. She was smart, funny, and on the ball. She liked the give-and-take that O’Rourke was always supplying. She loved his double entendres and even shot back a couple of her own. But it was her eyes that enchanted O’Rourke the most. McGuire had the bluest gray eyes he had ever seen. Or were they the grayest blue eyes he had ever seen? They were extraordinary, especially for a black woman. He just wished he was twenty years younger. Maybe then she would have gone for him. But that was all supposition now. What would a woman like Sam McGuire want with a broken-down old drunk like O’Rourke? O’Rourke knew there was no chance, not a single chance, that this exquisite human being would fall for him. He had forsaken relationships for booze. And this night, cocaine. What a fucking dunce he was.

  Sometimes he could not remember things. Sometimes he didn’t want to remember things. With the drink, the night before sometimes became a mystery. He simply could not remember. Then there was the fright of awakening in the middle of the night with a dry mouth and those curious little pains that probably meant nothing, but one just didn’t know. He felt sluggish, slow moving. It was hard to pinpoint. He didn’t feel like himself. And at this point, he didn’t like himself. This was what bothered him the most. He didn’t know if he was sick or crazy. Probably a little bit of both. He sipped his Remy and thought of Sam McGuire’s eyes.

  Something was wrong. As he stood there his lips went dry. Probably the coke. His knees weakened. Something was happening. O’Rourke was scared. Then he wasn’t. Three thoughts shot across his mind.

  He didn’t want to die in a saloon.

  He wanted to die in a state of grace and say a Perfect Act of Contrition—but he couldn’t remember the words.

  And he wanted to die in Ireland.

  Then something exploded on the right side of his head like a Bob Gibson fastball, and Hogan’s Moat, with all its raucousness, neatly faded away.

  11.

  “I’ve put off my trip to Rome for a few days,” said Declan Cardinal

  Sweeney to Monsignor Seán Pius Burke.

  Burke just knew it was coming. The St. Patrick’s Day Parade the previous day had turned out to be a fiasco. GAYLICK had somehow infiltrated the parade disguised as the County Louth Association. They had marched up Fifth Avenue as far as the cathedral. There, they had stopped and with fists pumping in the air began to shout, “GAY-LICK, GAY-LICK, GAY-LICK,” in front of the enraged Cardinal. As the police moved in to arrest them, they had turned their backs to him, dropped their jeans, and exposed their naked buttocks directly at the Cardinal. They had brought along a boom box on which blared the music of the day, albeit with a queer twist:

  “ . . . By the Rising of the Moons, By the Rising of the Moons, and Arise All Queers for Freedom, By the Rising of the Moons!”

  “Did you see this?” the Cardinal asked Burke. It was the front page of the New York Post, whose headline proclaimed: MOON OVER ST. PAT’S. “Apparently,” the Cardinal said evenly, “we’ve helped sell a lot of newspapers in town this week.”

  Burke could see the other side of the Cardinal now. He was composed, in control. Burke knew he was plotting. At seventy-seven, the Cardinal could still be awesome when he put his mind to it. Now, the Cardinal had something on his mind and Burke was afraid what it might be.

  “I talked with His Holiness this morning,” said the Cardinal. Burke was silent. “We discussed the events of the last few days. The disturbances with these queer Irish hooligans. The Blessed Virgin’s appearance and the abortion question. His Holiness agrees with me that this is a very special time for Holy Mother Church, and it’s time to make a stand.”

  “What do you have in mind, Eminence?” said Burke.

  “I think we’re going to endorse an anti-abortion candidate this year,” said the Cardinal.

  Burke didn’t like it. It was getting into sticky territory. Church and State. He didn’t like it at all. “Are you sure this is the right tack to take?” he asked.

  The Cardinal shot him a look. “His Holiness agrees with me,” said the Cardinal tersely.

  “I see,” said Burke. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “You know whom I have in mind.”

  “Congressman Swift.”

  “Congressman Swift,” repeated the Cardinal. “I want to show our support and appreciation for the congressman. And I want to focus the media on the Blessed Virgin’s appearance and its significance.”

  “Significance?” asked Burke tentatively.

  “Its significance as a sign to all of us in the anti-abortion movement.”

  “You really believe the Virgin appeared to Swift?”

  The Cardinal shot him a glance meant to make him cower, but Burke stood his ground. “You are close to blasphemy, Monsignor,” the Cardinal finally said.

  “I am not a blasphemer,” replied Burke. “But I am not a fool either.”

  There was silence before the Cardinal replied. “You’ll do as I say.”

  Burke bowed his head in submission, “Yes, of course, Eminence.”

  “I also want to get other religious leaders in on this,” continued the Cardinal. “We have stood together alone on this anti-abortion front too long. There are others who think the same way we do and I think we should all get together and pose a united front in the sacred and holy fight against abortion. Dr. Costello agrees with me.”

  Breakfast at the chancery—the Cardinal’s house at the Madison Avenue end of St. Patrick’s Cathedral—was often an occasion of surprise. On any given day you might find the Cardinal dining with the papal nuncio, a visiting bishop, or even the vice president of the United States.

  Perhaps the thing Burke hated most about living in the chancery was the dress code. The Cardinal insisted that all his priests be properly dressed in a black suit and a hard white Roman collar, which was forever chafing Burke’s fair Irish skin. There was no privacy in the house. Dignitaries and politicians were showing up at all times of the day and night for meetings. There was no room to sit around with the guys, chew the fat, and watch the Mets game. To Monsignor Burke, it was a dignified prison.

  “I’m Seán Burke,” he had said to the stranger seated at the breakfast table.

  “Dr. John Costello,” the priest said, standing and reaching out his hand to Burke.

  “Nice to meet you,” Burke paused, “Doctor.” Burke had a doctorate too, but he didn’t go flaunting it. So did Dowd and the Cardinal. Burke loved hubris—he loved bruising it.

  With his left hand Costello tightly grasped a gold and silver crucifix that hung around his neck. The cross and chain were silver; the body of Jesus gold. Burke noticed that Costello’s fist had engulfed the cross as if it were a talisman that could protect him. Burke was forced to do a double take as he shook hands because Costello looked like he had stepped out of another time. He was wearing an old-fashioned soutane, a cassock more common to European priests of fifty years ago then to the modern clergy. It had to be specially tailored, thought Burke. His curiosity had been piqued. Even the Cardinal bought his suits a
nd cassocks off the rack. With his cross, Costello almost looked like a bishop. Burke himself, although a monsignor, rarely wore a cassock with his red stripe of rank. But this guy really went for the clerical sartorial of the anointed. Why did he think he was so special?

  “Do I detect an accent?” asked Burke as he sat down to have his breakfast. Then he cocked his head. Something definitely was wrong.

  “You have a good ear, Monsignor,” said Costello. “I grew up in Dublin.” Costello was about sixty-five and pink the way elderly Celts are. The Irish come into this world with pink bottoms and leave it with pink faces. It is the stamp on their passport of life.

  “Do you still live there?” Burke asked.

  “No, no,” said Costello, “when I left Maynooth, I left Ireland too. I’ve been up in Canada for the longest time. Niagara Falls.”

  Something was bothering Burke. “Cos-TELL-o,” he said. “What a great name! Lou Costello.”

  “Abbott and Costello,” said the priest, smiling perfunctorily, fingering his cross.

  “Frank Costello,” said Burke.

  “A mobster sent from central casting,” said Costello, this time without the feigned amusement.

  “John Costello,” repeated Burke. “Yes, you share the name with the former Taoiseach.”

  “John Costello?” asked Dr. Costello, shaking his head.

  “Yes,” said Burke, “he was prime minister of Ireland twice.”

  “Must be before my time. Anyway, I’m not that political.”

  Irish-Catholics had many ways of identifying their own. They knew, as they always had known, that language was their greatest weapon. You could tell by the way they spelled their names. You could always tell the Green from the Orange by the spelling. James Connolly, the 1916 patriot, was green. John Connally, the Texas governor shot in Dallas with JFK, was orange. Eugene O’Neill was green, but Shaquille O’Neal was not. Clare and Denis were Irish spellings; Claire and Dennis were not. If you knew how to play the letters, it wasn’t that hard. There was also the way the Irish pronounced their names on either side of the Atlantic. Mahon in the United States was pronounced “Mann.” In Ireland, it was “MA-han.” Mahoney in New York was “Ma-honeey” ; in Dublin it was “Matt-han-ee.” Shaughnessy morphed from the American “Sean-a-see” to the Gaelic “Shock-nessy.”

  Costello in America had always been “Cos-TELL-o,” as in Lou and Frank. In Ireland it was “COS-ta-low.” Dr. Costello had failed the mean’s test and Burke knew there was something wrong.

  “Have you been back recently?” asked Burke.

  “Back where?”

  “Dublin.”

  “No, not since Maynooth.”

  “I studied in Dublin,” said Burke, buttering his toast.

  “Great town,” said Costello noncommittally.

  “I have people there, you know,” continued Burke, “on both sides of the city.” There was nothing Dubliners—and Burke had lived there for three years—loved more than chatting with fellow Dubliners, finding common ground in pubs, restaurants, or bookshops they both knew. Burke noticed that Costello didn’t share his enthusiasm. “My mother’s people are on the South Side,” Burke continued, “off Cork Street between Dolphin’s Barn and the Guinness Brewery. And my father’s people are in Phibsborough on the North Side.” Burke paused. “Where are you from?”

  “I grew up in Donnybrook,” said Costello.

  “On the North Side,” said Burke.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  There was silence. Liffey geography, thought Burke. Costello had gotten it wrong.

  “Are you staying with us long?” asked Burke.

  “I won’t know until I meet with the Cardinal,” replied Costello.

  “Well,” said Burke, “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  With that, a burst of energy entered the room. “Monsignor, Monsignor,” said the excited boy, “can I go now?”

  “Where’s your brother, Felipe?” asked Burke.

  “He’s out in the sitting room,” said the boy impatiently, pounding his baseball mitt. “Can I go now?”

  “You rang the bell too long during the transubstantiation,” said Burke, suppressing a smile.

  The smile left Felipe’s face, and he stared at the floor. “I know,” he said.

  “So it’ll be a shorter ring tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Monsignor,” said Felipe. “Short and sweet!”

  Burke laughed. “Felipe, say hello to Dr. Costello. He’s visiting with us.”

  Costello pushed his chair away from the table and tapped his lap. “Come here, son,” he said, and the boy followed his order. Costello picked him up and placed him on his knee. “Short and sweet. I’d say that that’s a pretty good description of you!” The boy smiled perfunctorily. “Transubstantiation. That’s a pretty big word. Do you know what it means?”

  “Yep,” said Felipe, “that’s the consecration of the mass.”

  “When the bread and wine are turned into the body of Our Lord, Jesus Christ.”

  “Yep.”

  “Look at Jesus, Felipe,” said Costello, pointing to the gold figure on his cross. “Would you like to feel my cross? Would you like to feel Jesus on the cross?”

  It was getting creepy. Burke had been down this road too many times before. He wanted to say, “That’s enough,” but he didn’t want to frighten the child. “Come on, Felipe,” he said taking the child by the hand and pulling him off of Costello’s lap, “your brother’s waiting. Time for baseball practice.”

  “Yes!” said the boy as he ran toward the door. In the doorway he turned around and gave the two priests a little wave goodbye.

  “He’s precious,” said Costello. “Sometimes you only see God in the eyes of a boy.”

  Burke looked at Costello and knew. “Yes,” said Burke evenly, “sometimes you only see God in the eyes of all his children.” Costello knew he had been caught, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Well,” said Costello with a chuckle, “that’s what I meant.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  Within minutes Costello had wiped his lips with his napkin and risen. In his left hand he held a briefcase, the kind you didn’t see much any more, the kind where the front and the back came together on a V-frame and a flap dropped down the front and snapped into the lock.

  On the flap were the letters, embossed vertically in gold:

  I.

  H.

  S.

  Burke at first wanted to smile, but then he grew concerned. When he was a kid he was told that I.H.S. stood for “I have suffered,” supposedly Christ’s lament on the cross. In reality I.H.S. was a Greek truncation of the first three letters of Jesus’ name. “It’s kind of like Christ’s monogram,” Burke used to joke as he explained it to laymen. Unless Costello’s real name was Isaac Henry Sullivan, there was something very wrong here.

  Burke looked up to see Costello, carefully holding his cross in his other hand, bow in an old-fashioned way, then back away from the table before turning and leaving the room.

  The Westie in Burke had been piqued, for he knew Costello was not what he purported to be. He picked up the phone and called an old friend from Dublin, Monsignor Vincent Bartley, now the parish priest of St. Paul’s on Staten Island.

  “Vince,” Burke said, “I gotta be quick.”

  “Sure,” said Bartley in his soft North Side Dublin accent.

  “Did you ever run into a priest back in Dublin by the name of John Costello?” Burke pronounced it the American way.

  “Costello?” said Bartley, pronouncing it the Irish way.

  “Costello,” said Burke, agreeing with Bartley’s pronunciation.

  “You mean The Reverend Doctor Costello,” laughed Bartley into the phone.

  “The Reverend Doctor?”

  “Indeed,” said Bartley. “I know your man, but not from Dublin. I knew him when I was studying in Spain.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I have only two words for the Reverend Dr. Jo
hn Costello,” said Bartley dryly.

  Burke knew of Bartley’s Fenian connections and became concerned. He knew it was going to be bad news. “And those two words are?”

  “Opus Dei.”

  More trouble, Monsignor Burke thought to himself. “Who are you thinking of, Eminence, the Christian Fundamentalists?”

  “The Christian Fundamentalists, exactly,” said Cardinal Sweeney. “Let’s hit these abortionists hard, and let’s do it now. I want you to get in touch with Reverend Cockburn.”

  “Eminence,” said Burke defensively, “do you mean that hysteric who picketed the veterinary clinic?”

  “That man who was cruelly assaulted right in front of that feckless clinic,” added the Cardinal.

  “By a cairn terrier, I believe,” countered Burke.

  The Cardinal shot him another one of his looks, made to intimidate. “I don’t want to argue on this, Monsignor. This has to be done. What I’d like to do is get together with Swift and Cockburn and hold a press conference. If the Congressman is up to it, we could even have it at St. Vincent’s, where no abortions are performed. Let’s set it up as soon as you can do it.”

  “Yes, Eminence,” said Burke quietly as he stood up to leave. The more he thought about the press conference, the more it disturbed him. Back at his office he put in a call into his cousin.

  “Cyclops Reilly here,” said the voice over the phone.

  “Benedict,” said Burke, “it’s Johnny Pie.”

  Reilly cringed. He hated being called Benedict. “Well, well, well, Monsignor,” he said, “what have I done to rate a call from a dignitary of the Church like you?”

  It was hard to believe, but Benedict Reilly and Seán Pius Burke were first cousins. They grew up in the same tenement on West 49th Street across from the old Madison Square Garden. They shared the same grandmother, old Masie Scully, late of the Falls Road, Belfast.

  Masie was a piece of work. The special branch of the Royal Irish Constabulary had made her a widow in 1920, and by 1924 she was in New York living with her two young daughters in Hell’s Kitchen. During World War II the daughters had married a couple of Irish tough guys from the neighborhood. The two men, Tom Reilly and Dominick Burke, took odd jobs at the Garden, working the floor, changing the arena from boxing to hockey to rodeo to basketball. On the side, they were “boyos,”doing jobs for the mob. Everybody knew them as auxiliaries in the Westies, the Irish gangsters of Hell’s Kitchen.