“God,” said McGuire, “don’t wear those bulky medals. You look like a refugee from the politburo. Got any Alka-Seltzer?” O’Rourke unpinned the medals and carefully put them back in their cushioned box. “Try an American flag,” she suggested.
“Like the rest of the phoneys?” said Black.
“It’s your flag too, you know,” countered McGuire.
“Good point,” conceded Baroody. “What’s the matter with your stomach?”
“Upset,” replied McGuire. “Must be food poisoning or something. Tone did scallops last night.”
“I’m okay,” replied O’Rourke.
“It would be impossible to poison you,” McGuire shot back, “after all the scrap you put in your body over the years.”
O’Rourke did not want to get into a fight this early in the morning and tried to change the subject. “You up to making the trip with Clarence and me to D.C. for Sunday Press Box?”
“That’s my job. I’ll be with you,” she said as she fished in a glass container on the windowsill. “I’m still your campaign manager.” She threw a pin-on American flag at O’Rourke. “Put that on.”
O’Rourke stuck it in his lapel and looked at himself again in the mirror. He shook his head. “Give me another one of those things.” McGuire flipped one across the room and O’Rourke caught it. He stuck it in his other lapel and smiled. “That’s the statement I want to make.”
“You look like a fool,” said McGuire.
“That I am,” replied O’Rourke. “Let’s go over a few things before we head for the shuttle.”
The four of them sat down and O’Rourke stared at a list he had on a legal pad. “First, Sam, great job getting me on Sunday Press Box.”
“Thanks,” said McGuire, and her sweet smile returned. “Dan Dorsey and I go back a while with Senator Schumer.”
“Yeah,” cut in O’Rourke, “they both love the sound of their own voices. Okay, let’s see where we are. The 800-number and cheap sign?”
“Got it.”
“What’s the latest on Lamè?”
“He’s still thinking about it, he says,” said McGuire.
“Thinking about what?” said O’Rourke with a touch of exasperation in his voice. “I’m about to ruin his career.” McGuire shrugged her shoulders. “Get him on the phone,” ordered O’Rourke. McGuire took out her cell phone, dialed, and handed the phone to O’Rourke, who was surprised when Lamè answered this early on a Sunday morning. “Thom, Tone O’Rourke here.” McGuire reached over O’Rourke and set the phone to speaker mode.
“Getting ready for Sunday Press Box?” There was a touch of honey in Lamè’s tone. “Yeah, Thom,” said O’Rourke, “we’re about to head out to LaGuardia to catch the shuttle.”
“Well,” said Lamè, “we may be talking later.” O’Rourke looked at McGuire, and they both realized that they were about to be set up by Danny Dorsey.
“Thom,” said O’Rourke, “what’s your answer to the proposition that Sam McGuire had for you earlier this week?”
“I don’t know,” said Lamè. “I’m reconsidering. After all, it was just a youthful indiscretion.”
“Hey, Thom,” said O’Rourke in a tough north Village voice, “you were twenty-nine at the time.”
“And what gives you the right to tell the world about me?” said Lamè.
O’Rourke had had enough. “Look, you pseudo-cocksucker, either you pull out of the primary or I’ll drop this paternity suit on you like a ton of bricks. Do you understand?” There was silence at the end of Lamè’s line. “If you fuck with me, your political career is over. ‘Sodomy on demand’ won’t help you ever again.” Still silence. “Thom,” said O’Rourke, “I’m going to give you a little free political advice. Retreat now and live to fight another day.” O’Rourke did not wait for an answer as he snapped the cell phone shut. “Let’s get out to LaGuardia,” he said and the meeting ended.
His name was Danny Dorsey and he was the kind of Irish that O’Rourke hated. Out of a working class family in Syracuse, New York, he had made it in politics by being the perfect vehicle, Sunday after Sunday, for the Republican Party. If they had a point to get across, they just went on Sunday Press Box, confident that good old Danny Dorsey would seamlessly get their talking points across to the American people. If he had John McCain on one more time, they were going to have to get married.
Dorsey panted as he waited to ask questions and was famous for the inevitable “gotcha” quote from forty years ago. He always brought up that he worked for Bobby Kennedy as a way to show his Democratic bona fides, but he was firmly in the pocket of the Republican Party. He was, O’Rourke knew, a political fraud.
He gave O’Rourke a big smile as they both sat down. Dorsey shifted in his seat, then looked down at the American flag in his lapel and straightened it for the camera angle. That was a new one, even for Wolfe Tone O’Rourke. “This is Dan Dorsey, and welcome to Sunday Press Box. Our guest today is Wolfe Tone O’Rourke, Democratic candidate for New York City’s 7th Congressional District. Tone,” said Dorsey, “nice to have you back on Sunday Press Box after all these years.”
“Dan,” said O’Rourke, “Happy Mother’s Day and it’s always a pleasure to be in the box.” O’Rourke looked at McGuire in the control room and saw a small smile. Clarence Black looked away. And it went right over Danny Dorsey’s well coiffed head.
“Tone and I go back a long way,” Dorsey said into the camera, “First, Tone, why are you wearing two American flags?”
“Because I’m twice the American you are, Dan.”
Danny, his head still down, pounded away. “When we were working together on Bobby Kennedy’s last campaign—”
O’Rourke cut him off. “You were a gofer, Dan. I was the senator’s advance man.”
“Yes,” said Dorsey, “on that fateful night—”
O’Rourke again cut in. “On that fateful night I led the senator right into the arms of Sirhan Sirhan and changed the history of this country.”
“How so?”
“Without Bobby Kennedy, this nation changed. We had already lost Dr. King. All you had left was Hubert Humphrey, another bloated has-been. The likes of Nixon, Reagan, and Bush. Now we have Bush the younger and dumber running for president. Democrats and Republicans without style, class, or courage. You get an excellent pol like Clinton, although a man without conviction, and he can’t help but pull his thing out of his pants and wave it at interns. And Democrats lose years defending this guy who robbed the American people of so much. An absolute criminal waste.”
“Ah, Tone,” said Dorsey in a hushed tone, “this is a family show.”
“Well, Danny,” said O’Rourke, knowing full well that Dorsey hated being called Danny, “you and your cohorts in the media had no problems talking about Bill and Monica during the impeachment hearings. I recall you also had a fascination with the cum-stained dress that Linda Tripp was so fond of.” O’Rourke thought Dorsey might pop a blood vessel at the mention of presidential cum.
“Come on, Tone,” began Dorsey before he realized what he had said. O’Rourke was getting under his skin. “But,” said Dorsey forcefully, “we were only doing our journalistic duty during the Clinton impeachment hearings.”
“Danny, let me be blunt. You wouldn’t know your ‘journalistic duty’ if someone put it on a plate in front of you.”
“Tone, I must disagree.”
O’Rourke cut him off. “One of the problems with this country is guys like you who think they’re important and never shut the fuck up.” Danny hopped in his seat in indignation. “Calm down, Danny, it’s still a free country.”
“Watch your language,” warned Dorsey.
“I’ll watch mine, if you watch yours.” O’Rourke was just getting going. “As I told that imbecile over on Fox, the people own these airwaves, not you, not Murdoch, not General Electric. You and the rest of the journalistic frauds couldn’t wait to air Clinton’s semen story, but when the language gets a little raunchy, you’re like Claude
Rains in Casablanca—‘shocked, shocked’—that such filth could be going on the airwaves.”
“Let’s move on,” said Dorsey. “Right now on the phone from New York City we have City Councilman Thom Lamè, also a candidate for the Democratic nomination in the 7th Congressional District. Mr. Lamè, welcome to Sunday Press Box.” Lamè was now in the big leagues and he hardly could believe it. “How’s your campaign going for Congress against Tone O’Rourke?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone as they put a picture of Lamè on the screen. O’Rourke was psyching himself up also, for he knew he was about to do something he didn’t want to do: destroy a fool named Thom Lamè.
“Are you there, Councilman Lamè?”
“Yes, Dan,” Lamè finally said.
“How’s the campaign going?”
“Well, Dan, I have something very important to say about the race for the nomination of the Democratic Party in the 7th Congressional District.” Lamè used the pregnant pause well and O’Rourke’s face remained a stone. Lamè cleared his voice. “At this time, Dan, I am withdrawing my name from consideration and endorsing the candidacy of Wolfe Tone O’Rourke. Clearly, Tone O’Rourke, with his long service to the district, is the right man for the job.”
Dorsey looked disappointed, and O’Rourke forced himself to look surprised. “Thanks, Thom,” O’Rourke said, “that was very generous of you, your endorsement. I look forward to working with you from Washington and helping you in your future campaigns. And a happy Mother’s Day to you and yours!”
Lamè wanted to reach through the television screen and strangle O’Rourke, but he went with the flow, knowing the political game is a long one and the first one out of the gate doesn’t necessarily win the race. He knew that O’Rourke had already helped him in more ways than he could ever imagined, “Thank you, Tone. And you can be sure that someday I will cash in that IOU.”
O’Rourke nodded for the camera and smiled at Danny Dorsey, who looked like they had just taken away his dog bone. “This will save you a lot of money,” was the first thing that popped out of Dorsey’s stunned mouth.
“Well, Dan, I’m still up against the Fopiano machine, that welloiled juggernaut of Family Values.” O’Rourke smiled, and, back in New York, a shiver ran through Vito, Madonna-Sue, and Jackie Swift. “However, Dan, I will need to raise bribes—I mean, campaign contributions. I will accept nothing larger than twenty-five dollars, and for that you will get a T-shirt, a dirty campaign button, and my everlasting gratitude.” Tone held up a piece of cardboard, the kind that comes when you get your shirts back from the dry cleaners. On it was his new 800 number, written in black magic marker. “Call ‘1-800-BRIBE-ME’ to contribute to the Tone O’Rourke for Congress campaign.”
O’Rourke smiled for the camera as he held the piece of cardboard up with both hands. Dorsey, defeated, offered no admonition. “We’ll be right back after these important words from our sponsors,” was all he could muster.
36.
Back in New York and back in the office it was déjà vu all over again. “This is White House Operator 1524,” said the voice, “stand by for the President of the United States.”
“Oh, no,” said McGuire, “not again.”
“Tone,” said the voice, hard and petulant, “this is Bill Clinton. I can’t believe you just threw me under the bus again on Danny Dorsey’s show. What did I do to you? Hillary’s all upset.”
“Yeah,” interjected O’Rourke, “I’m sure she is.” McGuire hit O’Rourke on his Vietnam arm and O’Rourke winced.
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.
“I did my best for this country,” the president said, “and I did well for Ireland too. Next time you’re in Washington, stop by.” With that the president hung up.
“I think he’s pissed at you.”
“No shit,” said O’Rourke. “If he’d get pissed at the Republicans as often as he gets pissed at me, he’d be a better president. The Clintons are to the Democratic Party what the British are to Ireland—all they leave is their stink.”
“Come on,” said McGuire, wincing at O’Rourke’s words, “cut him some slack.”
O’Rourke shook his head. “Never,” he said, and McGuire knew he meant it.
37.
“I’m late,” said Sam McGuire casually, and O’Rourke instantly knew what she meant. He had probably missed more periods than most women. He remembered that Rebekah, out of a well directed guilt, used to miss a period every couple of months just for the fun of it. Grace usually had no periods because she drank so much. But eventually the blood would begin to flow again and O’Rourke had always assumed he was just shooting blanks.
“You take one of those pregnancy tests?” asked O’Rourke.
“Yep.”
“Well?”
“It was the right color.”
“So, it wasn’t my scallops.”
“No, that was morning sickness on Sunday.”
“But you were using an IUD, right?”
“They work 99 percent of the time,” said McGuire.
This must have been the one-hundredth time, thought O’Rourke, and the IUD had turned into an IOU. O’Rourke was fifty-three, going on fifty-four, and he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How are you feeling?”
“Just wonderful.” So was O’Rourke. He took Simone McGuire in his arms and hugged her like he had never hugged a human being before. Then they fell on the bed they had conceived their child in and the three of them hugged for the first time as a family.
38.
“Tone, I don’t know what to say,” said Clarence Black.
What’s the matter?”
“You know Doodles Carney?”
“Doodles from Mayor Koch’s security detail?”
“Yeah,” continued Black, “he’s retired and works for me once in a while. I have him keeping an eye on this Costello fellow you’re interested in down in D.C.”
“So?”
“Well, Doodles says Costello was meeting with a FBI agent by the name of Robert Hanssen?”
“Are you getting a red flag here?”
“My investigator says that Hanssen is a fanatical Catholic.”
“You mean he belongs to Opus Dei?”
“Yes,” replied Black, “he’s been known to try to recruit young FBI agents into Opus Dei.”
“So how’s he involved with Costello?”
“Costello, Hanssen, and the papal nuncio,” said Black, “had a meeting last night at eight o’clock.”
“Why is Doodles so amazed?” O’Rourke asked.
“Well, he’s worked with the FBI a lot in New York, and he ran into the FBI while tracking Hanssen.”
“So we’re tracking Costello,” said O’Rourke, “and the FBI is tracking Hanssen, and we’re all bumping into each other at the papal nuncio’s residence in Washington, D.C.”
“Doodles,” said Black, “was told to steer clear. That this was heavy stuff.”
“How heavy?”
“Espionage heavy,” said Black.
O’Rourke was quiet. “I don’t know what to say. I was going to drop a dime on Costello any day now. You know, the IRA angle. Say he’s Jack Costello, the boyo who took the shot at Maggie Thatcher years ago.” O’Rourke was pensive. “Don’t know what to do now. Do you think Costello knows he’s in this deep?”
“I think Costello is a politician,” said Black. “I think he is a money man for the Vatican. But I can’t believe he’s involved in espionage.”
“I agree,” replied O’Rourke. “Is there any kind of arrest for Hanssen imminent?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well,” said O’Rourke, “maybe Cyclops Reilly might want to know about the Reverend Dr. Costello and why he’s hanging out with all these very proper, very upright, and very sleazy Catholics.”
O’Rourke, Reilly, and Black were at the end of the bar when Séan Pius Burke arrived. “Why do off-duty priests always dress like plainclothes cops?” said Reilly in greeting
his cousin.
“Yeah,” agreed O’Rourke, “right down to the white socks and black shoes.”
“And how are you fucking guys?” said the Monsignor and all four of them laughed.
“Let’s go in the back,” said O’Rourke. “We can sit at Bobby’s table.” The cousins looked at each other but said nothing. O’Rourke, they knew, was very sensitive about Bobby Kennedy and rarely brought up his name without provocation. They went straight to Table One, left, in front of the window.
“Can I get you guys anything?” the waitress said.
“Refill,” said Reilly. “Vodka rocks.”
“I’d like a Jamey 12,” said the priest.
“Same here,” said Black of the Jameson.
“I’ll be a good lad and stay in dry dock,” said O’Rourke.
“Where’s Sam?” asked Reilly.
“I don’t want to get Sam involved in this. Do you understand?” The cousins and Black all nodded.
“Shoot,” said Reilly.
“I called a friend at the Justice Department,” began O’Rourke. “He’s one of Bobby Kennedy’s old boys, one of the last, about to retire. I asked him about Costello and that Robert Hanssen character who Doodles stumbled upon at the Nunciate and he said he’d have to call me back. Well, he called me back from a friend’s house because he didn’t want to be heard talking about either of those two guys.”
“It’s that serious?” asked Burke.
“My friend said he had only two words for me: ‘national security.’ He told me not to get involved and that there was an ongoing investigation.”
“Is that all?” asked Reilly.
“He said,” added O’Rourke seditiously, “that we’ll be reading about it on the front page of the New York Times very soon.”
“Fuck him,” said Reilly with sudden vehemence. The drinks were brought and the conversation ceased for a moment. “Fuck him and the FBI,” Reilly repeated. He was beginning to see the front page of the New York Daily News with his byline on it.
Our Lady Of Greenwich Village Page 26
