Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (17 page)

C
oming from three different directions, Cyclops Reilly, Abe Stein, and Seán Pius Burke found themselves alone in the same elevator. The diminutive Abe looked up at the two tall Irishmen on either side of him and smiled. “I feel like a pastrami on Irish soda bread,” he said. Both Irishmen smiled back at him.

“You get my email?” asked Reilly.

“Sure did,” said Stein. “What are you up to?”

“Me?” said Reilly innocently. “What would I be up to?”

“Johnny Pie,” said Stein, “you know anything about this?”

“No,” said the monsignor, “and I don't want to know anything about anything.”

The news conference took place in the small auditorium that was adjacent to the St. Vincent's Hospital press office. The congressman was not crazy about the idea, but there was little he could do; in fact, coming back to the hospital made him feel like he was revisiting the scene of the crime. Madonna-Sue and her father had spoken with the Cardinal and had, reluctantly, agreed to attend. It was all for show and they had no choice. Peggy Brogan was there also, separated from the clique, a political wallflower who knew where all the bodies were buried.

When all the television lights and radio microphones were set up, the Cardinal stepped to the podium. On one side of him was Congressman Jackie Swift and on the other was the Reverend Chester Cockburn. “We are here,” the Cardinal began, “to put a moral imprimatur on this year's elections.”

There was a hum from the group of reporters and the only thought on their minds was “Church and State.”

“For years now, Catholic politicians have run for office,” began the Cardinal, “freely disregarding the moral teachings of Holy Mother Church. The Church will not stand for this amoral conduct any longer.” He paused for effect. “Therefore, breaking tradition, I am endorsing Congressman Jackie Swift in his reelection bid. I am supporting the congressman specifically because of his stand against abortion and his efforts for Right-to-Life legislation.” The Cardinal turned to Swift, shook his hand and said, “Thank you, Congressman Swift.” Expecting applause, the Cardinal was taken aback by the silence in the room. He returned to the microphone. “It is not often that a crusade like the anti-abortion movement is given a signal from above,” the Cardinal said as he raised his eyes toward the heavens. “And God chose to send his most Holy Mother to Congressman Swift to deliver his message on high—abortions must stop!

“Also, I want to take this a step further,” said the Cardinal. “From now on, in the Archdiocese of New York, any Catholic politician who defies the teachings of Holy Mother Church on abortion will be denied Holy Communion. No one has an absolute right to the Eucharist.” There was a palpable tension in the room, for the press knew the “Wafer Watch” was underway. The Cardinal cleared his throat. “'The Reverend Chester Cockburn of Operation Free Fetus also has a statement to make.”

Cockburn, ever so proud as he shook the Cardinal's hand, knowing the Cardinal's endorsement helped legitimize his organization, stepped to the podium. “Never again in this country,” the reverend began, “will little fetuses be left defenseless. We will fight these Godless heathens in the Congress, in the streets, in the abortion clinics. We will do whatever it takes to stop the maiming of the innocent!” His eyes were raised to the ceiling as he spread his arms apart in imitation of Christ on the cross, looking instead like a loony bird about to take flight.

Swift was next. He looked sharp and healthy in his three-piece suit. “I just want to thank His Eminence, the Cardinal, and the Reverend Cockburn for their endorsement. I would also like to thank,” he added with a straight face, “Our Lady of Greenwich Village for her inspiration.” There were snickers from the media. “Now, we can begin the fight, and the fight will be right!” Swift was beginning to sound like Ian Paisley. With Cockburn on one side and the Cardinal on the other, Swift took their arms and raised them in triumph, like he had just won a heavyweight championship. The Cardinal surveyed the reporters. “Any questions?”

Abe Stein looked at Cyclops Reilly and knew the floor was his. “Ah, Reverend Cockburn,” began Stein, “as you may know, the Cardinal is very wary of so-called Catholic bashers.'I have a report here that after you accused the Buffalo Archdiocese of building low-income housing for poor blacks solely for the purpose of converting blacks to Catholicism, Buffalo's Bishop Malloy accused you of Catholic bashing. What do you have to say about that?”

“It's a canard,” said Cockburn. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for the Catholic Church.”

“So you're saying Bishop Malloy is a liar, then?” continued Stein.

“Yes, wherever you got that information from, it's a lie.”

Cyclops Reilly was ready. “Reverend
Cock
-burn,” he began.

“Ah,” said the Reverend, “that's Co-burn. It's pronounced Co-burn.”

“Nevertheless,” said Reilly, “you're accusing the bishop—a member of the hierarchy of the Catholic Church—of lying? The Cardinal is always talking about Catholic bashing. Eminence, is this man a Catholic basher?”

“Who are you?” demanded the Cardinal, unaware of the connection between Reilly and Monsignor Burke.

“Cyclops Reilly,
New York Daily News
.”

“I know your stuff, Reilly,” said the Cardinal sharply. “Very biased reporting.”

It didn't faze Reilly one bit. “Nevertheless, Eminence, is this man a Catholic basher?”

“Eminence,” interrupted Billy Eminence, “could you define ‘Catholic bashing'?”

“Catholic bashing,” said the Cardinal, “is the abuse of Catholics by Catholics and non-Catholics alike.”

“So Catholics can be Catholic bashers, too?” said Billy Eminence.

“Yes, Billy, Catholics can be accused of self-abuse,” continued the Cardinal. With that answer howls went up around the room as the reporters started laughing. Monsignor Burke turned his head to the wall so the Cardinal couldn't see him.

“Friends,” said Cockburn, “let's not fight over our differences. I happen to be a Protestant. But we all have lots in common. Like the Cardinal, I'm anti-abortion. I quake in the shadow of the Lord, for I am a man of God.”

“But are you a Catholic basher?” demanded Reilly. Cockburn was stonewalling him.

“You said before, Reverend Cockburn,” continued Abe Stein, “that you would ‘do whatever it takes to stop the maiming of the innocent.' Are you advocating violence against doctors and women who use abortion clinics?”

“I said that we will take action to stop this holocaust of the fetus.”

“How?” asked Stein. “What are your means?”

“We will do what it takes!” A look came over Cockburn. “My heart leaps for joy every time one of them gets popped.” His face crunched into a scowl. “You won't find me weeping over the grave of an abortionist. It's time to scream bloody murder!” The Cardinal took a step back, disbelief on his face. Swift looked like he wanted to disappear.

“Reverend,” said Reilly as he went in for the kill, “you seem to be more interested in fetuses than in living human beings.”

“Fetuses,” said Cockburn, “are living human beings.”

“As alive as teenagers?” asked Reilly.

“Certainly.”

“I hope you don't treat your fetuses like you treated that teenage boy up in Buffalo that you sodomized,” said Reilly.

“I never touched that boy,” protested Cockburn. “I have a wife and three boys myself.”

“Does your wife let you near them?” yelled Reilly.

“This is an outrage!” Cockburn screamed at Reilly.

“You're more interested in fetuses,” yelled Reilly, “than the living who you are accused of sodomizing! Are you a sodomite?”

“I'm not. I'm not a sodomite,” shouted Cockburn into the microphone as the Cardinal came forward to try and calm him.

“How about you and your GodScou✞s?” continued Cyclops. “There've been allegations.”

“I demand the right to face my
alligators
!”said Cockburn desperately, unconsciously stepping into a Joycean word maze from which there would be no escape.

“These allegations are outrageous,” the Cardinal said into the microphone. “The Church would never associate with a man accused of doing such terrible things.”

“How about your association with Father Bruce Ritter, Eminence?” said Reilly, referring to the notorious celebrity pedophile founder of Covenant House, who was feted by everyone from Sweeney to President Ronald Reagan as a hero savior of defenseless children.

With that Father Parnell Dowd, the archdiocese's information director, stepped to the podium and took the Cardinal by the elbow and led him out of the room.

Congressman Swift, wondering how he ended up in the middle of this circus, searched the crowd for his wife and Vito Fopiano, but they had already left. He decided to do the same. He caught Brogan's eye and they both headed for the exit. “I didn't touch that boy,” the Reverend Chester proclaimed, over and over again. “I didn't touch him.” he podium was now empty except for the Reverend Chester Cockburn, protesting his innocence.

Cyclops Reilly went to the pay phone and called Peccadillo Fogarty. “I got your headline for tomorrow, Peck.”

“Yeah?” said Fogarty.

“I AM NOT A SODOMITE!”

S
am McGuire came into O'Rourke's room at St. Vincent's with a shopping bag filled with his clothes. After two days of blood tests, probes, and scans, it was finally check-out day. He would live, Moe Luigi had told him. Only with no booze, no drugs, a new diet, and lots of exercise. With those admonitions weighing on him, O'Rourke would be going home.

O'Rourke was asleep when she came in, his hairless chest quietly going up and down. There was no hospital attire in evidence. O'Rourke hated pajamas. He always slept nude. Peacefully asleep, O'Rourke showed none of the inner turmoil that daily tortured his very being.

McGuire remembered vividly the first time she had seen O'Rourke. She was a junior press secretary in Chuck Schumer's campaign in February 1998 when panic had started to set in. Schumer was sitting at 17 percent in the polls, and everyone thought Geraldine Ferraro—the woman who had helped Walter Mondale lose forty-nine states to Reagan in 1984—was going to be the nominee against Senator D'Amato.

Schumer called in Northern Dispensary Associates for a consultation. McGuire was shocked the first time she saw O'Rourke, all beard, hair, and glasses, with an attitude that said, “I don't give a fuck.” He was just the opposite of the slick operators who had been kissing Schumer's ass all winter, telling him what he wanted to hear. Schumer was tentative in his approach. O'Rourke had cut him off. “Geraldine Ferraro is a professional loser,” he said, as mouths dropped open. “She's a lousy candidate, and her husband is mobbed up. And you're worried about
her
?

“Go out,” O'Rourke had told Schumer straight to his face, “and punch them in the fucking mouth and see if they like it. The problem with the Democratic Party is that Clinton and the rest of those pussies at the Democratic Leadership Council”—McGuire knew immediately that O'Rourke was referring to the likes of Joe Lieberman and Lanny Davis—“have turned the party into GOP Lite.”

The “GOP Lite” line had stuck with McGuire and was the reason that when she needed a job she came first to Northern Dispensary Associates. She also came because of O'Rourke the man. This was a real man. She was tired of boys disguised as men, with their toys and their solipsism. Hard dicks with soft heads, she thought of them. And although she had worked for him for just short of a month she knew O'Rourke was special. The way he took care of Tommy Boyle, the enthusiasm he showed when talking about issues, showed character. Even the things he didn't want to talk about—Vietnam and Bobby Kennedy—showed what kind of a man he was. What O'Rourke had was decency, something that had seemingly gone out of fashion. And, really, he wasn't that bad looking a man. In fact, in a saloon society kind of way, he was cute, even ruggedly handsome.

She knew O'Rourke was interested in her—a woman always knows. But he would never make a direct approach because, even at his age, he was still shy with women. It would be up to her to get the romance going. Seduction, she knew, could be fun. She smiled at her opportunity.

A sheet came up to O'Rourke's waist. He continued his quiet snooze. McGuire surveyed him and she couldn't resist. Gently, she lifted up the sheet and looked at his genitals. She held the sheet just a few seconds, but it seemed like a long time.

“What da ya think?” said O'Rourke out the side of his mouth.

Stunned, she dropped the sheet. Her black face blushed and she took on a purplish hue. “They're,” she stuttered in embarrassment, “they're humongous!”

“Yeah,” laughed O'Rourke at the sound of such a ridiculous word, “I've heard that before—mostly from my political opponents.”

“But they're nice,” said Sam, giggling. “Like ripe avocados.”

“I like them massaged,” replied O'Rourke, figuring he had nothing to lose.

Without saying another word, McGuire put her hand under the sheet and cupped his balls, slowly rotating them.

“Deeper,” said O'Rourke.

McGuire dug her fingers deeper into his groin, and O'Rourke shut his eyes. His head dropped back on his pillow. McGuire's middle finger teased his anus, and O'Rourke found himself with his first erection of the year. Neither spoke.

Then the door opened. It was old Sister Perpetua. McGuire withdrew her hand.

“Ready to go home this morning, Mr. O'Rourke?” she pleasantly asked as she looked around the door.

“Yes I am, Sister,” said O'Rourke. “Miss McGuire here is, ah, giving me a hand.”

“Wonderful,” said Sister Perpetua. “I'll see you downstairs at the check-out.”

Sister Perpetua closed the door and O'Rourke, with McGuire holding his arm for support, helped him stand up out of the bed. He was naked with a full-blown erection.

“I'm all right,” he said to McGuire with no self-consciousness. He was amazed at the weight of his hard-on. McGuire stared at it then looked up at O'Rourke, who was looking as frisky as a happy unicorn. “I wasn't sure it still worked,” he said. They smiled at each other, now not sure if they were embarrassed or not. O'Rourke thought that an erection was the closest thing to a truth that was to be found in the world today. It was, after all, the most honest of reactions. “Get my clothes, honey.” McGuire offered socks, which O'Rourke put on sitting on a chair, then underwear. “No underwear today,” he said, “I want to let this thing breathe.”

“Yeah,” she said as she laughed out loud, “we're
really
going to let it breathe today.”

They walked the two short blocks from the hospital back to O'Rourke's walk-up tenement apartment on Charles Street. O'Rourke knew he was not up to snuff because it took him ten minutes to walk up the six flights of stairs. They went to his bedroom where O'Rourke immediately sat down on the bed. McGuire stood facing him and began to unbutton her blouse. She reached for her bra and stopped, looking down at O'Rourke.

“Turn around,” he said. “Keep me in suspense.”

She did as she was told and the bra hit the floor. She undid the buttons of her skirt and let it slide down her legs. She was now standing right in front of O'Rourke's face and she slowly slid the panties down, exposing her crack. They also hit the floor and she moved backwards slowly, towards O'Rourke.

O'Rourke loved backsides and Sam's was round and firm, with a one-foot crack which made her buttocks look deliciously inflated. As she moved back into him, he noticed the splendid marbling on the side of her ass, dark to light to lighter then back to dark. O'Rourke's grabbed her hips and pulled her ass to his face and he kissed it, then licked it, moving toward the middle where he slid his tongue down her long crack and he could smell her true scent for the first time. He slid his middle finger between her legs and she was moist. “Tone,” was all she said as she turned around and O'Rourke pressed his lips to hers.

“My God,” said O'Rourke in awe, “surprise, surprise.”

McGuire laughed. “You like my hot Brazilian wax job?”

“I
love
your hot Brazilian wax job,” he said and then licked her bare pubis and slid his tongue down farther. She put her left leg on the bed, and O'Rourke's tongue pushed deeper until her clitoris began to surface, as big and hard as a hooded filbert.

“Stop, stop,” she said, pulling her leg down and steadying herself. “God, you know how to travel below the Mason-Dixon Line!”

“I really was whistling Dixie, wasn't I?” All McGuire could do was hold her stomach and laugh nervously. For the first time O'Rourke saw the silver navel ring decorated the middle of her soft belly. O'Rourke looked up and realized McGuire didn't have a hair south of her eyelashes. Her breasts were bigger than O'Rourke thought they would be and their weight made them sway away from each other. Her nipples were like bolts, blacker than herself, with aureoles a good three inches in diameter, dotted with those magic bumps that made them look like chocolate chip cookies. Then he caught a shine from her left nipple. “What's that?” he said standing up and undoing his pants, his erection just as hard as it was back at the hospital.

“I'm pierced.”

“Only one breast?”

“Just for a little attention.”

“You got it,” he said. “How do you get through the metal detector at the airport?”

“I have my ways.”

“You're full of surprises,” he said as he pushed his erection against her. He hadn't had an erection like this, he thought, since he was fifteen.

“I have
lots
of surprises for you, Wolfe Tone O'Rourke,” and with that they fell into each other and onto the bed.

“I don't know if I'm up to this,” said O'Rourke.

“Oh,” smiled McGuire, “you're
up
to it, all right.”

“I don't mean that.”

“I know what you mean.”

McGuire got on top of him and placed O'Rourke inside her. She moved back and forth in a rhythm. She smiled at him and he had his hands on her ass, as if holding on for dear life. They went on for minutes before she spoke. “Back at
The
Mary Louis Academy,” she said as she stopped to laugh, “we called this ‘The Proud Mary.'”

“The Proud Mary!”

“The Proud Mary.”

“She will be proud,” said O'Rourke as he found the perfect rhythm for McGuire, driving himself in at the perfect angle, finding her groove again and again. He could almost hear Tina Turner sing “Rollin', rollin' on the river.” “Oh, my God,” said O'Rourke quietly, “oops!” He shot. “Don't move,” said O'Rourke with urgency.