Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (26 page)

Dowd wanted to reach out and grab Costello by the neck. The Cardinal sat there, resigned, as Costello, his voice rising by the second, continued his rant as he found his cadence. “Abortion is an act of violence!” said Costello, slamming his open hand on the desk. “Violence never corrects violence.” Another hand slam. “A woman has been raped.” Hand slam. “I can understand the desire for an abortion, but then she is inflicting violence on the unborn and she's inflicting further violence on herself. And the violence is never dissipated,” he said as both hands hit the table hard, causing the Cardinal to jump in his seat.

“So,” asked Bourne, surprised and suddenly tentative, “you are against abortion even in cases of rape and incest?”

“I am,” said Costello, spittle shooting out of his mouth. “I always compare the killing of four thousand babies a day in the United States, unborn babies, to the Holocaust. Now, Hitler tried to solve a problem, the Jewish question. So kill them, shove them in the ovens, burn them. Well,
we
claim that unborn babies are a problem, so kill them. To me it really is precisely the same.”

“Surely,” said Bourne, “you're not equating an abortion on an incest victim to the Holocaust?”

“Of course not,” said the Cardinal.

“I am!” said Costello. “What's the difference?”

Dowd was red in the face. He took his hand and slammed it on the control room glass, which caught Bourne's attention. “We'll be back,” said Bourne, signaling for his engineer to cut to commercial, “after these messages.”

Dowd bolted into the studio. “You have no right,” he said sticking his finger under Costello's nose, “to put words into the Cardinal's mouth. No right.”

“I was only,” said Costello, “trying to clarify what the Cardinal meant.”

“You were only,” shot back Dowd, “making matters worse.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Bourne, maybe the only sane man in the room.

“Fathers,” said the Cardinal, “please.”

“The interview is over,” Dowd told Bourne. “The Cardinal has other appointments this morning.” Dowd helped the Cardinal out of his chair.

“You better watch your step,” Costello finally said to Dowd. “I know important people in Rome.”

Amid the havoc, the wide-awake Bourne didn't miss a beat. “We'll be right back with Tim Russert of
Meet the Press
and his take on Our Lady of Greenwich Village.”

“B
ourne-in-the Morn
,” sang the jingle as the commercial ended. A deep announcer's voice boomed, “Welcome to
Hide the Eucharist
, the game show where the Cardinal has the host and the Democratic politician has to find it! And here's our M.C., Declan Cardinal Sweeney!”

“Ah, good mornin' Bourne, and God bless,” said one of Bourne's actors in an Irish accent that would have embarrassed Barry Fitzgerald.

“Ah, good morning, your Eminence,” said Bourne with a chuckle. “It's great to have you back on the show two days in a row.”

“Ah, it's grand to be back here, Bourne.”

“So, your Eminence,” said Bourne playing the straight man, “where have you hidden the Eucharist?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out, you worthless bag of shite.”

“Your Eminence,” said Bourne in a mock shock, “watch your language.”

“Ah, ya enema bag, ya.”

“Cardinal!” said Bourne. “Now let's get back to the show. Where have you hidden the Eucharist from the pro-abortion Democrats?”

“That's for Our Lady of Greenwich Village to know, and you to find out.”

“I don't think you want to go in that direction, Cardinal,” said Bourne in ersatz admonition.

“In that case,” said the Cardinal, “is it in altar boy number one? Altar boy number two? Or altar boy number three?”

By this time Bourne was laughing so hard that he couldn't go on. “We'll be back tomorrow to see in which altar boy's hide we've hidden the Holy Eucharist,” said Bourne, still enjoying the effect of his third Fish-pack.

“God bless ya, Bourne,” said the ersatz Cardinal and a commercial ended the charade.

Monsignor Burke walked into the kitchen where the Cardinal and Father Dowd sat at opposite ends of a table, listening to the radio. Dowd turned it off.

“I'm ruined,” said the Cardinal. “My God, I ruined it for everybody.”

“Did you hear Bourne?” Dowd asked Burke.

“I did.”

“What are we going to do?”

“The first thing we're going to do,” said Burke, “is stop taking advice from Father Costello.”

“You're right, Monsignor,” the Cardinal said. “I should have listened to you.”

With that Father John Costello entered the kitchen. “You've ruined us,” the Cardinal told him.

“What are you talking about?” said Costello.

“Did you hear your pal Bourne this morning?” said Dowd.

“No, I didn't.”

“He made a mockery of the Cardinal,” continued Dowd. “They invented a game show skit called
Hide the Eucharist
.”

“Oh,” said Costello with a discursive wave of his hand, “it's only Bourne having a little fun.”

“He insinuated,” said Burke in a frozen voice, “that the Eucharist is hidden in the rump of an altar boy.”

“It's only harmless fun,” repeated Costello.

“I don't find it funny at all,” said Burke. “And I don't want you bothering the Cardinal anymore. If you have anything to say to the Cardinal, come through me. Maybe it's time to go back to Niagara Falls—or wherever you're from.”

“But Eminence,” said Costello, ignoring Burke completely, “I have you booked on Rush Limbaugh later in the week, and Liam Hanrahan next Monday.”

“There will be no more bookings,” said Burke.

“I want to know what his Eminence thinks,” said Costello, heading towards the Cardinal, who was still seated at the table. As Costello approached, the Cardinal shifted away, as if in fear.

Seán Pius Burke put his powerful body between Costello and the Cardinal. “Get out,” he said to Costello. “I don't know what your game is, but I want you out.”

“My work here is not done,” insisted Costello.

“You mean
Opus Dei
's work, don't you?”

Costello was taken by surprise. A smirk came over Costello's face and he fingered the crucifix that hung around his neck. “I'll go when the nuncio says my work is done—and only when it's done. I take my orders from the nuncio, and the nuncio takes his orders—”

“The pope,” Burke interrupted.

“You're very bright, Monsignor. Maybe too bright. If the Cardinal will excuse me,” said Costello with the conceit of the well-connected. “I'll take my leave now.”

After he was gone, the three priests were silent.

“He's a bugger,” was all the Cardinal could muster.

“What can we do?” Dowd asked.

The Cardinal held his hand to his jaw, as if he had a pounding toothache. “Maybe Congressman Swift can help?” the Cardinal said without too much hope.

“The last person to deal with Costello, I think, is Jackie Swift,” said Burke. “I'll think of something.”

Burke wasn't too concerned. He had already asked Tone O'Rourke to find out what he could about Costello. A sweet smile of conspiracy crossed Burke's face. “This,” said the Monsignor, “just might be a job for the Fenians.”

“I
t's Stinky!”

“What?” asked O'Rourke.

“You don't want to know,” said Baroody laughing.

“Oh, yes I do,” said O'Rourke emphatically as he pulled the snapshot of Costello out of Baroody's hand. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Where?”

“Paris in the late '70s,” replied Baroody.

“What's his MO?” asked O'Rourke.

“Bagman.”

O'Rourke was silent for a minute. “For whom?” he said deliberately, the two words stretched wide apart.

“Back then,” said Baroody, “it was Solidarity in Poland. His bank in Madrid wired the money into the papal nuncio's account in Paris.”

“The nuncio, your boss?” interrupted O'Rourke.

“Yeah,” said Baroody. “The nuncio would withdraw it, then carry it to Wojtyla in Krakow who made sure Solidarity got it.”

“
Karol
Wojtyla?”

“That's right,” smiled Baroody, “the present pope.”

“Son of a bitch,” was all O'Rourke could muster.

“But that's not why they call him Stinky,” said Baroody, with a gleam in his eye.

“Let me guess.”

“You got it.”

“You guys,” said O'Rourke, trying to be diplomatic, “hang out together?”

“No,” said Baroody, “I'm not into that.”

“Good to hear.”

“Well,” said O'Rourke, “we know why he's here.”

“Money?”

“Exactly. This guy likes to spread the
Opus Dei
wealth around. Right now I think he's spreading it around this congressional district.”

“You get yours yet?” said Baroody, trying at humor.

“No, I didn't,” replied O'Rourke, “and I don't think I'm going to get any of that money. But I bet Lamè is getting it, and I'm sure Jackie Swift is stuffing his safe deposit box with cash. If we don't remove Costello from the equation, we're in trouble.”

“How you do that?”

O'Rourke hesitated for a second. “Maybe,” he said, breaking a smile, “a little Belfast justice is in order.”

“D
id you get my check?”was the first thing that O'Rourke said to the monsignor when he heard his voice on the phone.

“I did indeed,” said Burke, “but that's not what I'm calling about.”

“Costello?”

“That's it.”

“Meet me.”

“Where?”

“Union Square. Under General Washington's balls. Three o'clock. Lose the collar.” Before Burke could ask what the hell he was talking about, O'Rourke hung up on him.

O'Rourke, Burke knew, loved being cryptic. Burke, dressed in civilian clothes, left the chancellery and walked over to 51st Street and Lexington where he took the downtown local to Union Square. He emerged across the street from what was, in his youth, “S. Klein on the Square,” the renowned department store for the working stiff. Burke smiled. He could still envision those large tables on the ground floor where twenty or thirty women would fight and pull and scratch as they grabbed for that perfect brassiere. It was Bloomingdale's for the poor. He also recalled that there was an Automat around the corner on East 14th Street between Fourth Avenue and Irving Place. He remembered it was there that he had his first sampling of creamed spinach—fresh from its little glass ten-cent door. That was the New York that Burke grew up in and loved. Now Klein's and the Automat had been replaced by a tall, spiritless structure that annoyingly blocked his view of the clock in the Con Edison tower on East 14th Street.

General Washington's balls. Some clue. He walked along 14th Street to Broadway and looked across into Union Square. He saw a man on a horse and went to see who it was. It was George Washington all right. Burke went behind the statue and saw Wolfe Tone O'Rourke sitting on a parapet staring into a manila folder.

“Hello, Congressman,” said Burke.

O'Rourke, his focus broken, looked up to see the monsignor. “And how is the
sagart
of Hell's Kitchen today?” he asked, using the Irish word for priest.

Burke laughed. “Tone,” he said, “the
sagart
of Hell's Kitchen is in big trouble.” O'Rourke pointed to the parapet, and Burke took a seat. “Where are they?”

“What?”

“Washington's balls?”

“Washington ain't got any balls,” said O'Rourke with a smile, then pointed under the tail of Washington's horse.

Burke laughed. “So they're not really George's balls.”

“Technicality.”

It was time to get down to business. “I know you're busy, Tone, with the campaign and all, but I had to talk to you about this guy Costello.”

O'Rourke stuck his hand out and wiggled his fingers downward, telling Burke to lower his voice. “I had Clarence Black, my investigator, take a look at the life and times of the Reverend Dr. John Costello,” said O'Rourke, almost in a whisper, as he held up the folder for Burke's inspection. “He's a busy man. That him?” said O'Rourke holding out a photo of Costello for Burke to identify.

“That's him. He isn't from Dublin, is he?” queried Burke.

“Nope,” said O'Rourke. “An orphan lad from Leitrim. Brought up by the Irish Christian Brothers.”

“Maynooth?”

“In his dreams,” laughed O'Rourke, “and part of his legend. Spent his vocation in England where he was ordained. Been with
Opus Dei
since his teen years. He's spent a lot of time in Spain, home of
Opus Dei
. When Wojtyla became pope, he moved to the Vatican. He has an apartment in Niagara Falls, on the Canadian side, but he spends a lot of time in Washington with the papal nuncio.”

“He's not even affiliated with a church up in Canada?”

“No,” said O'Rourke. “He's a free agent. If we were talking spies, I'd call him a ‘sleeper.'”

“What's his game?”

“Money,” replied O'Rourke. “Very active Canadian bank account.”

“That's it,” said Burke, snapping his fingers. “The son of a bitch is
Opus Dei
's bagman in this country.”

“You learn fast,” said O'Rourke with a smile.

“It's coming together now,” said an animated Burke. “He's making all these contributions to Cockburn's GodScou✞s, to Bourne's Bivovac for Boys. He's buying media attention to fight Free Choice. That's got to be it.” O'Rourke started laughing. “What's so funny?”

“He's trying to fuck me, too,” said O'Rourke. Burke smiled. Others always cleaned up their language around the monsignor, but not Tone O'Rourke.

“How so?”

O'Rourke waved a paper in front of Burke. “Take a look.”

The numbers meant nothing to Burke. “I don't get it.”

“But my opponents do,” said O'Rourke. “Checks were written to the campaigns of Thom Lamè and Jackie Swift. A little doublebarreled action for the peripatetic Father Costello.”

Burke shook his head. “This guy plays hardball. The Cardinal's frightened of him, you know.”

“I thought the Cardinal loved this guy.”

“He did, until he started pushing him into the Reverend Cockburn and then
Bourne-in-the-Morn
. Costello is a walking disaster—and he's just warming up. He's got the nuncio and the pope in his corner, and he ain't afraid to push. Lot of hubris there.” Burke paused. “What did you mean by that ‘Belfast justice' comment the other day?”

O'Rourke laughed. “This guy's wired,” he said. “He has three passports, Canadian, Irish, and Vatican. He lives in Canada, but his work is in Washington. He has no work permit here. He shouldn't be allowed to conduct business in this country. I don't like him sending money to my opponents, and I think I have a way to stop him from doing it.”

“Belfast?”

“What if he was a terrorist on the run?”

“What if?” replied Burke.

“You think MI5 might be interested?” Burke nodded. “See that Virgin record store?” Burke nodded again. “Well, they sell disposable cell phones. Go buy one.” Burke got up to leave. “And don't use a credit card,” added O'Rourke.

Ten minutes later Burke returned with the cell phone and gave it to O'Rourke. Burke dialed
Sinn Féin
HQ in Belfast. “Tubby Cuddihy,” he said.

“Who should I say is calling?”

“Skin-the-Goat.”

Tubby Cuddihy came on the line. “And how is my favorite New York Invincible?”

O'Rourke laughed. “Fine, and how are things in
Béal Feirste
?”

“Quieter.”

“I bet,” said O'Rourke. “How's the waistline?”

“They still call me Tubby.”

O'Rourke laughed. “Should we speak in Irish?”

“Why bother?” asked Cuddihy. “MI5 has plenty of Gaelic speakers if they're listening. What can I do for you?”

“Jack Costello still missing?” O'Rourke was referring to IRA Jack Costello who was still in hiding years after winging a shot at Margaret Thatcher. He was one Fenian there would be no amnesty for.

“Missing, but not lost,” said Cuddihy cryptically.

“I see. What if he were to be caught in Washington?”

“Jack could use the diversion, if you know what I mean.”

O'Rourke knew exactly what Cuddihy meant, and he would be happy to supply Jack a distraction so he could walk the other way.

“I have a candidate.”

“But won't they know?” asked Cuddihy.

“They will eventually,” replied O'Rourke, “but it still helps Jack. And it will help someone prominent here—and embarrass the English when they discover they've plucked the wrong Costello”

“Sounds grand.”

“I have your permission?”

“Yes, you do,” said Tubby Cuddihy and he hung up the phone.

O'Rourke turned to Burke. “We're in business.”

“Is it going to be alright?” asked Burke, now concerned for the first time.

“It will be fine,” said O'Rourke. “Tell the Cardinal he owes me one.” The look of nervousness on the monsignor's face did not dissipate. “Have time for a drink?”

“No,” said Burke. “I have to get back to the chancellery.”

“I'll see you then,” said O'Rourke.

“Thanks, Tone, I really appreciate it.”

Burke wondered if he had done the right thing. He kept his eye on O'Rourke as he crossed 14th Street. Burke watched as O'Rourke came to the curb and casually threw the cell phone into the sewer, before innocently walking away as if it was something he did every day.