Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (31 page)

New York Daily News, May 30, 2000

Eye on New York by Cyclops Reilly

I AM YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE

I am your worst nightmare

Yesterday, I got home and there was a message on the answering machine. It said, “If you know what's good for you and your [relative] you'll take your nose out of other people's business. Have a nice life. You know, short and sweet.”

Well, let me tell you something, whoever this sleazebag is. I am Irish and the worst thing you can tell an Irishman is
don't
do something. If you wanted the Irish to stop drinking you'd just say “drink as much as you want, it's on the house.” The ensuing sobriety would be such that AA would be out of business.

My relative in question and I grew up together. He is a very important person in this city and by targeting him they are targeting an even more important person.

In a recent column I wrote about how this money-grubbing
Opus Dei
priest, one grandly named the Reverend Dr. John Costello, was running around New York City with a briefcase full of money. Last seen, he was at the papal nunciate in Washington, D.C. stuffing councilman Menachem Mandelstam's big brown shopping bag with said money.

I asked my old pal, Manny, to give me a ring, but, so far, he hasn't. Manny and I go back a long way. Funny, when I heard that threatening message on my phone machine I thought immediately of Manny. It wasn't Manny, but the guy I hired to find out who called me, said the call was from Florida. And I know Manny has a lot of friends in Miami Beach.

Last I heard about the Reverend Dr. Costello he was put on an Air Canada flight by the FBI. I assume that he won't be coming back for a while.

Since I've been warned I guess now it's my turn to do the warning. If anything happens to my relative, or the man he works for, I'll be calling on you, Manny Mandelstam. And I'll be calling on some of your important friends on Staten Island. You know who I'm talking about. Yeah, I'll be calling. And it won't be to say hello.

M
onsignor Burke led O'Rourke to the Cardinal's study and knocked. “Yes,” said the Cardinal as Burke opened the door and allowed O'Rourke to pass into the room before him. The Cardinal stood there, impeccable in black suit and Roman collar, glaring at O'Rourke while he fingered the gold crucifix that hung from around his neck.

“Eminence,” said Burke, “Wolfe Tone O'Rourke.”

O'Rourke walked across the room and without warning or embarrassment fell to his knees in front of the Cardinal, his head bowed, and waited. The Cardinal was surprised. He stood over O'Rourke, who did not move, then slowly extended his hand.

O'Rourke kissed his ring, then stood and shook the hand the ring was attached to. “Your Eminence,” he said, “it is an honor to meet you.”

“Thank you,” said the Cardinal, not sure that this was the same wild man he had seen on television. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, I would,” said O'Rourke.

“Would you ask Maggie, Monsignor,” said Sweeney with a gesture of his hand that served as a dismissal, “to bring us some coffee?” Burke bowed and exited.

“Dagger John,” said O'Rourke with excitement as he pointed to the portrait of John Joseph Hughes on the wall.

“You recognize the first Archbishop of New York?” said the surprised Cardinal.

“He's one of my heroes.”

“Why?”

“Because he didn't take any—” O'Rourke stopped himself just before he said it, “Guff.”

The Cardinal smiled. “He was a hard man,” he said.

The archbishop was called Dagger John because, according to legend, the cross he always made after his signature looked like a dagger. Others said the name emanated from the long stiletto-like crucifix he liked to fashion.

“He was a very good man,” said O'Rourke. “He was basically a Fenian in vestments.”

“You make him sound like an extremist.”

“For his day, your Eminence,” said O'Rourke, “he was. His extremism built St. Patrick's Cathedral on the coppers of Irish scrubwomen. His extremism in defense of our people in the face of Protestant hegemony led to the creation of the Catholic school system, the hospitals, and the universities.”

“Fordham University was his,” agreed the Cardinal.

“I love the story about those Catholic bigots,” said O'Rourke, “the Know-Nothings coming to New York City in the 1840s, thinking arson.”

“Archbishop Hughes,” said the Cardinal proudly, “knew how to handle them.”

“Yes,” said O'Rourke, “he said if one Catholic church was torched, he would burn the city to the ground, à la Napoleon, making New York a second Moscow. He put the fear of Jesus into the Protestant hierarchy.”

“The fear of Jesus,” replied the Cardinal with a smile, “can be truly marvelous to observe.”

There was a knock on the door, and an older woman entered with a tray holding a silver coffeepot and cups. The Cardinal gestured to a couch and the coffee was put on a table in front of it. “Thank you, Maggie,” said the Cardinal as she poured their coffee. Finished, she quietly exited the room. “He was a good looking man,” said Sweeney, “with a fine head of hair.”

“Did you know he wore a toupee?” O'Rourke asked before taking his first sip.

“Who?”

“Dagger John.”

Sweeney raised his eyebrows in surprise. “No!”

“Yes!”

“He must have been a vain man,” said the Cardinal.

“No,” said O'Rourke, “he was just a man.”

The Cardinal stared at O'Rourke in response to his cryptic answer. “It's a shame,” he said, “that I am to be put in charge of disassembling Archbishop Hughes's work.” O'Rourke nodded. “With the faith of our fathers dwindling, I am forced to close some of Archbishop Hughes's churches and schools. That is why I wanted to meet you. To thank you for your help.”

“Help?”

“For your support of St. Bernard's School down in the West Village. It was a generous endowment. Without your money I would be forced to close that wonderful old school.”

O'Rourke turned red. “You weren't meant to know about that.”

“I know,” said Sweeney, “but Monsignor Burke let it slip. He did not mean to betray your trust. It just happened.”

“I may have to take a little Fenian justice to the good monsignor,” said O'Rourke lightly.

The Cardinal felt comfortable with this man, whom he expected to dislike. “I want to thank you for these columns,”said the Cardinal, holding two recent “Eye on New York” clippings out for inspection: Reilly's “Oops, It's
Opus Dei”
and “I Am Your Worst Nightmare” columns.

“Cyclops did those,” said O'Rourke, “not me.”

“But I understand you were the man behind it, using a private detective to find out about Father Costello.”

“The Reverend Doctor Costello,” corrected O'Rourke.

“Yes,” said the Cardinal with a chuckle, “how august. I should never have taken Costello's advice and done that man's radio show,” said the Cardinal. “I was such a fool. Monsignor Burke was right. Bourne is a bigot.”

O'Rourke nodded. “You should listen to Johnny Pie more. He is a man with his finger on the pulse of this great city.”

Johnny Pie, thought the Cardinal with a smile. “I also want to ask you for your forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness for what?”

“Because I judged you without knowing you. It was hubris on my part,” confessed the Cardinal. “Perhaps, knowing now what I know, I shouldn't have endorsed Congressman Swift.”

“There are worse people than Jackie Swift in this world, believe me,” said O'Rourke. “Anyway, your endorsement only helped me.”

“How so?”

“Your condemnation might seem like a negative, but it's really a positive.”

“In what way?”

“With gays, liberals.” The Cardinal nodded. “If they knew I was here, it would cost me votes.”

“You are a manipulator of people,” said the Cardinal.

“As are you,” replied O'Rourke, though not in a threatening way.

“We share a profession, I think,” said Sweeney, as if something was bothering him.

“What is it, Eminence?”

The Cardinal shrugged. “I get such bad advice sometimes.”

“Like I said, listen to Monsignor Burke.”

“You're right,” said Sweeney. “Unfortunately, I've been listening to Father Costello and Vito Fopiano.”

“They are frauds of the same stripe. They have no respect for anything that is just or decent.”

“The same has also been said about you,” said the Cardinal squarely, but not sharply.

O'Rourke measured his words carefully. “Your Eminence, I have tremendous respect for you and the Holy Mother Church.” The Cardinal nodded. “We are in very traumatic times. The country is in the hands of people like Jackie Swift and Rupert Murdoch and
Bourne-in-the-Morn
and I, as a Catholic and a Democrat, have a duty to challenge them and their philosophy. These are the new Know-Nothings, Neo-Know-Nothings, if you will.” O'Rourke gave a little laugh, then the smile left his face. “I wish you would put
their
feet to the fire sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“You take great delight in dropping the hammer on politicians like me,” he said quietly, “but you give reactionary Republicans a lot of rope.”

“That's not true,” replied the Cardinal.

“Yes, it is,” said O'Rourke.

“Give me an example.”

“You always jump on politicians who are pro-abortion, but you never condemn politicians who are pro-execution.”

“Give me an example.”

“George W. Bush. He's fried 152 souls as governor of Texas.”

“I didn't realize it was that many,” replied the Cardinal.

“Does the number matter?” Sweeney shook his head vigorously. “Half may have been guilty, Eminence, but I'll guarantee that at least a quarter were innocent and another quarter were imbeciles. And my calculations are conservative.”

“Maybe I should have been more robust in my defense of life,” admitted the Cardinal. “But that does not prove your point about me being prejudiced against politicians like you.”

“How about when George W. Bush went to Bob Jones University, desperate after he lost the New Hampshire Primary to John McCain earlier this year?” asked O'Rourke. “I didn't hear you say a word. You gave comfort to the enemy.”

“Why is Bush the enemy?”

“Because of anti-Catholic moves like Bob Jones University,” said O'Rourke.

“Perhaps we should move on from Bob Jones,” replied the Cardinal.

“Just remember, Eminence, that these Neo-Know-Nothings are the same group that Dagger John Hughes fought. They haven't changed in 150 years. They still hate us.”

“Isn't
hate
too strong a word?” asked the Cardinal.

“I don't think so,” said O'Rourke. “The only thing these guys worship is money, plain and simple. I may not be much of a Catholic, but nevertheless I was born one, and I'll die one.”

“What does your Catholicism have to do with your politics?”

“Everything,” said O'Rourke with a small smile. “At my advanced age, I finally realize that being a Catholic has been the most awesome influence of my life.”

“How can that be?” asked the Cardinal incredulously. “A good Catholic can't be for abortion.”

“I am not for abortion,” said O'Rourke, and he thought of Sam and their baby. “Being pro-choice does not mean I'm pro-abortion. Personally, I find it abhorrent, but I also believe in the strict separation of Church and State,” he said firmly, but quietly.

“But the Church teaches against abortion.”

“Yes,” said O'Rourke, “but the Church also teaches the sanctity of free will.”

“Then free will has taken you in the wrong direction.”

“That is for God to decide,” said O'Rourke, standing his ground.

The Cardinal remained silent for a second. “You are a difficult man,” said the Cardinal. He looked at the coffee in his cup, which he held like a chalice. Unconsciously, he swirled the remaining coffee around in the bottom of the cup like it was sacrificial wine. Finally, he spoke. “Yes, you are a difficult man, a difficult Catholic, even. But I think, perhaps, that you are a good man, too.” He stood up. “I've enjoyed our meeting.”

“I've enjoyed it also,” said O'Rourke as the Cardinal softly touched the back of his jacket, moving him toward the door.

“May God protect you.”

O'Rourke looked at Dagger John's portrait one last time and smiled. “Isn't it is a terrible thing, to fall into the hands of the living God?'” he said.

The Cardinal stared at O'Rourke then opened the door. “Monsignor Burke,” he called down the hall. “Could you show Mr. O'Rourke out?” With that he turned and reentered the study. He walked up to the painting of Dagger John Hughes and exhaled. The eyes of the Cardinal locked on the painting and he wondered if the Archbishop actually had worn a wig 150 years ago. Then the Cardinal began to laugh—hard.

“Your Eminence,” said Burke, rushing back into the room with alarm. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes—” The Cardinal stopped because he had almost called the monsignor “Johnny Pie.” “Yes, Seán Pius, everything is alright.”

Burke raised his eyebrows because the Cardinal almost never called him by his Christian name. “What did you think of him?”

“It is a dangerous man,” said Declan Cardinal Sweeney, “who knows history and can quote scripture.” He looked up once more at Dagger John Hughes. “I think, Seán Pius, I may want Wolfe Tone O'Rourke on my side.”