Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (41 page)

O
'Rourke loved red-sauce joints.

They were the old-fashioned Italian restaurants that were quickly becoming extinct around the Village. They came by their name honestly—they covered everything with lots and lots of red sauce. They were usually run by families and you could always expect a stiff drink and a red-checkered tablecloth along with your veal parmigiana. Gene's, which had been on 11th Street since 1919, was one of his favorite places, and home to the blue-hair set. It wasn't unusual to see eighty-five-year-old women in long elbow-length white gloves banging down Manhattan after Manhattan at its small bar. The food was delicious, plentiful, and inexpensive. It felt like you were being served in your own living room by your own personal chef.

On the Saturday night before Election Day O'Rourke had invited Monsignor Séan Pius Burke to join him and McGuire for dinner. The place—as usual—was a mad house, but O'Rourke had managed to secure a table for the three of them. The Monsignor showed up with his collar on.

“You trying to frighten people with that outfit, Johnny Pie?”

“Hey,” said Burke, “when I'm in civilian clothes, you tell me I look like a cop. If I wear my collar, I'm scaring people. I can't win with you.” Burke seated himself between McGuire and O'Rourke and ordered a martini from the waiter.

“I'm glad you could come, Father,” said Sam. “We needed a night off from the campaign and couldn't think of better company.”

“Thanks, Sam,” replied Burke. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good. I get tired, and the campaign takes a lot of work, but I'm holding up.”

“Tough week, Tone—with that commercial blitz by Swift.”

“I'd just like to forget the whole thing,” said O'Rourke. “It was a fucking nightmare.”

“Tone,” said Sam, pointing at the monsignor, “your language!”

O'Rourke smiled. “I'm an old dog—”

“—with no new tricks,” finished Burke. The three of them laughed.

“We wanted to ask a favor of you, Father,” said Sam. Burke nodded. “Will you baptize our baby when she arrives?”

“I'd be honored,” replied Burke, touched. “I'll look forward to that.” The waiter took their order, and they toasted each other. “To the conclusion of a successful campaign,” said the monsignor.

“And the birth of a beautiful baby girl,” added the proud father. Glasses clicked again.

“The Cardinal sends his regards.”

“You're kidding,” said O'Rourke.

“Not at all. He's been following the campaign closely. He was,” Burke stopped to find the correct word, “
piqued
by Jackie Swift's commercials on you.”

“Next you'll be telling me he's changing sides.”

“I think he changed sides a long time ago.” McGuire and O'Rourke looked at each other. “After you got rid of Costello and had that meeting with the Cardinal at the chancellery I think the old man started rooting for you.” McGuire, who knew nothing of the meeting, looked at O'Rourke. He obviously didn't tell her everything. “And that six-figure donation didn't hurt either,” laughed Burke.

“What six-figure donation?” said McGuire in a louder than normal voice.

“Nothing, dear,” said O'Rourke. “Just a small contribution to the archdiocese.” O'Rourke gave Burke a look that said
shut the fuck up!
“I hope the Cardinal has some connections upstairs,” added O'Rourke, “because I'm going to need them.”

“Does it look bad?” asked Burke, concerned.

“It doesn't look good,” said Sam, still eyeing O'Rouke. “Swift is marginally ahead of Tone for the first time. Those commercials are having an effect.”

“He's killing me on the Upper West Side with the terrorist ties,” said O'Rourke. “It's heavily Jewish up there and they think I was a bomb thrower in Belfast thirty years ago. The only reason I'm still in it is because I have the west side sewn up from Battery City up through the Village, Chelsea, and Hell's Kitchen. You're old neighborhood loves me almost as much as the gays do.”

Burke laughed, then said: “For a guy who may be going down in three days, you don't seem that annoyed.”

“Marriage has changed me.”

“Yeah, sure,” said McGuire.

“No,” continued O'Rourke, “it has. Now I have a wife, and a child on the way. They are my two most important things in my life. Johnny Pie, I've been on one long campaign since Bobby back in 1968. I've gotten some good guys elected. I've gotten some bad guys elected. I fought in two wars for my two countries, and I have the scars to prove it. Enough is enough. I have more than enough money, and I want to make sure this child grows into a positive human being who cares about people. Maybe my wars are over. Maybe it's time for some reflection. I still expect to win, but there are other more important things in life.” O'Rourke took his left hand and placed it on Simone's big belly. “You know what I mean, Monsignor?”

Séan Pius Burke nodded. “Yes, Tone. Yes I do.”

Zeus, the Moat's three-hundred-pound bartender was keeping an eye on Jackie Swift. He hadn't seen Swift in the Moat in years and wondered why he would show up three days before the election. Swift stood off to the side, Irish whiskey neat, and kept a close eye on the door. Every time the door opened Swift's eyes shot to it. He was obviously waiting for someone. Jackie looked wired, thought Zeus. He kept rocking back and forth on his heels, nervous about something.

The door opened and in stepped a man in a black overcoat and hat, carrying a briefcase. Swift's empty hand shot up into the air and he called out “Doctor, doctor, over here. ”The man went to Swift and shook his hand. He whispered a few words into Jackie's ear, then handed him the briefcase. There was some banter back and forth between them with Swift gesticulating, as if giving directions. Maybe the man was lost in the maze of Village streets. They shook hands again and the man quickly exited the bar.

Jackie came up to the bar, drink in one hand, the briefcase in the other. “Zeus,” he said, “another Jameson neat.” Zeus made the drink and handed it to Swift.

“What brings you around?”

“Needed some fresh air,” replied Swift. “Tough campaign, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Zeus, “I've been watching your commercials.”

Jackie looked at Zeus and knew it was not the right time to ask him if he liked them or not. He knew Zeus and O'Rourke went back a long way. The whiskey calmed Jackie. He had made his contact, now he could relax. “Any sign of Fischbein?”

Zeus looked at Swift, suddenly knowing his game. “He's expected. Soon.”

Swift wanted to say “Thank God,” but only uttered, “Good.”

Zeus walked to the end of the bar and pulled his cell phone out, then dialed the number.

“Hello,” said Sam McGuire as she put her after-dinner coffee down. “Yes, Zeus, he's right here.” She handed O'Rourke the phone. “Zeus from the Moat.”

“Yes, Zeus,” said O'Rourke.

“Tone, Swift is here, and he's waiting for Fischbein. Maybe you should pay a visit. Can't talk. He's at the other end of the bar.”

“Thanks, Zeus. I'll be right there.”

“Let's go, guys. Jackie Swift is trying to buy dope from Fischbein at the Moat.” O'Rourke signed the check, and the three of them were out the door. O'Rourke and Burke would have walked, but Simone was lagging behind. “We better take a cab.” O'Rourke hailed a cab and it sped across West 11th Street, then made a left on Seventh Avenue, pulling up at Christopher Street in front of the Duplex.

The three of them headed straight for Hogan's Moat. As O'Rourke descended the steps into the Moat he could see a kerfuffle at the end of the bar. There were several men on the floor, and Barney was yapping at them. O'Rourke rushed in and Zeus joined the fray. O'Rourke saw Jackie Swift on the floor in the fetal position, covering a briefcase with his body. Barney was barking and growling and nipping at his shoulders. Fischbein was trying to inch away, and Zeus pulled him back by the cuffs of his trousers. All the while, Hogan tried to control his dog, who was in an absolute frenzy, white powder covering his nose.

“Must be some good shit here,” said O'Rourke, knowing that Barney was a connoisseur of blow.

Monsignor Burke tucked Sam into the far corner and went to investigate. Zeus was beginning to straighten out the bodies. As Hogan held Barney back, Jackie Swift slowly got up off the floor, the briefcase firmly in hand. The floor was covered with white powder, and Hogan had to hold Barney by the collar to keep him from going totally berserk. Then Burke saw it on the flap of the briefcase:

“Where'd you get this, Jackie?” asked the priest.

“None of your business,” said Swift, clutching the briefcase to his chest.

“This is Costello's briefcase!”

“You cocksucker,” said O'Rourke, “that's the money to pay for those commercials!”

“Where is he?” demanded Burke.

Zeus pushed Jackie Swift against the wall. Burke went face to face with him. “Where the fuck is Costello?” he demanded.

O'Rourke looked for Sam. He found her in the corner with her cell phone pressed to her ear.

“This is 911. What is your emergency?”

“I'd like to report a drug bust at Hogan's Moat Saloon, 59 Christopher Street,” said McGuire. “Please send the police, there's a terrible altercation going on here. Someone might get hurt.”

The person who might get hurt was Jackie Swift. Zeus was worried that Séan Pius Burke might put him through the wall into the kitchen. “One last time, Jackie, where the fuck is Costello?” Burke grabbed Swift by the necktie and twisted it and Jackie's face looked like it had been painted red. Burke torqued the tie one more time and asked again, “Where is he?”

“He's gone to the Romper Room on Little West 12th Street.”

“How do you know?”

“I just gave him directions.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” said the priest.

The squad car from the 6th Precinct was pulling up as Monsignor Burke let the tie loose and Swift slumped to the floor. His beautiful suit was covered in white powder, the result of a broken Fish-Pack.

“I should have known,” said Burke to O'Rourke. Burke's black clerical stock was also covered with cocaine.

“Known what?”

“That fucking Costello was a pedophile.” Then Burke thought back to young Felipe sitting on Costello's knee at breakfast. “Short and sweet” popped into his head and he felt an awful pain in his gut. “Costello's at the Romper Room,” said Burke to O'Rourke. “It's a bar for pedophile priests. I thought the cops shut it down years ago when I was cleaning these bums out of the archdiocese. They must have reopened. Swift says it's on Little West 12th Street. Let's go.”

O'Rourke put his hand on Burke's shoulder. “No, Monsignor. We'll let the cops handle this one. It's over.”

And it was over, but Séan Pius Burke felt responsible for the child that was probably sitting on the Reverend Doctor Costello's lap right now, probably holding his silver and gold crucifix. He should have known. In fact, he did know.