Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (6 page)

“How do you prove the Virgin story is bogus?” asked Luigi as if the histrionics in front of him never happened. “You know there are true believers.”

“I'll have to pump my source,” said Reilly.

“You have a source?”

“I have a mole.”

“Where?”

“Deep inside the GOP.”

O'Rourke threw out the first name that popped into his head. “Vito Fopiano?” he surmised.

“Close,” said Reilly, putting his index finger to his lips to keep his secret, “but no cigar.” Both Luigi and O'Rourke looked at him with renewed admiration. Cyclops was on a roll, and he knew it. “Moe, would you do me a favor?” he asked.

“Oh, no, you don't,” said Luigi. “Whatever you're thinking, the answer is no.”

Reilly's query had roused the politician in O'Rourke. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” O'Rourke asked his buddy.

“Fucking A,” replied Cyclops.

“Moe,” O'Rourke said, “do they do toxicity tests when a patient comes in? You know, for drugs and stuff.”

“That would be part of the blood work-up,” said Luigi.

“Would you take a little peek for me?” asked Reilly, sweetly.

“You two are something,” said Luigi. He knew they were both rogues, and he couldn't resist them.

“Well?” said O'Rourke.

“I'll see,” said Luigi as he took the cigarette out of its holder and snuffed it out in an ashtray, then threw a five-dollar tip on the bar. “I'll see.” With that Luigi got up and exited the bar.

“What do you think?” asked Reilly.

“I'll guess we'll see, like Moe said,” returned O'Rourke. Two more drinks were placed in front of them.

J. Howard Byrne ambled over. “Nice job, Cyclops,” he said gesturing toward his copy of the
Daily News
. “This Swift guy is something. I was on a TV show with him after some kid shot his calculus teacher in Rathole, Montana, last year, and he said we should get rid of all the gun control laws. He even said, God help me, ‘Guns don't kill people. People kill people.'”

Both O'Rourke and Reilly laughed. “Well,” said Reilly, “he's right. If he dies it will be: ‘Pussy doesn't kill people. Cocaine doesn't kill people. But the combination of both will give you a hell of a send-off.'”

“What do you think this ‘visitation' means to Swift's career?” asked O'Rourke.

“It's a fucking mess,” said Reilly. “How's he going to undo the Virgin Mary? Every religious nut in the country will be coming out of woodwork to embrace him. Just watch.”

“Maybe it will go away,” said O'Rourke.

“My job is to make sure it
doesn't
go away,” said Reilly. “How's the Family Values congressman going to explain away the girlfriend?” Reilly got a twisted look on his face. “I'm going to
stick it
to him.”

“What will your cousin Johnny Pie think of that?” said O'Rourke, referring to Monsignor Seán Pius Burke, Reilly's first cousin and the Cardinal's right-hand man.

“He knows,” said Reilly. “You expect him to tell his boss, the Cardinal?”

“Declan Cardinal Sweeney might be very interested,” said O'Rourke.

“Monsignor Johnny Pie ain't gonna tell the Cardinal squat about Jackie Swift. Swift is the Cardinal's favorite congressman. Right-to-Life and true-blue to Holy Mother Church. I can read my cousin like a book. I'm older than he is, but remember, we grew up in the same tenement together. No fucking way. Johnny Pie will keep quiet, won't rock the boat, and be a fucking bishop before he knows it. Shit, he's no help. He's a fucking politician just like Swift—and the Cardinal, too, for that matter too. There's got to be a better way.”

“Another two here,” said O'Rourke.

“You know, Tone,” Reilly said changing the subject, “I saw
her
the other day.”

“Who?”

“Deirdre.” Something flip-flopped in O'Rourke's stomach. Deirdre was his last lover and he didn't want to think about her. He didn't say a word. “She still has the face of the Irish Madonna.” All of a sudden, O'Rourke wanted to smash Reilly's fucking mug. It had been a year, and it still hurt. “Tone, she's so fucking beautiful.”

“I don't want to talk about her. Forget it. Leave me alone.” But Reilly had the arrogance of the drunk and would not be silenced.

“What a face. What a body!” he said.

What does he know of her body, thought O'Rourke. He's never seen it. Or has he? Probably tried to make her like the rest of this fucking bar. O'Rourke would be at her place when the phone would ring. He would pick it up and as soon as they heard his voice he would hear the click of a hang-up.

“You expecting a call?” he would ask the lovely and mendacious Deirdre.

“No,” she would say, looking innocent.

But she was expecting a call and she would lie and deceive and O'Rourke had had enough. He was going to make sure that Deirdre was the last woman who would ever hurt him. He hadn't slept with anyone since. He just drank.

“That's your problem, Tone,” slobbered Cyclops, “for you to get laid you have to love them.”

And Reilly was right. O'Rourke remembered them on leave in Saigon. While Reilly would be down at the local whorehouse, O'Rourke would sit in a bar alone, drinking until he could hardly see. O'Rourke looked at Reilly. It was thirty years since Saigon. The anger, the hurt, of a moment ago was gone. Reilly was now just another drunk.

“Cyclops,” said O'Rourke, “you don't tell me about my romantic inclinations, and I won't tell you when you've had enough to drink. Okay?”

Just then the Moat's phone rang. “Cyclops, telephone,” yelled the barman.

“Moe Luigi here,” said the voice on the phone. “Your source is right. Cocaine was found in Congressman Swift's system.”

“Christ!” said Reilly.

“I've got another surprise for you, too,” said Luigi. “His Eminence, the Cardinal, will be making a private visit within the hour.”

“I love you, Moe Luigi, even if you do drive a Lambor-guinea.”

“You're incorrigible,” said Luigi, breaking into a smile on his end of the phone. “Just do me a favor, Cyclops: Forget where you learned this. Forget my name.”

Reilly heard the click as the phone line went dead. He returned to the bar, threw back his drink, and said, “I got to get to St. Vincent's.”

“Why?” asked O'Rourke, still morose over Deirdre.

“Big shit happening. See you later.”

O'Rourke shrugged and went to the head. At the urinal O'Rourke stared straight ahead at the smudged graffiti, looked down at his limp member—as it always seem to be now—and watched as steam rose up off his piss as it contacted the stone cold urinal. He then thought of Deirdre Gonegal and wished he was dead.

“M
y cock is killing me,” said Jackie Swift. He was closer to the truth than he knew. Swift slowly opened his eyes. Even in his anesthetized state, he was in agony. “Pain,” he mumbled. “Get me something for the pain.”

“The worst is over,” said Peggy Brogan reassuringly. “The doctor says the Demerol should be enough.”

Swift wanted to say “fuck the doctor,” but he didn't feel he had the strength. Swift was in the cardiac ICU at St. Vincent's and had an oxygen tube up his nose, an IV in his left arm, and wires running out of his chest, which were hooked up to a monitor that displayed his heartbeat in a red-line that jumped up into a miniature Gibraltar every time his heart pumped. His chest was sore, but his penis was pounding. He motioned Brogan closer to him. She put her ear close to his mouth. “My cock,” whispered Swift.

“What?”

“It's awful sore.”

Brogan lifted his smock and surveyed his genitals. “It's the Foley catheter,” she said.

“Foley,” said Swift, alarmed. “Get that cocksucker away from me!”

It took Brogan a second, but she realized that Swift was talking about fellow Republican congressman Mark Foley of Florida, who had a penchant for chorus boys and congressional pages. Foley hated the closet, but so far the GOP leadership had managed to bar the door.

“No,” said Brogan. “Your pee tube, it's called a Foley catheter.”

“Oh, okay,” said Swift, relieved. “My balls feel like they're swollen.”

Brogan looked again. They had run a tube up through Swift's groin to do the angioplasty and he was all black and blue down there. “They look okay,” she said to him. If everything was normal, Brogan knew, Swift would have asked her to rub them for luck. No matter how sick Swift was, Brogan knew she had to bring him up to speed. It was her job as his chief of staff, and she would do it. “Honey,” said Brogan, “I have good news and bad news.”

Swift couldn't believe he was hearing such drivel. “Do I have a choice?” he said in a hoarse voice. Brogan shrugged her shoulders. “Bad first,” he finally said. Brogan held up the
Daily News
headline: MIRACOLO!: BLESSED VIRGIN APPEARS TO GOPer. Swift read the headline and turned red. “What the hell is this?” he said trying to use the elbow of his free arm to push himself up in the bed. “What Virgin? What the fuck are they talking about?”

Brogan was in a fix. She could see that Swift was getting more agitated by the second. The last thing he needed was another heart attack. She would have to break the news to him gently. “Honey, remember
The Song of Bernadette
last night on the TV?” Swift shook his head no. Brogan was taken aback. “Don't you remember,” she said lowering her voice, “when we made love?”

“Of course.”

“And your attack?” Swift nodded. “Well, remember
The Song of Bernadette
?”

Oh my God, thought Swift.
The Song of
Fucking
Bernadette
. He closed his eyes as his head landed hard on the pillow and everything became frightening vivid.

The mirror rested on the bed between the two naked bodies.

Swift shook the vial of cocaine in his fist as if it were dice. He unscrewed the cap and tapped it onto the mirror. The razor scratched the mirror as Swift laid six lines. Neat in reflection. Glassy gutters to give them dimension. A thing of beauty.

He took the straw to his nose and snorted once left and then right. Four sat. “For you, Brogan. You can handle it. You're younger.” He smiled at her.

“Yeah,” said Brogan. “I can handle it.” Left, then right like a shot. She took her index finger and wiped line five onto her upper gum, front, then left. Then six.

She reached between his legs and took his balls in hand. “Ah,” said Swift. “Jesus,” followed as his dick shook and things started to look up. Brogan's head went for it with a gigantic lick. Swift fell back on the pillow, almost in orgasm already. Hard now, Brogan in control, Swift's cock rode the coke wake between Brogan's lips and tongue. In and out as it grew. Harder still, she pumped, until he was purple, hard, and anaesthetized. Ready for action.

Brogan went to turn out the light. “Ah, don't do that,” said Swift. “You know I like to fuck to light.”

“It's too bright,” said Brogan, who had fought this losing battle before. “Here,” she said, reaching for the remote as compromise, “let's use the TV for light.”

That was fine with Swift. “Let's go,” he said. “Get on top.”

“You always make me do all the work,” said Brogan, telling the truth about their relationship. “If you want it, take me from behind.” She got on her knees and stuck her rump into the air. “Oh,” she said, laughing as she reached into the drawer of the night table, “I forgot something.”

A buzzing filled the room as she revved up the vibrator.

“Oh,” said Swift, “not that fucking thing again. Ain't I man enough for you?”

“Yes,” Brogan said, a touch of unctuousness in her voice, “you're man enough, but men do need help sometimes, you know.”

“Great.”

“Did you know that some woman in Texas was arrested last week for using one of these?” asked Brogan. “You should ask your pal DeLay about that.” It was a gentle jab at Swift because Brogan knew that when Tom DeLay—the Texan Republican enforcer in congress known as The Hammer—said “jump” Swift replied “how high?” “I wonder if Mrs. DeLay has one?” opined Brogan.

“I wouldn't bet on it,” said Swift, and they both laughed.

“It's better than a hammer,” said Brogan coyly, “
that
I can assure Mrs. DeLay. If DeLay ever finds out how great these things are for women, he'll be introducing bills banning them on moral grounds. Sometimes makes you wonder if you even need a man.”

Swift laughed and held his hands in front of him like he was holding a gun on a suspect. “Drop that vibrator or I'll legislate!”

“What if DeLay did propose legislation?”

“I'd vote for it,” replied Swift honestly.

Brogan laughed. “Someday,” she said, “we'll wonder how an imbecile like DeLay got so powerful. In the meantime,” said Brogan airily as she positioned her rump on the side of the bed, “you can do to me what DeLay has been doing to the country.”

“If you say so.” Swift got out of the bed and stood behind her. Before he could help himself, he smacked her generous ass cheek.

“Oh, doctor,” she said, giggling.

“Shut up,” he said lightly as he whacked the other butt cheek. Brogan did as she was told and Swift slid himself into her and they became one. This was Brogan's favorite position and she knew all the nuances of it. She also knew that men were longer and harder when standing. Plus, the sight of her great, ample upturned ass guaranteed granite-like hardness. She was a pro at lovemaking. Basically, she used Swift as a prop. He stood there and she did all the moving. In and out and back and forth. For variation she would arch her back and find a different angle. With power, she would slam her ass back into Swift as she touched herself with the vibrator, triggering a set of multiple orgasms. It was her show and she knew it.

Swift loved fucking Brogan. Until he met her, he thought it was just about time for the Viagra. Unlike his wife, Madonna-Sue Fopiano, Brogan loved sex. Sex to Madonna-Sue was a chore. She rationed it out like it was gasoline during World War II. Once every six or seven weeks was enough—and no speeding. When they were courting, the sex was rampant. They couldn't strip fast enough. But when she became pregnant, and they had gotten married, everything changed. Now she was always covering her nakedness and making excuses of why she couldn't do “it.” When they conceived their last child in a wine-induced quickie, Madonna-Sue had managed to somehow preserve her modesty during the act. Sex and modesty, Swift knew, don't mix. He became depressed just looking at those ankle-length flannel nightgowns she had taken to wearing. Madonna-Sue was the kind of woman who closed the door on her spouse to pee. Brogan had no such qualms.

The first time Swift saw Brogan, he fell in lust. She had been sent over by Vito, his father-in-law, to interview for chief of staff. “My God,” Swift had said to himself, “what a beautiful woman.” She was deeply tanned and wore her brilliant platinum blonde hair pulled straight back, revealing her extraordinary facial features, which included high cheek bones and a prominent Celtic forehead. It was a sign of sheer beauty, Swift knew, when a woman could pull her hair back to reveal her features, naked to the world. She bore a remarkable resemblance to the Maureen Dean of 1974, stoically sitting behind her husband John as he testified before the Watergate committee.

Madonna-Sue had not been happy when Swift hired Brogan. Although Madonna-Sue was cute and came across well on TV, she knew she was not in Brogan's league in looks, and maybe brains. “Nice call,” she had said coldly when Swift introduced his new chief of staff. That night as they prepared for bed, she asked, “Why her?”

“Vito sent her over,” said Swift.

“I said ‘why her?'”

“She's qualified,” said Swift defensively.

“I bet she is,” said Madonna-Sue, precisely dissecting the way both her husband and her father thought: competence counts—especially if a big round ass is attached to it.

“Look,” said Swift in the middle of the fuck, “it's Charles Bickford!”

Brogan, in heat, gave a look that Swift couldn't see. She should have gotten on top after all, she thought. At least then he wouldn't have had a straight line of vision at the TV. Swift loved old movies. He knew every old character actor who ever lived. “John Ridgely,” he would declare as if anyone cared, pointing out Bogie's foe in
The Big Sleep
, “died in 1968 of a heart attack.”

While watching
The Quiet Man
—he was a ferocious John Ford fan—he would always point out the Irish actor Arthur Shields. “Who does he look like?” he would demand of Brogan.

“Helen Hayes,” she would say.

“Not at all,” would reply Swift without humor. “Barry Fitzgerald. Do you know why?”

“Because they're brothers.”

“How do you know?”

“Because this is the seventh time you've told me.”

Now, watching
The Song of Bernadette
, he was utterly distracted by the cast. “Look, there's a young Lee J. Cobb. And there's William Eythe. Remember him?” Brogan couldn't believe this conversation was going on. “He's the American double-agent in
The House on 92nd Street
. Didn't have much of a career. Drank himself to death.”

The movie had distracted Swift. He wasn't as hard and he just kept missing her “spot.” She was all business and she would get Swift back up to speed. The vibrator buzzed as Brogan rubbed herself, then grabbed a handful of balls with her fingers, causing Swift to step up and relentlessly pound her. It was all in the balls, Brogan knew, as she pulled Swift up into her.

“Jesus,” said Swift. “My God, that feels good” as he curiously thought of Captain Queeg and the ball bearings.

“Mother of God,” said Brogan in orgasm. “Mother of fucking God.” Swift had climbed up on the bed and was now standing over Brogan pumping away, hands on his knees like an infielder waiting for the pitch. It was supreme sex. They had ceased being human and had turned animal. “Fuck me, you bastard,” said Brogan as the vibrator flew out of her hand and she ejaculated heavily on the bed, pushing Swift out of her.