Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (39 page)

J
ulie-Annie was giving Brogan a headache. She was wailing away as her mother tried to calm her by gently rocking her in her arms. Brogan saw the child as a living insult to her own relationship with Swift. She wondered, if she had a child with Jackie, would it look like the unfortunately named Julie-Annie?

This was the big meeting Vito had been trying to arrange for weeks. The whole gang, including Georgie Drumgoole, was here. There was only one person missing.

“And how is the scion of Rancho Mirage?” asked Vito.

“He's coming along,” said Madonna-Sue. “Rancho Mirage is lovely this time of the year.” Rancho Mirage, California, was the home of the Betty Ford Center.

“If he gets his ticket punched one more time, his next stay is f ree,” said Vito, laughing at his own joke. “Maybe he should get a timeshare.”

It was in the week after the Republican National Convention that Jackie Swift had been packed away to sunny California. Brogan had been awoken by moisture. At first she thought there was a pipe leaking. She had almost been right. There was a leak, but it was Jackie leaking into the bed. He was so coked up on one of Fischbein's Fish-Packs that he had peed on Brogan without even waking up. That was it. Brogan called Vito and Jackie found himself on the first plane out to Los Angeles that morning. This stay was going to take longer, they said at Betty Ford. He might be there for up to twelve weeks, which would get him back into the campaign near the end of October.

“Well,” said Vito, “Jackie may as well enjoy his stay out there because we're broke.”

“Broke?” repeated Madonna-Sue.

“Bankrupt,” said Vito. “Zilch.”

“Where's Costello's money?”asked Brogan. “What did Mandelstam do with it?” It was an accusation, not a question.

“We had to get rid of it,” said Vito. “Couldn't keep it around.”

“Where is it?” the persistent Brogan demanded.

“RNC got it.” That was the Republican National Committee.

“Why can't we get it back from them?” asked Brogan. “The laundry should be clean by now.” Laundry. That word. Brogan thought that the money had been cleaned by now. This was the kind of talk that got people indicted.

“They won't give it back,” replied Vito softly. “They think this campaign is going nowhere. Let's admit it, it's really a Democratic district and O'Rourke has plenty of his own money to spend.”

That was part of it. Vito couldn't get it back because he had no clout anymore. D'Amato as a senator was history. Giuliani had dropped out of the senatorial race with Hillary Clinton because of cancer. (“He's out walking his pet prostate,” Vito had been heard telling colleagues.) And pretty soon, it looked like his son-in-law would be out of a job, further reducing his influence within the party. It came down to no juice, no clout, no money. The RNC had spoken.

“Well,” said Madonna-Sue, “we better do something.”

“How did your little fishing expedition go?” asked Brogan of Madonna-Sue. They seldom asked face-to-face questions of each other, but this was business, desperate business.

“Kevin Griffin,” said Madonna-Sue, lighting up a Camel,

“O'Rourke's buddy from Vietnam, told my guy to go fuck himself.”

Brogan gave a cynical laugh. She knew the fucking Irish. “What did you expect?” Madonna-Sue shrugged.

“You know you shouldn't smoke in front of the baby,” said Vito.

“It's not healthy for her.”

“Neither is politics,” shot back the congresswoman.

“I guess O'Rourke really is the real thing,” offered Vito, quickly changing the subject. They sounded stumped, then Drumgoole piped in. “How about O'Rourke's trouble with the IRA?”

“What about it?”

“I heard he was really connected back in the '70s.”

“Can you document it?” asked Madonna-Sue.

“Maybe,” said Drumgoole, lowering his head. “If we get something on O'Rourke maybe I can get Wellington Mulvaney to run it in his column in the
Post
,” he added, his second idea of the day wearing him out.

“Well,” said Vito, “we better get lucky and we better get lucky fast or we're going to be out of one fat salary come election day. One-hundred-sixty-grand down the toilet.”

“So much for idealism,” thought Brogan to herself as she looked at a bunch of people who saw Jackie Swift as nothing more than a meal ticket for their own greedy aspirations.

New York Post, October 29, 2000

THE TERRORISTCANDIDATE

By Wellington Mulvaney

It has come to my knowledge that one Wolfe Tone O'Rourke, the Democratic nominee in the 7th Congressional District, has terrorist ties to the IRA.

Between August 1971, the beginning of internment without trial in Northern Ireland, and the spring of 1972, he was responsible for getting dozens of IRA men “on the run” into the United States of America on “lost” American passports.

America is the target of terrorists worldwide. Do we need one representing us in the U.S. Congress?

New York Daily News, October 31, 2000

Eye on New York by Cyclops Reilly

SMEARING TONEO'ROURKE

If there's one thing you can count on in this town, it is that Wellington Mulvaney will type whatever the right-wing tells him to. I am referring to his column of a couple of days ago called “The Terrorist Candidate.” (By the way, Boots, I like it when you have trouble breaking 100 words.) This column was directed at Wolfe Tone O'Rourke who is running against Wellington's boy, Jackie Swift, in the 7th Congressional District.

O'Rourke was a corpsman in Vietnam. I freely admit that he saved my life when I was hit by Viet Cong fire. When the Republicans can't beat you fair and square, they take your strength and try to turn it into a weakness. You can expect another 100-word column from Mulvaney any day now, followed by one after that. These columns will drip pieces of information. O'Rourke called me yesterday and he told me the whole story.

The story is simple. After coming home wounded from Vietnam in 1971 the Navy found out they were running out of corpsmen—that's a “medic” in the movies—for the Marine Corp. O'Rourke's tour was about over. The Navy put a stop-loss on corpsmen to keep them in an extra year and ordered O'Rourke back to Vietnam for another tour. O'Rourke had done his duty. The Navy didn't care. O'Rourke told them what they could do with their extra tour of duty in Vietnam.

O'Rourke left for Dublin just as internment without trial was being introduced in Northern Ireland. Some people think that Britain is a democracy. It isn't. Democracies don't lock their people up without trials. But they do this a lot in Britain, and Belfast, because their injustices drive the poor to rebellion. To make a long story short O'Rourke—proudly—admits to getting IRA men out of the country. He won't say how he did it, but he did it. And he said he would do it all over again.

O'Rourke finally returned to New York and spent some time in the brig at the Brooklyn Navy Yard until everything was straightened out. He was reprimanded for not following an order—going back to be killed in Vietnam for the vainglorious politicians—censured, and given an honorable discharge in 1972.

He went to serve his country when others were running away to Canada.

Where, exactly, was Jackie Swift in 1970, and why wasn't he in Vietnam?

Come to think of it, our glorious Australian ally was also in Vietnam in 1970. Why weren't you there, Wellington? I'm just saying, if the Boots fit, wear 'em.

“W
ell,” said Vito, “that was a fucking disaster. Any other great ideas?”

Madonna-Sue spoke up. “Mulvaney's column was a disaster,” she said, “but the premise behind it was solid. Let's face it, Mulvaney doesn't carry much of a punch anymore.”

“That's an understatement,” agreed Brogan.

“But that terrorist story can still work,” insisted Madonna-Sue.

“How?” asked Vito.

“In commercial form,”said Madonna-Sue. “A few pictures of Saddam Hussein and Yasser Arafat next to O'Rourke, and we're on our way.”

“There's only one problem,” injected Brogan, “money.”

“Yes, that is a problem,” said Madonna-Sue, “but I think we know where we can get some.”

“The RNC won't budge,” said Vito. “We're on their shit list. If Giuliani was running, it might be different.” At the sound of her name, Julie-Annie started to howl.

“Hush, hush,” said Madonna-Sue, rising from the chair to walk the infant around the room. The child calmed. Madonna-Sue looked over the baby's shoulder and spoke to her father. “It's about time you called in some chits, Daddy.”

“Like who? I told you the RNC won't go for it.”

“Fuck the RNC,” said Madonna-Sue. “Let's go to all the friends you've been doing business with over the years. The developers, the drug companies, the whole lot of them. You were their boy, now get something for it!”

“Okay,” said Vito, “I'll make some calls.”

“Just don't make calls, get some money,” demanded his daughter. “Let's get enough money to get a commercial together. I'll call the stations and the cable company myself and see if they'll wait a week or so until we can pay for the blitz after Election Day.”

“Well,” said Vito, “that's fine, but where are we supposed to get the money to pay for the commercial itself?”

“That's where Manny comes in,” said Madonna-Sue. “Manny, how about calling Father Costello?”

“Are you crazy?” replied Manny Mandelstam, who was sorry he was mixed up in this whole sordid business. He had been keeping a low profile. His instincts told him that the Fopianos were nothing but a disaster waiting to happen. The less contact, the better.

“Let's make a call,” said Madonna-Sue.

“One call, Manny,” added Brogan.

“I have a secured cell phone here,” said Vito, “from the RNC.”

“What do I ask him?”

“Money!” they all said together.

“Call him,” said Vito, holding out the phone. Mandelstam took it and dialed.

“Hello,” said the voice at the other end.

“Reverend Dr. Costello?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“Reverend, it's Rabbi Mandelstam.”

“Rabbi, how are you?”

“I have a problem, Reverend.”

“What's your problem?”

“Jackie Swift's campaign is broke. Could you help us out?” There was silence at the end of the phone. “Perhaps I could travel to Canada to meet with you?”

“No, rabbi,” said Costello, “our last meeting did not go well.” Then a pique of paranoia hit Costello. “Is this phone secure?”

“Yes, it is. From the committee.”

“Yes,” said Costello, “the committee.” There was a pause. “No, I will not meet with you, but I will meet with Congressman Swift.”

“Ah,” said Mandelstam, “the congressman is presently indisposed. Perhaps you could meet with Mrs. Swift.” Madonna-Sue shook her head at the mention of the married name she never used. “. . . Or Congressman Fopiano?”

“No,” said Costello, “it's Jackie, or nothing.”

“Would an electronic transfer be possible?” Manny inquired. Manny could see himself in Leavenworth right now, dressed to the nines in jailhouse pinstripes.

“I do not think so. Your FBI and the RCMP are keeping a very close eye on me. How much will you need?”

“How much?” repeated Manny. Vito help up the five fingers on one hand and one digit on the other hand. “Six figures,” said Manny into the phone.

“That is quite a lot,” said Costello, “but I might be able to pull it off.”

“Should we send Jackie up to Canada to meet you?”

“No,” replied Costello, “I'll reenter the country at Windsor, Ontario, across from Detroit. One of the border guards there belongs to the organization and can get me in.”

Vito was rolling his hand to tell Mandelstam to hurry up. “When do you want to meet Congressman Swift?”

“How about this coming weekend?”

“In New York?”

“Yes,” said Costello, “New York. Maybe I can combine a little business with pleasure. I'll call Congressman Swift on the weekend, if that's convenient.”

“Yes, Reverend Doctor,” replied Manny. “That would be very convenient,” and the phone went dead.

“What now?” asked Vito.

“We gotta spring Jackie from Betty Ford,” said Mandelstam, “and fast.”