Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (27 page)

“S
o, what are we going to do about Thom Lamè?”O'Rourke asked

McGuire, Black, and Nuncio Baroody.

“Do you want to challenge his petitions?” asked McGuire.

“No,” replied O'Rourke. “He's been down the petition road before. He knows what he's doing.”

“How about his finances?” Clarence Black offered.

“That,” said O'Rourke, “is a worthy start.”

“Background check?”

“Definitely.”

“What exactly are we looking for?” McGuire asked.

“I don't know,” admitted O'Rourke. “Look at his finances. Are they in order? Is he paying money to someone he shouldn't be? Does he have any bad habits that cost money? Things like that. Anyone have any other things we should check out?”

“This may seem crazy,” said Baroody, “but I think you should see if he has a video rental account.”

“Why?” asked Black.

“As the boys as Julius's like to say, Lamè might be a ‘fauxsexual.' Let's make sure he's the fag he professes to be,” said Baroody, “if you know what I mean.”

“I don't know what you mean,” replied Black, “but I'll look into the probability.”

“Yes, Clarence,” seconded O'Rourke, “check it out.”

“What's all this supposed to get us?” asked McGuire in a voice that said she wasn't that happy with the sleaze factor entering into the race.

“Something,” replied O'Rourke. “Maybe nothing.”

“I think you're wasting your time,” said Sam.

“Do you remember Edwin Edwards, the former governor of the great state of Louisana?”

“Yeah,” said McGuire, “I think he's still doing time.”

“Well,” said O'Rourke, “he once said that the only way he could lose an election was ‘to be caught with a dead girl or a live boy.' That's what we're looking for.”

“And in this district,” added Baroody ominously, “I hope it's not a live boy.”

New York Daily News, May 3, 2000

Eye on New York by Cyclops Reilly

VIETNAM Comes TO 72ND Street

Vietnam came to 72nd Street today.

Wolfe Tone O'Rourke, who is seeking the Democratic nomination in the 7th Congressional District, was shaking hands with early morning commuters who were heading for the subway to take them downtown to work.

The sun was brilliant and the Ansonia Hotel, in the background, stood out as a New York jewel.

O'Rourke is one of those candidates that the establishment hates—because he says what he believes, not what the pundits and the main stream media want to hear. He's been called dangerous, ingenuous, and idealistic. Along with Charlie Rangel and Chuck Schumer, he might be the best politician alive in New York City today.

It was your typical “meet and greet.” O'Rourke shook the commuters' hands as they headed into the ground. Some recognized him from his little tête-à-tête with Liam “Anal Cyst” Hanrahan on the Fox network last week.

The greetings were friendly until a terrible sound brought O'Rourke back to his days as a Navy medical corpsman in Vietnam. O'Rourke turned around and saw an 18-wheeler turn a messenger's bicycle into a twisted paperclip. The tractor-trailer driver slammed on the brakes as quick as he could and the only sound on West 72nd Street and Broadway was the screams of the young black man under the cab's right wheel.

O'Rourke broke away from the subway commuters and ran to the injured man. In one motion he grabbed him by his belt buckle and pulled him out from under the truck and into Broadway. O'Rourke then pulled his own belt off and ran it under the messenger's left leg, up by the groin. By this time blood was shooting into O'Rourke's chest because the main artery had been severed. O'Rourke pulled the belt tight and the messenger left out a scream that echoed all the way down 72nd Street. O'Rourke pulled tighter and the blood flow slowed. O'Rourke knew the messenger might bleed to death.

Sirens in the background became louder as the FDNY ambulance pulled up. O'Rourke instructed the paramedic to the situation and the young man took over.

O'Rourke dropped to sit on the sidewalk as the medics worked on the messenger. Simone McGuire, his campaign manager, came over and hugged O'Rourke. Soon she too was covered with the messenger's blood. O'Rourke looked dazed as he tried to hail a cab to get downtown to his office in the Village. Seeing the blood covered O'Rourke, cabbies accelerated and passed by.

O'Rourke's performance had to be seen to be believed. It was a once-in-a-lifetime action drama that probably took all of two minutes. He did what every Navy corpsman's is trained to do—give the patient a chance to survive.

Somewhere, I had seen it before.

Yes, it was the day in Vietnam when a Navy medic named O'Rourke saved my life.

“Y
ou're in trouble,” said Vito Fopiano, holding up the
Daily News
in front of Jackie Swift. There was O'Rourke, in glorious color, tending to the injured bicycle messenger, covered with his blood. The headline said: TONE SAVES. The story was on page three along with Reilly's column.

“Yes, you are,” seconded Madonna-Sue.

They both seemed to be enjoying Swift's misery. Swift wished they would all go away.

“O'Rourke's a fucking war hero, for Christ sakes,” continued Vito. “What are you going to run on? That you introduced a bill to ban pornography from the Internet?”

“If I recall,” spoke up Peggy Brogan, “that Ban-the-Porn idiocy was your idea, Vito. You called it playing to the base.” Vito looked at Brogan's ass and wanted to talk about anything but porn.

“Yeah,” put in Madonna-Sue as she rubbed her pregnant belly, “that was your idea, Daddy.”

“As a Korean War veteran—” said Vito as he launched into his “I-have-seen-the-face-of-war” speech.

“Cut the shit, Vito,” said Swift, showing some life. “You were a fucking quartermaster in Tokyo, handing out underwear. You never saw a shot fired in anger. Save your crap for those old guineas at the VFW.”

Vito was quiet, and did not speak for a good minute. “You've got to win, Jackie,” he said quietly. “If you lose, Madonna-Sue will be a target next and she'll never have a chance to be Speaker of the House.”

“The only Speaker of the House here,” said Swift, “is you, Vito. You have more input into our marriage than I have.”

Brogan was exhilarated that Swift had finally stood up to Vito. She especially loved the jab about “those old guineas at the VFW.” The Irish had spoken. “Okay,” she finally said, “we're in a fix. But I think it's something that can be fixed.”

“Who really is this guy O'Rourke?” and everyone knew that Madonna-Sue had asked the most important question of the day.

All eyes turned to Swift because he knew who O'Rourke was better than anybody. They had been through the political wars together, going back to 1968 when Bobby was running for president and Paul O'Dwyer was trying to unseat Jack Javits in the Senate. By June, Bobby was dead and in November Javits put an end to O'Dwyer's dream. 1968 was a loser's year for both O'Rourke and Swift. Yes, Swift knew who O'Rourke was, but he didn't particularly want to go there.

“Who is that negress who's always with him?” asked Vito, holding up the
Daily News
open to page three and pointing at the picture of McGuire embracing O'Rourke.

“That's his campaign manager,” Swift said quietly. “Simone McGuire. Used to work for Schumer.”

“Anything more to it?” put in Vito.

Swift knew there was more to it, but didn't want to dabble in the domestic affairs of O'Rourke. Besides, Swift's house was 100 percent glass.

“They're lovers,” said Brogan suddenly.

“Lovers?' said Vito, and the three other people in the room began to feel uncomfortable.

“That's the word on the street,” said Brogan.

“Interesting,” was the only thing Madonna-Sue could muster as she searched the bottom of her handbag for a cigarette. Swift and Brogan looked at each other ominously. It was generally not a good sign when Madonna-Sue, out-of-the-blue, started lighting up for no reason.

“A negress,” said Vito with just a trace of a smile crossing his face. “Anything else on O'Rourke?” he added. “Drugs? Boyfriends?”

Jackie had absolutely nothing to say about drugs of any kind. He just wished this meeting would end. “He's never been married, I believe,” said Madonna-Sue. “Middle-aged Irish guy. What's up with that?” Madonna-Sue obviously didn't understand the Irish and Swift was not about to help her out.

“You sure he's not a homo?” asked Vito hopefully, suddenly turning O'Rourke into some kind of all-gender sex machine.

“Even if he was gay, that's not a negative in this district, Vito. You're not on Staten Island now,” Swift said, reminding Vito that the political tricks of Richmond County did not apply on Manhattan Island.

“How did he make his money?” Vito wanted to know.

“Political consultancy,” replied Swift. “He gets paid handsomely to beat some of the dunces you guys at the Republican National Committee pick to run for office. He was one of the guys—don't you remember, Vito?—who took Alphonse D'Amato out.” Vito was silent. D'Amato was Vito's meal ticket and now he was gone. Vito noticed that people were not as in awe of him without D'Amato in the United States Senate. It was all the more reason to hate Wolfe Tone O'Rourke.

“So, let's see,” said Madonna-Sue. “He's a millionaire war hero who daily saves bicycle messengers from certain death just for the fun of it. You
are
in trouble.”

“Didn't he have some trouble with the navy?” queried Vito. “Sometimes you can turn a negative into a positive.”

“Didn't he have to leave the country or something?” said Madonna-Sue as smoke rushed from her nose.

Jackie Swift knew O'Rourke's story intimately, but he kept his mouth shut.

“He wasn't connected with the IRA, was he, Jackie?” asked Brogan. Swift gave Brogan a look that said “don't go there,” but it was too late.

“Wasn't he involved in getting Clinton to give Gerry Adams a visa to get into the U.S.?” added Madonna-Sue.

“Yes, he was,” said Vito, his voice rising with new hope. “Why, this guy's nothing more than an IRA terrorist. Let's find out for sure.”

“Might be something Wellington Mulvaney might be interested in,” added Madonna-Sue.

“Great idea,” said Vito, and the two Fopianos were now actually smiling. Brogan looked at Swift and wished she had kept quiet.

Jackie Swift looked ahead in glum silence, hoping that the ghost of Paul O'Dwyer would forgive him the ultimate Irish betrayal, that of unintentional informer.