Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (28 page)

“I
t's a girl!”Clarence Black said triumphantly as as he walked into

O'Rourke's office.

“What?” said McGuire and O'Rourke simultaneously.

“You know you were talking about a ‘dead girl or a live boy?' Well, it's a live girl. In Illinois, where Lamè went to graduate school. Pays her $967.35 every month in child support. This guy's straight.”

“Or a switch-hitter,” added O'Rourke.

“And Nuncio was right,” continued Black.

“What?”

“About the movies he rents. He never rents gay porn. He only rents straight porn. He's a big fan of Buttman's movies.”

O'Rourke laughed, as did Black. “Buttman? Who's Buttman?” asked McGuire.

“Let's just say he's the Federico Fellini of porn,” said O'Rourke.

“How do
you
know?” asked McGuire sharply.

“Well ... well,” stammered O'Rourke.

McGuire cut him off. “So you like to watch dirty movies about women's behinds.” O'Rourke had been found guilty and knew he was headed for the gibbet. “I don't understand men and their porn.” She dropped herself into a chair and just stared at O'Rourke who looked and felt as guilty as that day when his mother had caught him stealing that peapod. “Well,” said McGuire, “at least you won't have to watch Buttman movies anymore.” O'Rourke felt he had been reprieved at the last minute by the governor. “What are you going to do with this information?”

“What's the woman's name in Illinois?”

“Sarah Fineman.”

“Sam,” said O'Rourke, “get Thom Lamè on the phone. Tell him we have some news for him.”

“News?”

“Yeah, tell him we know who Sarah Fineman is, his HIV has taken a turn for the worse, and he's not running for Congress this year.”

“W
hatdaya think?” asked O'Rourke as he admired his medals in the mirror. Baroody and Black looked on, but didn't say a word.

McGuire, a late arrival to the office, stood in the doorway, a look of disgust on her face. “You look,” she said, “like Leonid Fucking Brezhnev.”

“And Happy Mother's Day to you, too,” said O'Rourke as Black and Baroody stepped aside allowing McGuire to enter.

“And what's so good about it?”

“We were just seeing what kind of American insignia Tone should wear on the talk shows,” said Baroody.

“God,” said McGuire, “don't wear those bulky medals. You look like a refugee from the politburo. Got any Alka-Seltzer?” O'Rourke unpinned the medals and carefully put them back in their cushioned box. “Try an American flag,” she suggested.

“Like the rest of the phoneys?” said Black.

“It's your flag too, you know,” countered McGuire.

“Good point,” conceded Baroody. “What's the matter with your stomach?”

“Upset,” replied McGuire. “Must be food poisoning or something. Tone did scallops last night.”

“I'm okay,” replied O'Rourke.

“It would be impossible to poison you,” McGuire shot back, “after all the scrap you put in your body over the years.”

O'Rourke did not want to get into a fight this early in the morning and tried to change the subject. “You up to making the trip with Clarence and me to D.C. for
Sunday Press Box
?”

“That's my job. I'll be with you,” she said as she fished in a glass container on the windowsill. “I'm still your campaign manager.” She threw a pin-on American flag at O'Rourke. “Put that on.”

O'Rourke stuck it in his lapel and looked at himself again in the mirror. He shook his head. “Give me another one of those things.” McGuire flipped one across the room and O'Rourke caught it. He stuck it in his other lapel and smiled. “That's the statement I want to make.”

“You look like a fool,” said McGuire.

“That I am,” replied O'Rourke. “Let's go over a few things before we head for the shuttle.”

The four of them sat down and O'Rourke stared at a list he had on a legal pad. “First, Sam, great job getting me on
Sunday Press Box
.”

“Thanks,” said McGuire, and her sweet smile returned. “Dan Dorsey and I go back a while with Senator Schumer.”

“Yeah,” cut in O'Rourke, “they both love the sound of their own voices. Okay, let's see where we are. The 800-number and cheap sign?”

“Got it.”

“What's the latest on Lamè?”

“He's still thinking about it, he says,” said McGuire.

“Thinking about what?” said O'Rourke with a touch of exasperation in his voice. “I'm about to ruin his career.” McGuire shrugged her shoulders. “Get him on the phone,” ordered O'Rourke. McGuire took out her cell phone, dialed, and handed the phone to O'Rourke, who was surprised when Lamè answered this early on a Sunday morning. “Thom, Tone O'Rourke here.” McGuire reached over O'Rourke and set the phone to speaker mode.

“Getting ready for
Sunday Press Box
?” There was a touch of honey in Lamè's tone. “Yeah, Thom,” said O'Rourke, “we're about to head out to LaGuardia to catch the shuttle.”

“Well,” said Lamè, “we may be talking later.” O'Rourke looked at McGuire, and they both realized that they were about to be set up by Danny Dorsey.

“Thom,” said O'Rourke, “what's your answer to the proposition that Sam McGuire had for you earlier this week?”

“I don't know,” said Lamè. “I'm reconsidering. After all, it was just a youthful indiscretion.”

“Hey, Thom,” said O'Rourke in a tough north Village voice, “you were twenty-nine at the time.”

“And what gives you the right to tell the world about me?” said Lamè.

O'Rourke had had enough. “Look, you pseudo-cocksucker, either you pull out of the primary or I'll drop this paternity suit on you like a ton of bricks. Do you understand?” There was silence at the end of Lamè's line. “If you fuck with me, your political career is over. ‘Sodomy on demand' won't help you ever again.” Still silence. “Thom,” said O'Rourke, “I'm going to give you a little free political advice. Retreat now and live to fight another day.” O'Rourke did not wait for an answer as he snapped the cell phone shut. “Let's get out to LaGuardia,” he said and the meeting ended.

His name was Danny Dorsey and he was the kind of Irish that O'Rourke hated. Out of a working class family in Syracuse, New York, he had made it in politics by being the perfect vehicle, Sunday after Sunday, for the Republican Party. If they had a point to get across, they just went on
Sunday Press Box
, confident that good old Danny Dorsey would seamlessly get their talking points across to the American people. If he had John McCain on one more time, they were going to have to get married.

Dorsey panted as he waited to ask questions and was famous for the inevitable “gotcha” quote from forty years ago. He always brought up that he worked for Bobby Kennedy as a way to show his Democratic bona fides, but he was firmly in the pocket of the Republican Party. He was, O'Rourke knew, a political fraud.

He gave O'Rourke a big smile as they both sat down. Dorsey shifted in his seat, then looked down at the American flag in his lapel and straightened it for the camera angle. That was a new one, even for Wolfe Tone O'Rourke. “This is Dan Dorsey, and welcome to
Sunday Press Box
. Our guest today is Wolfe Tone O'Rourke, Democratic candidate for New York City's 7th Congressional District. Tone,” said Dorsey, “nice to have you back on
Sunday Press Box
after all these years.”

“Dan,” said O'Rourke, “Happy Mother's Day and it's always a pleasure to be in the box.” O'Rourke looked at McGuire in the control room and saw a small smile. Clarence Black looked away. And it went right over Danny Dorsey's well coiffed head.

“Tone and I go back a long way,” Dorsey said into the camera, “First, Tone, why are you wearing two American flags?”

“Because I'm twice the American you are, Dan.”

Danny, his head still down, pounded away. “When we were working together on Bobby Kennedy's last campaign—”

O'Rourke cut him off. “You were a gofer, Dan. I was the senator's advance man.”

“Yes,” said Dorsey, “on that fateful night—”

O'Rourke again cut in. “On that fateful night I led the senator right into the arms of Sirhan Sirhan and changed the history of this country.”

“How so?”

“Without Bobby Kennedy, this nation changed. We had already lost Dr. King. All you had left was Hubert Humphrey, another bloated has-been. The likes of Nixon, Reagan, and Bush. Now we have Bush the younger and dumber running for president. Democrats and Republicans without style, class, or courage. You get an excellent pol like Clinton, although a man without conviction, and he can't help but pull his thing out of his pants and wave it at interns. And Democrats lose years defending this guy who robbed the American people of so much. An absolute criminal waste.”

“Ah, Tone,” said Dorsey in a hushed tone, “this is a family show.”

“Well, Danny,” said O'Rourke, knowing full well that Dorsey hated being called Danny, “you and your cohorts in the media had no problems talking about Bill and Monica during the impeachment hearings. I recall you also had a fascination with the cum-stained dress that Linda Tripp was so fond of.” O'Rourke thought Dorsey might pop a blood vessel at the mention of presidential cum.

“Come on, Tone,” began Dorsey before he realized what he had said. O'Rourke was getting under his skin. “But,” said Dorsey forcefully, “we were only doing our journalistic duty during the Clinton impeachment hearings.”

“Danny, let me be blunt. You wouldn't know your ‘journalistic duty' if someone put it on a plate in front of you.”

“Tone, I must disagree.”

O'Rourke cut him off. “One of the problems with this country is guys like you who think they're important and never shut the fuck up.” Danny hopped in his seat in indignation. “Calm down, Danny, it's still a free country.”

“Watch your language,” warned Dorsey.

“I'll watch mine, if you watch yours.” O'Rourke was just getting going. “As I told that imbecile over on Fox, the people own these airwaves, not you, not Murdoch, not General Electric. You and the rest of the journalistic frauds couldn't wait to air Clinton's semen story, but when the language gets a little raunchy, you're like Claude Rains in
Casablanca
—‘shocked, shocked'—that such filth could be going on the airwaves.”

“Let's move on,” said Dorsey. “Right now on the phone from New York City we have City Councilman Thom Lamè, also a candidate for the Democratic nomination in the 7th Congressional District. Mr. Lamè, welcome to
Sunday Press Box
.” Lamè was now in the big leagues and he hardly could believe it. “How's your campaign going for Congress against Tone O'Rourke?”

There was silence on the other end of the phone as they put a picture of Lamè on the screen. O'Rourke was psyching himself up also, for he knew he was about to do something he didn't want to do: destroy a fool named Thom Lamè.

“Are you there, Councilman Lamè?”

“Yes, Dan,” Lamè finally said.

“How's the campaign going?”

“Well, Dan, I have something very important to say about the race for the nomination of the Democratic Party in the 7th Congressional District.” Lamè used the pregnant pause well and O'Rourke's face remained a stone. Lamè cleared his voice. “At this time, Dan, I am withdrawing my name from consideration and endorsing the candidacy of Wolfe Tone O'Rourke. Clearly, Tone O'Rourke, with his long service to the district, is the right man for the job.”

Dorsey looked disappointed, and O'Rourke forced himself to look surprised. “Thanks, Thom,” O'Rourke said, “that was very generous of you, your endorsement. I look forward to working with you from Washington and helping you in your future campaigns. And a happy Mother's Day to you and yours!”

Lamè wanted to reach through the television screen and strangle O'Rourke, but he went with the flow, knowing the political game is a long one and the first one out of the gate doesn't necessarily win the race. He knew that O'Rourke had already helped him in more ways than he could ever imagined, “Thank you, Tone. And you can be sure that someday I will cash in that IOU.”

O'Rourke nodded for the camera and smiled at Danny Dorsey, who looked like they had just taken away his dog bone. “This will save you a lot of money,” was the first thing that popped out of Dorsey's stunned mouth.

“Well, Dan, I'm still up against the Fopiano machine, that welloiled juggernaut of Family Values.” O'Rourke smiled, and, back in New York, a shiver ran through Vito, Madonna-Sue, and Jackie Swift. “However, Dan, I will need to raise bribes—I mean, campaign contributions. I will accept nothing larger than twenty-five dollars, and for that you will get a T-shirt, a dirty campaign button, and my everlasting gratitude.” Tone held up a piece of cardboard, the kind that comes when you get your shirts back from the dry cleaners. On it was his new 800 number, written in black magic marker. “Call ‘1-800-BRIBE-ME' to contribute to the Tone O'Rourke for Congress campaign.”