Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (40 page)

T
he commercial appeared just before the 11 p.m. Eyewitness News broadcast.

“In this time of international terrorism,” the actor's voice said as a film showed a bus exploding on the streets of Jerusalem, “we must be on guard against terrorist threats.” There was a film of Jackie Swift shaking hands with Ariel Sharon. The voiceover continued: “We need a representative in Congress who knows the threat and is part of the solution—not the problem.” At this point there was a picture of Wolfe Tone O'Rourke laughing with Gerry Adams at a White House reception. “We know the threat to our country,” said the voice as pictures of Arafat, Adams, Hussein, and O'Rourke flashed quickly on the screen, “and Jackie Swift is part of the solution. On election day, vote to keep America safe. Vote for Congressman Jack Swift.” The commercial ended with Swift saying, “I'm Congressman Jackie Swift and I endorse this message.”

It took all of thirty seconds.

“T
he fucking has begun,” said O'Rourke, and Black cursed.

“Nothing,” said Black, “nothing, no indication of any money.”

“Cash and carry,” said McGuire.

“What does Monday's internal poll say?”

“We're dropping fast on the Upper West Side,” replied Baroody. “We were 55 percent two weeks ago; now we're at 46 percent. That commercial hurt.”

“Yeah,” said O'Rourke, “let's get moving. Simone, is the agency ready?”

“Waiting for you.”

O'Rourke pulled pictures of George Washington, Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King, Jr., Michael Collins, Eamon DeValera, David Ben-Gurion, and Menachem Begin out of an envelope and threw them on the desk. “Okay, we're ready. Let's go to the agency and see if we can get this on the air on the 11 o'clock news tonight.”

“Tonight?” asked McGuire with alarm.

“Tonight,” repeated O'Rourke and he scooped up the photos and headed for the door.

T
he film was of the president's inauguration on March 4, 1933: “We have nothing to fear,” said Franklin Delano Roosevelt, “but fear itself.” The voiceover minced no words. “They are trying to scare you, pure and simple. When there are no ideas, they get desperate, and the desperate love fear. They say that Tone O'Rourke is a terrorist.” The pictures begin to roll: “Was George Washington a terrorist, or was he a freedom fighter, driving the unwanted British from these shores? Was Martin Luther King, Jr., a terrorist when he broke the law in the South trying to overturn the American apartheid? Was Nelson Mandela a terrorist when he spent thirty years of his life in jail so his country could emerge from a history of bigotry? Were Michael Collins and Eamon DeValera terrorists when they told the British it was time to leave Ireland after seven hundred years? Were David Ben-Gurion and Menachem Begin terrorists when they helped birth the nation of Israel?

“Remember: You have nothing to fear but fear itself. Vote out the fear mongers on Election Day.” A picture of O'Rourke, Gerry Adams, Teddy Kennedy, and Bill Clinton taken in Belfast after the Good Friday Agreement was signed filled the screen. O'Rourke read his own tagline: “I'm Tone O'Rourke, and I approved this campaign commercial.”

“H
ow are the daily internal polls?” asked O'Rourke at the morning meeting.

“Better,” McGuire and Baroody both replied. “You're back over 50 percent on the Upper West Side,” Sam continued. “Overall, you're still at a solid 54 percent throughout the 7th CD.”

“Did Swift go on the air last night?”

“No,” said Black, “he didn't. Maybe they're saving their money.”

“We have to know,” said O'Rourke. “The only way they can beat us is with money. You can't find anything?”

“Not a thing in any of their accounts,” said Black. “And the RNC has shut them down.”

“It's got to be that fucking Costello,” O'Rourke said finally.

“He's not allowed in the country,” reminded McGuire.

“Allow and enter are two different words, sweetheart. Clarence, can you get someone to check on Costello up in Canada?”

“Will do.”

“You know who we haven't seen lately?” said Sam.

“Who?”

“Jackie Swift.”

“You get one guess,” said O'Rourke.

“Betty Ford,” said Black.

“Let's see if he shows up this week,” said O'Rourke.

“For a fundraiser?” said McGuire.

“You have a devious mind,” laughed O'Rourke.

“So do you,” said Sam, rubbing her basketball-sized tummy.

T
he dirty deed was left up to Brogan, and she felt guilty about it. She had flown out to California to fetch Swift from Betty Ford so they could get the dough from Costello. Jackie's doctor told her that she was interfering with the treatment, and there would be no cure for Jackie without his doing the full program without interruption.

Jackie was glad to see her. But she did not beat around the bush. She read him his poll numbers and told him the only way to win was to hit the airwaves—and they couldn't do that without money. The Reverend Dr. Costello was willing to come up with one hundred big ones, but only if Jackie accepted it in person. Jackie listened patiently to what Brogan had to say, but she could see he was itching for the powder. She thought they would have to lock him up for a good six months for the cure to take.

They caught the first flight back to New York, and she insisted they fly first class. It was bad enough having to fetch him, but she didn't want to be disturbed by little old ladies in tennis shoes who wanted to see the Blessed Virgin's favorite congressman. The sight of Jackie Swift brought them out of the woodwork.

As they boarded they were offered a drink, and Brogan saw that Jackie had that look in his eye. “You might as well have one, Jackie, because Vito and Madonna-Sue will cut you off as soon as you hit Manhattan.” He got a double vodka on the rocks with a slice of lime and savored the entire thing before takeoff. Once the plane was airborne, he switched to double vodka gimlets.

Brogan sipped a chilled white wine and wondered how Jackie had gotten from Paul O'Dwyer to Vito Fopiano. He certainly didn't believe all the crap about family values and abortion that Vito spit out like gospel truth. Jackie was a go-along to get-along kind of guy. He couldn't care less what you did in your bedroom. But power had a way of changing people. Sure, it was nice being a congressman and being fussed over and making 160 grand a year for doing basically nothing except appearing on the Sunday morning talk shows. But there had to be more to life than that. Then Brogan thought of Madonna-Sue again. She had kept her legs shut and
still
came up with the baby. Then they compounded the felony by naming it Julie-Annie. Brogan had had enough.

She put her wine down in the little compartment for drinks between their seats. “That's it, Jackie.”

“That's what?” he asked. He had a nice glow, and he hoped they were not going to discuss the terrible campaign again.

“We're through.”

“We're what?”

“Through. As of Election Day, November 7, I resign. But you're leaving the apartment tonight.”

Jackie was in shock. “But that's my apartment!”

“That
was
your apartment. You're getting out. You're going to live with Madonna-Sue from now on. You are going to be a father to Vitoessa and Julie-Annie. You, for once in your life, are going to do the right thing. Do you understand me?” Jackie could see that Brogan was getting red in the face. “You are going to do the right thing—win or lose! Is that understood?”

Jackie hesitated for a second. “Could we talk this over? I really need that apartment.”

“No, we are not going to talk this over. It's over. O-V-E-R. Let's get on with both of our lives. There has to be more to life than this lie of ours.”

“But the apartment.”

“If you get the apartment,” said Brogan, “you also get the front page of the
New York Post
.”

“What?”

“How does FIRST PIX OF CONGRESSMAN'S LOVE NEST grab you?” She had Swift between a rock and Madonna-Sue and Jackie knew it.

The flight continued in silence. “We'll be on the ground at Newark's International Airport within ten minutes,” the pilot said over the intercom.

“On the ground,” Swift said aloud, “without an apartment.” Then he began laughing, knowing full well that the party was almost over.