Our Lady Of Greenwich Village by Dermot McEvoy Page B

O’Rourke, referring to Monsignor Seán Pius Burke, Reilly’s first cousin and the Cardinal’s right-hand man.
    â€œHe knows,” said Reilly. “You expect him to tell his boss, the Cardinal?”
    â€œDeclan Cardinal Sweeney might be very interested,” said O’Rourke.
    â€œMonsignor 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.”
    â€œAnother two here,” said O’Rourke.
    â€œYou know, Tone,” Reilly said changing the subject, “I saw her the other day.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œDeirdre.” 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œYou expecting a call?” he would ask the lovely and mendacious Deirdre.
    â€œNo,” 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.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œCyclops,” 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.
    â€œMoe Luigi here,” said the voice on the phone. “Your source is right. Cocaine was found in Congressman Swift’s system.”
    â€œChrist!” said Reilly.
    â€œI’ve got another surprise for you, too,” said Luigi. “His Eminence, the Cardinal, will be making a private visit within the hour.”
    â€œI love you, Moe Luigi, even if you do drive a Lambor-guinea.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œWhy?” asked O’Rourke, still morose over Deirdre.
    â€œBig shit happening. See you later.”
    O’Rourke shrugged and went to the head. At the urinal