Our Lady Of Greenwich Village Read Free Page A

clock striking the hour. Finally, Shipman asked the hard question. “Was it worth it?”
    O’Rourke reflected back to the late winter of 2000 and thought about what he had gotten out of it. “Yes, Saul,” he said slowly, “I think it was.”

THEN
Greenwich Village Winter, 2000

2.
    A t 1:15 a.m. the telephone rang at the City Desk of the New York Daily News . “Henry Fogarty?” the voice asked.
    â€œYeah,” said Fogarty, “this is he.”
    â€œFogarty, this is Officer Tessa of the Sixth Precinct. I’m in St. Vincent’s Hospital in the Village.”
    Fogarty began scribbling the information. “Yeah?”
    â€œI was told by Cyclops Reilly that if I ever got a hot tip, I should call you.”
    â€œCyclops told you that?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œSo?”
    There was silence on the wire. Tessa was getting impatient. He didn’t realize that Fogarty was already negotiating. “You want to listen to me, or do I call the Post ?” asked Tessa. More silence.
    â€œWhat you got?”
    â€œI just got bribed three hundred dollars by Georgie Drumgoole, Congressman Swift’s press secretary, and—”
    Fogarty interrupted: “You don’t have to tell me that. You are protected by the Fifth Amendment.”
    â€œDon’t be such a smart ass, Fogarty. I might have a bit of a scoop for you,” retorted Tessa.
    â€œYou mentioned Jackie Swift, I believe.”
    â€œYes, he’s here,” said Tessa.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHeart attack.”
    â€œWhat the big deal? Lots of folks, including congressmen, have heart attacks.”
    â€œApparently he had it while ballin’ his chief of staff. There’s a cover-up going on here. Could be another Bill and Monica.”
    Cover-up, thought Fogarty. Since Watergate, everything was a fucking cover-up. It had gotten to the point that the media was making up stories so some dumb politician could try to cover them up. The gotcha mentality, Fogarty called it.
    â€œBill and Monica are ancient history as far as I’m concerned,” said Fogarty. “Anyway, thanks.”
    â€œWhatdaya mean, thanks? Cyclops told me you would pay.”
    â€œWell, Reilly was wrong.”
    â€œYou want I should go to the Post ?” Tessa asked. “Remember HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR?” Fogarty winced at the memory of the headline. “This story is right up Rupert Murdoch’s alley,” continued Tessa. “Fucking Post will have a photographer up here in three minutes. Ya wanna let that rag scoop you?”
    Fogarty’s problem was his personality—or, more specifically, the lack of one. No one, it seems, ever called him Hank. He was not one to joke or have a beer with the boys after the paper went to bed. He had worked for the News since Eisenhower was president, yet no one had ever remembered seeing him in the late, lamented Costello’s Bar on East 44th Street.
    Though he was an emotional cold fish, Fogarty was also a talented and insightful reporter. His personality, talent, and a drunken city editor by the name of Shitty Collins had conspired in 1957 to give him his sobriquet, Peccadillo. Shitty Collins cared about two things: newspapers and drink—and not necessarily in that order. Collins knew talent, and Fogarty had it. Collins also knew how to hang onto his job. In a strange way, the two had taken to each other. Collins gave Fogarty the choicest assignments, and Fogarty’s work made Collins look good in the eyes of his superiors. Fogarty was becoming a star, with his byline frequently—too frequently, the gang at Costello’s thought—appearing on page three. When one of the rewrite men got into a fight with Collins and mentioned the alleged favoritism between Collins and Fogarty, Collins had condemned the reporter and praised Fogarty in a gin-soaked voice loud enough for the whole city room to hear: “Your sins are mortal