Cathedral

you.”

The Mayor let himself be propelled by the bigger man into the hallway and up to a landing on the staircase that led to the priests’ rooms. The Mayor escaped the Governor’s grasp and said, “What is it, Bob? I have things to do.”

“I just spoke to Albany. The main concern up there is civil disobedience.”

“I didn’t think enough people lived in Albany to have a riot.”

“No, here. In Manhattan. That mob outside could explode again … with all the drinking….”

The Mayor smiled. “What makes this Saint Patrick’s night different from all other Saint Patrick’s nights?”

“Look, Murray, this is not the time for your wisecracking. The seizure of this Cathedral may be just a prelude to a larger civil insurrection. I think you should call a curfew.”

“Curfew? Are you crazy? Rush hour traffic is still trying to get out of Manhattan.”

“Call it later, then.” The Governor lowered his voice. “My analysts in Albany say that the only thing keeping this situation cooled down is the sleet. When the sleet stops, the bars will empty and there could be trouble—”

The Mayor looked incredulous. “I don’t care what your analysts in Albany say. This is Saint Patrick’s Day in New York, for God’s sake. The biggest parade in the world, outside of the May Day Parade in Moscow, has just ended. The largest single party in New York—maybe in America—is just beginning. People plan this day all year. There are over a million people in midtown alone, jammed into bars, restaurants, and house parties. More liquor and food is consumed tonight than any other night of the year. If I called a curfew … the Restaurant Owners’ Association would have me assassinated. They’d pour all the unconsumed beer into the Rockefeller Center skating rink and drown me in it. Shit, you try to enforce a curfew tonight.”

“But—”

“And it’s religious. What kind of an Irishman are you? That’s all we need—a Jewish Mayor calling off Saint Patrick’s Day. It’d be easier to call off Christmas. What kind of yo- yos are giving you advice in Albany? Fucking farmers?”

The Governor began pacing around the small landing. “Okay, Murray. Take it easy.” He stopped pacing and thought a moment. “Okay, forget the curfew. But I do think you need the State Police and the National Guard to help keep order.”

“No. No soldiers, no State Police. I have twenty thousand police—more than a full army division. Little by little we’ll get them out on the street.”

“The Sixty-ninth Regiment is mustered and in a position to lend a hand.”

“Mustered?” Kline laughed. “Plastered is more like it. Christ, the enlisted men got off duty from the armory at two o’clock. They’re so shitfaced by now they wouldn’t know a rifle from their bootlaces.”

“I happen to know that the officers and most of the noncoms are at a cocktail party in the armory right now, and—”

“What are you trying to pull?”

“Pull?”

“Pull.”

The Governor coughed into his hand, then smiled good-naturedly. “All right, it’s like this—you know damned well that this is the biggest disturbance to hit New York since the blackout of ’77, and I have to show that I’m doing something.”

“Fly to Albany. Let me run my city.”

“Your city. It’s my state! I’m responsible to all the people.”

“Right. Where were you when we needed money?”

“Look … look, I don’t need your permission to call out the National Guard or the State Police.”

“Call your Attorney General and check on that.” Mayor Kline turned and took a step toward the stairs.

“Hold on, Murray. Listen … suppose Albany foots the bill for this operation? I mean, God, this will cost the city millions. I’ll take care of it, and I’ll get Washington to kick in a little extra. I’ll say it was an international thing, which it is—like the consulate protection money. Okay?”

The Mayor arrested his descent down the stairs and turned back toward the Governor. He smiled encouragingly.

The Governor went on. “I’ll pay for it all if you let me send in my people—I need to show a state presence here—you understand. Okay? Whaddaya say, Murray?”

The Mayor said, “The money to be paid to the city within thirty days of billing.”

“You got it.”

“Including all overtime and regular time of all the city departments involved, including police, fire, sanitation, and other municipal departments for as long as the siege lasts, and all expenses incurred in the aftermath.”

“All right….”

“Including costs of repair to municipal property, and aid to private individuals and businesses who sustain a loss.”

The Governor swallowed. “Sure.”

“But only the Sixty-ninth Regiment. No other guard units and no State Police— my boys don’t get along with them.”

“Let me send the State Police into the boroughs to fill the vacuum left by the reassignment to Manhattan.”

The Mayor considered, then nodded and smiled. He stuck out his hand, and they shook on it. Mayor Kline said loudly, so that the people in the hallway below could hear, “Governor, I’d like you to call out the Sixty-ninth Regiment and the State Police.”

Colonel Dennis Logan sat at the head table in the 69th Regiment Armory hall on Lexington Avenue. Over a hundred officers, noncommissioned officers, and civilian guests sat or stood around the big hall. The degree of intoxication ranged from almost to very. Logan himself felt a bit unsteady. The mood this year was not boisterous, Logan noticed, and there was a subdued atmosphere in the hall, a result of reports of the disturbance in midtown.

A sergeant came toward Logan with a telephone and plugged the phone into a jack. “Colonel, the Governor is on the line.”

Logan nodded and sat up straight. He took the receiver, glanced at Major Cole, then said, “Colonel Logan speaking, sir. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to you, Governor.”

“I’m afraid not, Colonel. A group of Irish revolutionaries has seized Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

The Colonel felt a heaviness in his chest, and every part of his body went damp, except his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m calling the Sixty-ninth Regiment to duty.”

Colonel Logan looked around the hall at the scene spread out before him. Most of the officers and NCOs were wobbling, a few were slumped over tables. The enlisted men were home by now or scattered throughout every bar in the metropolitan area.

“Colonel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Full gear, riot-control equipment, weapons with live ammunition.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Assemble outside the Cardinal’s residence on Madison for further orders. Don’t delay.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the Sixty-ninth ready, Colonel?”

Logan started to say something rational, then cleared his throat and said, “The Fighting Irish are always ready, Governor.”

“This is Captain Bert Schroeder of the New York Police Department.” Schroeder reached out and turned on