Tom Kelly Throws A Book Party, And All The Boys Turn Out

When Tom Kelly called me and asked me to come to his book party I hesitated. He sensed a silent groan. I genuinely like Kelly, and his second book, The Rackets, is a good read, but book parties...

"Nah, c'mon," he said. "It'll be good. The ascots will meet the hard hats." He was referring to his earlier career as a sand hog?a tunnel worker. The party was being held at the Teamsters Union Hall on West 14th St.

I walked in and saw a crew of men and woman sipping, appropriately, on longneck beers. Kelly was working the room. Former NYPD captain Tom Walker grabbed me and introduced me to Kelly's publisher, Roger Straus of Farrar, Straus, and Giroux. Sure enough, the dapper old gentleman was wearing a spiffy green ascot. There was a loud hoo-ha at the door as two construction workers fresh off the job walked in to grab Kelly and a couple of beers.

Soon the place was crowded with cops, lawyers, journalists, judges, politicians, carpenters, union officials, sand hogs, musicians, bartenders, Assistant District Attorneys and firemen. There were only a handful of other authors or publishing types, which made for a pleasant evening.

Mark Kriegel, sportswriter for the Daily News, walked in, looked around and remarked, "Looks like I'm the only hebe here." One of the McCabe brothers?there are six of them, each one larger than the next?grunted when he spied Kriegel sipping on a beer. The McCabes are a legendary Queens brood who range in age from late 30s to 50 and work as detectives, lawyers, construction workers and bartenders around town.

It seems that Joe McCabe, the construction worker, had once told his brothers that if he ever met Mark Kriegel he would beat the living shit out of him for something he once wrote. So Gerard McCabe, a lawyer, walked over and chatted Kriegel up for a while. Then he called his brother over.

"Joe, let me introduce you to Mark Kriegel."

Joe McCabe grabbed Kriegel's hand and laughed.

"Ah, the column he wrote that pissed me off was three years ago," he explained. "I let it go."

Frank McCourt entered, carrying himself with a regal air. Everyone in the room had seen enough of him; you could see the backs turning. I kept staring at McCourt. There was something odd about his pallor. He looked like he was made up, like a stiff in a coffin. Two guys off to the side snickered.

"Jesus, McCourt looks like a guy who just escaped a funeral home," one remarked. "What's with that orange skin?"

Turned out it was tv makeup; McCourt had just been taping a talk show.

"You would think he'd have the sense to wipe off the makeup before he went out in public," the one guy said."Hey, he's Frank McCourt. He can do what he wants," the other replied.

"Ah, fuck him and his mother's ashes."

Former NYPD Commissioner Ray Kelly was looking fit as an ex-Marine (which he is). Kelly may have been the best cop the city has ever produced. He just smiled when he was asked if Bush was going to offer him the job to head up the FBI.

The New York Post's Keith Kelly downed a beer. He'd run a blind item in his column that day that Martin Scorsese was interested in making a film of The Rackets. My friend Chris O'Brien grunted when he heard that. After the mess Scorsese made of Joe Connelly's book Bringing Out the Dead, he suggested, Kelly would do better if the director dropped the idea.

I saw Esquire editor David Granger standing off to one side, watching the whole affair with what seemed a wary eye. A Teamsters official silenced the room and got Tom Kelly up for a speech. Kelly made it quick, as there was still cold beer to be quaffed.