He presided, he directed, he ruled, he snarled. From his perch
at Molly's Window, which is where I mostly saw him, he listened indulgently
to the speculative thrusts of the Gang, paid slightly more attention to opinion
derived from inside info, and gave his full ear to inside info itself. Like
everything that went by the Window on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, including
a variety of humanity that would have made both Goya and Picasso shriek with
delight, one couldn't be sure of the exact percentage of B.S. Monaghan alone
seemed to know. People vied to be in the Window Gang, but few could stand the
Chief's tests, which to the innocent must have often seemed rough, illiberal,
crude, or so deliberately provocative as to preclude any rational response.
Many of the applicants got caught between a grin and a grimace, after which
they applied elsewhere. The Chief, or the Godfather, or El Jefe, as he was sometimes
called, pushed language brutally. When it came right down to it, his acts belied
his Irish gift for making English behave like a tart. He was a self-proclaimed
agnostic but had priest friends. He derided local politicians but invited them
to tend bar on Thursdays. He could be merciless about moochers but lent money
to his friends (and ran them down for being unreliable no-good bums). He applied
spicy adjectives to certain women, but showed them medieval courtesy. He railed
against people who cadged drinks, but bought them for everyone. His arsenal
of scorn got more withering toward the end, even as his detachment grew. Since
he knew everyone, everyone stopped, eventually, by the Window, to pay respects.
Jim remembered them all. Their high positions, fine clothes and trophy wives
didn't fool him. He recalled fondly what they had done in their obscured pasts
and were discreetly doing even now. Among those paying homage one could find
politicians, judges, cops and journalists. Some of them were his genuine friends,
even Window Gang members, but most of them were just checking to see if Monaghan
still remembered. They probably worried about his notes. Was he writing a memoir?
If only. I regret not having interviewed him for ten or so hours, as we once
discussed. A gold mine lost. No matter. There will be Monaghan stories traded
for years. He was maestro of ceremonies for great parties, like the Washington
Mardi Gras and Molly's Halloween Parade. One year he made me King of this grand
New Orleans event, an honor that will be hard to top. We discussed logistics.
He said, "I don't know what to wear. Maybe I should go naked to let everyone
see how big it is." He had on a straight face, almost mournful. The carriage
I rode in nearly overturned when the horses bolted, but it was a magical night,
filled with otherworldly lights. I think Monaghan was wearing a funny hat and
his usual clothes, but I remember him saying something like, "Romanian commies!
They scare the horses!" Or maybe that was another time. He was fond of that
"Romanian commie" business. This year, his last, he and his wife Liz took a
long trip to Europe and visited Romania, among other countries. When he came
back, he said to me, "Now I understand the way you are." And then told a story
about some scam that was quite funny, sort of. Monaghan's last rites were a
jazz parade through the French Quarter, ending at Molly's on Decatur, where
his ashes were placed behind the cash register. Drinks were half price, as "per
decree of the dead Emperor," as Charles Broome, Window insider, put it. "He
may not make money on his funeral, but he wanted to be damned sure he didn't
lose any." Crusty old Irish anarchist, who trusted nobody, loved almost everybody,
was most certainly loved by a great many, he took the world for what it was,
but was no man's fool. Goodbye, boss.
From his perch at Molly's, Jim Monaghan regarded a
variety of humanity that would have made both Goya and Picasso shriek
with delight.