No Sad Songs for Scanlon Our 35-year friendship lasted through thick and thin This is on a snowy night in 1966, all of us packed three-deep at the bar of the Lion's Head in Sheridan Square. The air is thick with burnt tobacco. Beer and whisky flow on the midnight tide. The noise grows louder. And then from the back room, we hear music. Irish music, of course. Some of us drift toward the arch leading to the back room. There we can see Tom Clancy, burly and barrel-chested, standing with glass in hand, and the song he is singing is "Eileen Aroon" — for me, the loveliest of Irish ballads. The stocky guy next to me has red hair, a mug in hand. And as Tom and his brother Pat and a half-dozen others build to the powerful final stanza, the red-haired man starts to sing along: Youth will in time decay, Eileen Aroon Beauty must fade away, Eileen Aroon Castles are sacked in war, chieftains are scattered far, Truth is a fixed star, Eileen Aroon... We're all joined together in that final chorus. The music ends. The red-haired man offers a hand. John Scanlon had an illustrious client list. Among those whose side he helped to promote were: "Scanlon," he says. "John Scanlon." I shake his hand and we begin a friendship that lasted until last Friday morning, when John Scanlon died on his couch, eyeglasses on the tip of his nose, watching television news. In 1966, he was not yet the public figure who was sometimes reviled for the way he practiced his craft as a public relations man. In 1966, after years of teaching, or selling books, he was working for the new Lindsay administration, helping make the public case for economic development, particularly in the Bronx (where he grew up) and Brooklyn, where he lived in a brownstone on Berkeley Place. He was expanding his résumé. But no résumé could easily define John Scanlon. He was, for example, a reformer who loved the raffish company of the Brooklyn Democratic boss Meade Esposito. "God save us from ideologues," he said to me once, after too many hours with the reformers. "God save us, in particular, from West Side ideologues." He would go straight at Esposito, challenging the rigidity of the Regulars. I remember Esposito saying to him: "Your politics are worse than your hair, you red-headed Irish bastard, but I like you anyway." A Well-Respected Lad Scanlon, the oldest son of Irish immigrants, could quote from Yeats and O'Casey, Wilde and Shaw, or recite such saloon classics as "The Night Before Larry Was Stretched." Even when he worked in government, he would not allow the dead language of official reports to numb his brain. He was too human. When my first marriage broke up, Scanlon gave me refuge in a basement apartment in the brownstone on Berkeley Place. When his first marriage broke up, not too long afterward, we wandered around together one day, as he found a flat above a funeral parlor and furnished it with one plate, one cup, one knife, spoon and fork. He was riddled with anguish about his young daughters, and so was I about mine, and we did our best to erase grief and failure in the smoky succor of the Lion's Head. But life went on. Youth did in time decay, just as in the song. Scanlon became a public relations man, with a genius for that indefinable craft. Over the years he used language, guile and a gift for friendship to defend or promote all sorts of clients: Tony Scotto and New York Newsday, Ivana Trump and the movie "Gandhi," the tobacco companies and "60 Minutes," Corazon Aquino of the Philippines and Monica Lewinsky, Bruce Ritter and Jesse Jackson. In all those years, he never tried to promote a story with me; I was a friend, not a contact. His red hair gradually turned white. He found a woman he loved, earned a lot of money and indulged his passions for fine books and houses and wine. He forged new friendships, with Peter Jennings, for one, and with the great Irish poet Seamus Heaney. All enjoyed the pleasure of his company. A Headstrong Champion About 20 years ago, he had triple bypass heart surgery. After he recovered, he still indulged in rich food, fine wine and laughter. Some of us were dismayed. But then, John Patrick Scanlon came from country Irish, and some hidden genetic code was still at work, long after the Famine, long after the last Irishwoman had died with her mouth stained green from eating grass. In a way, that heritage of hunger was connected with Scanlon's public style, and what was often perceived as his professional ruthlessness. In his presence, I always felt as if I were talking to one of those Irishmen from New York's 19th century. Many were rogues, absolutely capable of ruthlessness, driven by a belief that after decades of hunger and bigotry, their time had come. They rose out of the squalor of the Five Points and built Tammany Hall and their own fortunes and the modern City of New York. I can hear Scanlon, at his table in Delmonico's, trying to convince me that Boss Tweed was framed (he was) or that Jim Fisk and Jay Gould were innocent (they weren't). Life is tragedy, says the Irish fatalist, so pass the butter. In his work, he thought of himself as an advocate, much like a lawyer, pledged to promote the side of the client. Fair enough. But we did have one serious quarrel over a client. In late 1990, during the terrible four-month strike at this newspaper, he went to work for the publishers, that is, for the Tribune Co. Scanlon didn't simply supply information from the publisher; he was publicly vehement in his contempt for the unions. I wasn't working then at the Daily News, but honorable men and women were on that picket line and their cause was just. I called Scanlon, and asked how a son of a member of the Transport Workers Union — a shop steward! — could take the side of the goddamned bosses. Heated words were exchanged. We didn't speak for many weeks. But the friendship survived. For a Song Three weeks ago, with our wives out of the country, we met at 6 p.m. on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum to see the Vermeer show, and then wandered to the basement to look at the drawings and poetry of William Blake. We were both astounded. I bought him a Blake catalogue. He bought dinner. As we waited for a taxi, Scanlon said, "Is this some city? You go looking for Vermeer and you find William Blake." He was leaving in three days to meet his wife, Julienne, in Ireland and, somehow, the old song rose, "Castles are sacked in war, chieftains are scattered far..." Three Latinas looked at us in a baffled way, two old white guys singing in the chilly New York night. A taxi pulled up. Scanlon gave me a hug, climbed in and went home alone to the company of Joyce and Yeats, Shakespeare and Heaney. They were all together when he died. Original Publication Date: 5/7/01 New York Daily News