Thursday, October 1, 2026
I’ve told this story before, but friends say it always bears retelling. Four years ago this month, a group of us experienced in just a few hours some truly high moments followed by some comedic screwups that still make us shake our heads.
Nassau County Republican Party Chairman Joe Cairo, my law school roommate Tom Curtin and I are Notre Dame graduates, and fanatical followers of Fighting Irish football. When we heard that then new football coach Marcus Freeman would be speaking at a Notre Dame event at the Union League Club in Manhattan, we decided to attend and then go to dinner afterward.
Melissa Zimmerman, a retired Nassau County Police Department detective who was on my security detail when I was in Congress and was still doing security work for me, coordinated the logistics for the evening. We took my car, picked up Cairo at his North Valley Stream home and made it to the city in plenty of time. Zimmerman parked the car in a garage a few blocks from the Union League, and once there we met up with Curtin, who, as usual, knew someone who knew someone and got us into a pre-event gathering with just a small group of alumni and Freeman, who was friendly and generous with his time. Couldn’t have been a better moment for Notre Dame guys.
Following the larger reception downstairs, we went to Sam’s Place, a terrific Italian restaurant on East 39th Street, where we were joined by my son, Sean, another Notre Dame graduate. The conversation was filled with reminiscing, and expressions of hope that Freeman would restore Notre Dame football’s golden luster.
Afterward, as we were outside on the street posing for a group photo, Zimmerman couldn’t help congratulating herself on her logistical success. Sean said he would walk to his nearby apartment and said good night. There was a drizzle of rain, but the garage was a block away; nothing to worry about. Curtin, who lives in Jersey, was staying at the New York Athletic Club, so we offered to drop him off.
Despite a sign that said it would be open for a few more hours, the garage were locked tight. We rang the bell. No answer. It started raining harder. We were the only people on the street.
The always prepared Curtin produced an umbrella and decided to walk to the NYAC. Zimmerman, seeing her brilliant planning coming undone, was on her phone trying to find an Uber to drive us to North Valley Stream. Minutes went by; no taxicab, no Uber. Cairo, one of the nation’s most powerful political leaders, was standing in the rain, looking down 39th Street.
After several long minutes, a broken-down, filthy-looking, barely operable car pulled up. The driver held a cardboard sign with “Uber” scrawled in magic marker. Speaking with a thick foreign accent, he asked where we were going. North Valley Stream, Zimmerman told him.
“No problem,” he said. We warily got in the car — Zimmerman, the seasoned detective, in the front, and Cairo and I in the back. The driver seemed to have a hard time finding his way out of Manhattan as Zimmerman tried to guide him, and rain splashed against the windshield. Eventually we made it to Cairo’s home, where he obligingly paid the driver and, adding insult to injury, at Zimmerman’s suggestion, gave the man a generous tip. He shook his head as he got out.
Next, Zimmerman tracked down a friend to drive us to my home in Seaford, and then, because her car keys were in my car in the Manhattan parking garage, to drive her to her Bellmore home.
Because my wife, Rosemary, knew I’d be coming home late, she had decided to sleep in the back bedroom. When she got up in the morning and didn’t saw my car, she didn’t know whether to call the cops or the emergency room. Moments later, as I recounted the events of the previous evening, she shook her head with the look of a woman thinking, why did I ever marry this guy? Good question.
Later that morning, Zimmerman took an LIRR train to Manhattan to retrieve my car and her keys and complain to the parking garage manager about his misleading closing-time sign. The saga of the Notre Dame football coach and the locked garage was over, but none of us has ever forgotten it.
Peter King is a former congressman, and a former chair of the House Committee on Homeland Security. Comments? pking@ liherald.com.
