by James Duffy
"And I don't like cats either. Stick their rear ends in your face when you hold them and try to be friendly—"
"I had no idea, dear," Edna said quietly. "You've certainly kept this a secret from me all these years. Maybe it explains the Incident."
"It may."
Jack seized on the mention of the Incident to explain how pet ownership and the festival were wise P.P. He expounded his thoughts on the festival again, albeit more quietly. And brought in the contributions angle, making nice with the cardinal and every other makeweight he could think of.
"As for the pet, Amber could take care of it," he added, he thought as a joke.
"That's not a good idea," Edna said flatly. Had Jack lost her support?
In the end, after Eldon had calmed down, he realized that Gullighy probably had one decent idea—the festival.
"All right, you win," he said. "We'll honor St. Francis and the animal nuts. But no beasts in this house. Not now, not ever. And don't expect me to pet a single creature at your lawn party."
"When you die, can we put a dead dog in your pyramid?" Gullighy asked.
"Not funny, Jack. Not funny at all."
ELEVEN
Scoop Rice lay on the bed in his fourth-floor studio apartment on 87th Street. It was a walk-up and a remarkably inexpensive one, subject to the city's tangled rent stabilization laws. He had come by it serendipitously, on the basis of a meeting with the one Harvard professor he had gotten to know well (not through classes, but as the result of an interview for The Crimson), Albert La Falce.
La Falce had fled Harvard at roughly the same time Scoop had, in almost as dishonorable circumstances. He had been threatened with a sexual harassment suit by an English Department coed and had felt it expedient to accept a teaching offer from New York University.
Scoop, brand-new to New York and lonely, had encountered his professor friend in an East Side singles bar called Squiggles. Both were presumably looking for the same thing, hoping to find a young woman looking for a sympathetic brother type (Scoop) or a daddy (La Falce). Spying each other amid the crush, each discreetly ignored the other's salacious quest and insisted that he was there simply to have a quiet nightcap (this yelled over Donna Summer projected at full volume). Shouting, Scoop related his difficulty in finding an affordable apartment; he had already confronted the reality that his budget would most likely support only a sordid pad in an ancient Lower East Side tenement largely occupied by Chinese illegals.
La Falce could not help bragging that he, by comparison, was comfortably set up in a penthouse apartment owned by NYU on Washington Square Park. But he had help to offer.
"I made a mistake," the professor said. "I rented this little studio on Eighty-seventh Street because I thought I needed a place to write. But with my wonderful new apartment and my office at NYU, I really don't need it. Would it suit you?"
It did, and the rent was affordable. So Scoop took it eagerly, though he couldn't help but wonder why his middle-aged friend thought that he needed a separate pad so inconveniently located from the university downtown. A love nest, perhaps? For a nestling who had decided not to roost? Scoop's suspicions were confirmed when his benefactor cautioned him that he was never to mention his "writing hideaway" if and when he should ever encounter Mrs. La Falce.
As he lay uncomfortably in the summer heat (no air-conditioning) he reflected on l'affaire Wambli, wondering how he would ever get to the bottom of the mystery. The Pulitzer Prize or any other award seemed remote. As a good child of the nineties, he decided to look to the Internet for help.
Clad in his underwear and sweating, he turned on his outdated notebook ("outdated" meaning it was six months old) and searched Sue Nation Brandberg's name on the Web. He found it on an impressive array of donors' lists and charity committees but unearthed nothing more personal or revealing. He was impressed with the causes she (and Harry before her) had supported; they seemed intelligent and worthwhile choices.
Scoop did notice that her name had begun to appear in connection with groups involved with animals, starting with the Humane Society. He correctly guessed that this new interest coincided with the acquisition of Wambli.
Giving up, he got dressed and visited once again the scene of the crime. He had been there several times already, hoping that some brilliant Holmesian insight would occur to him as he viewed the apartment building, the sidewalk and the curb. Why hadn't the killers left a bullet lying in the gutter or some other identifying clue?
Scoop had returned to 818 Fifth Avenue to try to break through the reserve of the doorman who had brushed him off so summarily the first time. With a $50 subvention from the modest slush fund Boyd had provided, the employee identified himself as Everson and his reticence became less pronounced. While still denying any knowledge of a shooting, he confirmed that there was a doorman/night watchman on duty at 818 Fifth every night, all night. Unfortunately the fellow on duty on the fateful evening had been fired for drinking on the job.
Everson said he would try to get the man's name and address, which he subsequently did and passed on to Scoop in a phone call. The miscreant was one Cornelius Barry and he lived in the Bronx.
It took Scoop a week to get in touch with Barry, who had been visiting relatives in Pennsylvania. But a meeting was arranged and Scoop, unfamiliar as he was with the Bronx, managed to find the shabby row house where Barry lived only with difficulty.
Barry was not taciturn but was beerily incoherent when Scoop tried to question him.
"Do you remember the night of August sixteenth?" Scoop asked. To aid the man's memory, he showed him the calendar in his engagement book.
"The nights were all pretty much the same to me. But I think that was a night when the mayor came to visit his friend Mr. Swansea. Yeah, a Monday."
"Do you know why? Was there a party?"
"No, no party. Mayor Hoagland came every so often to see Mr. Swansea. Somebody said they were friends from college.
"Nice guy, the mayor," Barry added, as he helped himself to another Budweiser. "Always very polite and with a smile for you. Unlike some of the others." ("The others" turned out to be a surly Mick Jagger and a cross, unknown mother whose three young children had trashed the lobby.)
"You know, there was supposed to be a shooting outside 818 Fifth that night."
"Shooting? First I've heard of it."
"Yeah, three guys shot a dog."
"Pfft. Someone's been pulling your leg, my boy."
"I don't think so. I've talked with a witness to the incident. You didn't hear gunshots? See three guys in black suits? Hear a dying dog? See his body?"
"Nah. I'd sure remember that."
Scoop had his doubts. He decided to quiz Barry on his own movements.
"Were you on duty there full-time?"
"Until the bloody bastards fired me."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Was I on duty? What do you think? Of course! When Cornelius Barry has a job to do, he does it!"
"So you never left the front door that whole evening?"
"Oh, well, of course I did. Man has to spend a penny every so often, you know. And I occasionally, but very occasionally, mind you, took a break down in the basement for a cigarette. You want one, by the way?"
Scoop declined.
As Barry lit up and coughed a deep smoker's cough, Scoop pressed the matter of the man's absences.
"So, Mr. Barry, you might have been on a break when the dog killers came out of the building and the shooting took place?"
"No dog killing, boy. I tell you."
Scoop pressed for a direct answer, but Barry interrupted. "Mr. Rice, you're a newspaperman, you said?"
"Yessir."
"Looking for a dead dog."
"And the men who killed him."
"Well, I'm sorry I can't be more help to you. What newspaper did you say it was?"
"The Surveyor."
"Never heard of it."
"It's new. A weekly. In Manhattan."
Which won't
be in business very long if all sources are like Cornelius Barry, Scoop thought as he took his leave. A dry hole, or more accurately perhaps, a keg filled with beer.
. . .
Scoop was depressed that Barry had been unable to answer his sharp investigative questions. His next tack was to get a list of the apartment owners at 818 Fifth from Everson. He knew that he would be prevented from roaming the building and knocking on doors, so he resorted to the phone.
More discouragement. In several cases servants with less than a full command of English answered and became totally confused when asked by a reporter about gunshots and a dead dog. Scoop gamely asked them to leave messages for their employers to call. None did.
Then there were those who banged down the receiver as soon as he said, "My name is Frederick Rice, from The Surveyor." Like many of his generation he did not say this in a straightforward, declarative way; his voice rose at the end of the phrase, making it sound as if he were asking if he was indeed Rice of The Surveyor. He was mystified by the unpopularity of his publication, not realizing that his opening gambit resembled that of the unbidden phone solicitors who had sparked his Canby, Schnell stockbroking story.
One of the recipients of Scoop's calls was Leaky Swansea, who answered the phone himself, at 7:30 in the evening, somewhat the worse for wear (there had been two preprandial martinis). The conversation was not illuminating.
"Mr. Swansea? My name is Frederick Rice, from The Surveyor[?]"
"If you say so."
"Sir, I wonder if—"
"I'm already a subscriber, though I don't know why."
"No, no. I wanted to ask if you had heard any strange noises on the night of August sixteenth. Gunshots? A dog being shot? I'm a—"
Leaky slammed down the receiver, but not before Scoop heard him bellow the word "nutcase."
. . .
On a whim, Scoop turned back to the Internet. Why not try to find out more about Wambli, the Staffordshire terrier? As always, he was overwhelmed at the outset, the Alta Vista search engine informing him that there were 2,580,842 Web references to "dogs." "Refine your search," Alta Vista wisely advised, which he did, seeking entries for "Staffordshire terriers." The quest was agonizing as he spent hours downloading pages describing the lovable virtues of individual pets. These were usually accompanied by pictures, which came up on his screen extremely slowly, with each animal shown seeming more nasty-featured than the last.
There was also much confusion, since three dog breeds seemed to be related (and maybe, depending on how you looked at it, were actually the same). The American Kennel Club said one thing, the Union Kennel Club another. There was the American Staffordshire terrier, the Staffordshire bull terrier and the American pit bull terrier. All, Scoop thought, unspeakably ugly, just as he had thought when he'd seen Sue's pictures of Wambli. Stocky creatures with silly tiny ears and big feet.
But once he got to the term "pit bull" Scoop knew his hours before the tiny screen might have paid off. Hysterical owners screamed that many municipalities had banned them or were about to, giving rise to wails about unfair "breed-specific legislation" that not only was unfair to well-behaved pit bulls but, some of the more strident owners argued, was downright unconstitutional.
"You can't legislate against blacks, or women, or Jews or homos," an owner in Texas screamed from his site. "How can you legislate against a whole species of dog?"
Well, the owners could howl but the public certainly knew all about pit bulls, whether they were Staffies, Amstaffs or just plain APBTs (American pit bull terriers). And even the dogs' defenders on the Web implied by negative implication that these animals are creatures capable of doing great damage: they have "great strength for their size" and "strong jaws," and they are "muscular" and have "tenacity." They are "very territorial" when dealing with other dogs—and presumably strangers who interrupt their bodily functions.
Those less enthusiastic about pit bulls pointed out that they were the canine of choice of drug dealers and street gangs, that their jaws locked when they bit, and that they had "biting power" of "1,600 pounds per square inch" of size (though it was unclear how that statistic had been arrived at).
As usual, one could not tell which of these megabytes of information were true and which were false or made up. But one thing was certain, Scoop thought jubilantly: darling Wambli had had the capacity to sink his muscular, tenacious jaws into his hapless victim's flesh.
Sweet Wambli, my ass, Scoop crowed to himself. More like the Park Avenue Pit Bull!
Proud of his character research on Wambli, Scoop nonetheless realized he was far from a solution. Like a good, determined reporter, perhaps he should go back and go over old ground again. To that end, he decided to ask Genc out for an evening. Perhaps over a few drinks at Squiggles some new fact would come out.
Genc was hesitant when Scoop called but did agree to meet him at Squiggles at ten o'clock the next night, adding that he couldn't stay out too late. This seemed odd to Scoop, who could stay up until any hour and often did, but he let the remark pass.
Squiggles was booming when Scoop arrived, followed almost at once by Genc. It was a Thursday night, so the place was packed with young careerists eager to drink as much of the world's supply of tequila as possible, having only to face a Casual Friday at work the next day.
Genc—how did he know?—was dressed perfectly for the pretumescent crowd: tight T-shirt over his comfortably bulging physique (the shirt with DAYTONA BODY WORKS imprinted on the front), white Levi's (Scoop stole an envious peek at the telltale leather label in the back: 30' waist, 35' length) and Michael Jordan Airlift sneakers. Scoop, on the other hand, had learned long ago to wear what the GAP charitably called "loose-fitting" khakis, realizing that with his chubby frame tight jeans would make him look like a rifle-toting foot soldier in the American Nazi Party.
They managed to squeeze behind a small table at the rear of the dark saloon.
"What'll you have?" Scoop asked. "I'm having a margarita. Allmargarita evening. Margarita drink, margherita pizza."
"Margarita? What is margarita?" Genc asked. From his time at Sue's he was familiar with whiskey and gin, but this was a new one. Whatever it was, however, it was bound to be better than the juniper-berry diesel fuel called raki he had been used to in Albania.
Scoop explained the concoction and ordered two from the waitress.
"Strawberry?" the waitress inquired.
"No. Just regular."
"But frosted, right?"
"Right."
"No problem."
He also explained, on the basis of his one summer trip to Europe, the invention of the pizza margherita in Sicily for a visit by the princess of Savoy. Genc looked politely perplexed at the disquisition.
Scoop wanted to bear in and inquire about Sue, but first he had to find out about DAYTONA BODY WORKS. "Have you been to Daytona?" he asked.
"Daytona?" Genc queried back. "Oh, Daytona. Florida, no?" He looked down and stroked his pecs. "No, no. I buy this cheap down in Soho."
The pec stroking (and the 30'/35' label) led to a second query. "You go to the gym?'
"Ya. Three times a week. Mrs. Brandberg wants me to. I go to the Equinox around the corner."
Preliminaries over, Scoop mentioned Sue, asking how she was taking her loss.
"She's not very good. But tonight she went out for a change. That's why I could meet you here. Went to dinner with Mr. Walker."
"Mr. Walker, who's he?"
"Not just he, many he's."
"All called Mr. Walker?"
"That's what she calls them. She say to me, 'Tonight I go out with Mr. Walker.'"
"Oh, Genc, get with it. She goes out with walkers."
"What I said, with Mr. Walker."
Scoop explained the concept of walkers. Charming and harmless gay men.
"So, there's no sex with Mr. Walker—the walkers?"
"Absolutely not. Against the rules. If not against the laws of nature."
Genc looked relieved, t
hough Scoop missed the look by which he conveyed this.
"Mrs. Brandberg very moody," Genc went on. "She cry a lot. I try to tell her she must forget the dog, but this make her cry more."
"She going to get a new one?"
"She say not. Nobody can replace Wambli, she tell me. And she talk, talk, talk about finding the gangsters. I would not like to be them."
"How's she going to do that?"
"That's what make her moody. She don't know. I think she hopes you and your boss, Boyd, will find them."
"God knows I'm trying. But I haven't a clue, as they say. The only thought I had—see what you think of this—is that those men were drug dealers. I've done some research and it appears that dope sellers like Staffordshire terriers."
"I don't see that."
"Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity—they thought Wambli belonged to a rival pusher and killed him as a warning to the other guy."
"Like Godfather, you mean?"
"What?"
"You know, the horse's head. I saw Sue's tape of that movie."
"Yeah! Maybe they took the body and dumped it at the other pusher's house."
"No, Scoop, I don't see that, like I said. They shoot dog because it bit the guy. It was not, what you call it? Assassinating."
Genc shared Scoop's pizza as they continued to chew over the crime. No new wisdom emerged, in part because there were no new facts, in part because of the cumulative effects of the margaritas. (By now each had downed three.)