by James Duffy
HUSH-HUSH PARK AVENUE MYSTERY:WHO SHOT SOCIETY QUEEN'S DOG?
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Mysterious Kosovo Freedom Fighter
Reveals Midnight Shooting of Pit Bull
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Owner Not Talking; A Gangster Error?
By Frederick P. Rice
The Surveyor has learned that a prize Staffordshire bull terrier,owned by heiress and charity maven Sue Nation Brandberg, wasshot and killed gangland style around midnight on August 16th.
The 18-month-old dog, named Wambli, was killed in a hail ofbullets outside the posh apartment building at 818 Fifth Avenue.The alleged assailants were three men in black suits, who pumpedseveral bullets into the animal before speeding off in their black car.
At the time, Wambli was being walked by a 26-year-old Albanianrefugee for its mistress, the well-known hostess and former NativeAmerican beauty queen.
The circumstances of the cold-blooded murder were related tothis reporter by the dog's walker, who would identify himself onlyas "G."
G stated that he was walking Wambli at midnight when two menemerged from the front door of 818 Fifth. One ordered him to getout of the way as they headed for an unidentified black car parkedat the curb, its motor running. This was impossible, G reports,because the dog was pissing at the time.
As the men approached the dog, one lost his balance and steppedon its leg, possibly breaking it. The dog reacted violently and bitthe man, whereupon his companion opened fire. He was joinedby the driver of the car, who also began firing at the animal, whichwas writhing in pain and moaning in the piss-and-blood-stainedgutter.
G, fearful for his life, fled across the street into the bushes inCentral Park. He looked back and saw that the men were stillfiring.
Nothing else is known of the incident. Cornelius Barry, thedoorman on duty at 818 Fifth the night of the shooting, was apparently on a break when the incident occurred. He denies any knowledge of it.
None of the prominent owners of expensive cooperative apartments in the building (including three CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, Mayor Eldon Hoagland's wealthy friend Milford Swanseaand the actress Myrtle Weston) has come forward to acknowledgehearing or seeing any sign of a disturbance at the crucial hour. Police at the 17th Precinct, which covers the neighborhood, have norecord of the incident.
Mrs. Brandberg herself offered only a terse "No comment" whencontacted about the matter, although she sounded tense and grief-stricken before she hung up on this reporter's call.
The young G was reluctant to discuss his personal background.He did say that he had served in the Albanian army and had relatives in Kosovo. While he did not acknowledge it directly, it isthought that he was a freedom fighter in the Kosovo LiberationArmy who possibly fled to the United States to avoid the violence inthat troubled province—only to encounter a bloody melee on thestreets of New York.
There has been no sign of the dog's body, which was presumablycarried off by his assailants. Staffordshire bull terriers, commonlyknown as pit bulls, are frequently trained as fighting dogs, althoughdogfights are illegal in New York.
The principal breeder of this species of pit bulls is, bizarrely, asmall community of monks, the Order of St. Eustache, based in Armonk. It was originally a French order, and dog breeding and processing honey provide the income to support their community.
When contacted by telephone, Brother Aloysius, who is incharge of the dog-breeding operations, objected strongly to use ofthe term "pit bull" in reference to Staffordshire terriers, though theyare commonly known as such among most breeders.
"Staffies are courageous, dependable animals.They are not streetfighters and I've never heard of a case where one bit a human," hesaid. "Although in the odd circumstances you describe, it is possiblethat one did so.
"All I can say to the killers of that dog is, God have mercy onthem," Brother Aloysius added.
He refused to confirm whether Mrs. Brandberg had purchasedher Staffie from the monks, as G believed.
Two theories have been advanced to explain last week's bloodyevent. Quite possibly G, the exiled freedom fighter, was sufferingfrom combat-related trauma and imagined the whole incident. (Hetold this reporter that he had seen gangsters kill a dog in his nativeTirana merely for the sport of it.) Until Mrs. Brandberg confirms ordenies the death of her pet, this conjecture cannot be dismissed.
The other is that the incident was a case of mistaken identity andthat the three assassins were drug dealers intent on sending a warning to a competitor by shooting his dog. Credence for this theory isthe known fact that pit bulls are the dogs of choice of drug traffickers, pimps and street thugs.
The mystery may never be solved. But if G's story is to be believed, there's a man somewhere in the metropolitan area walkingaround with a severe bite mark on his right calf.
FIFTEEN
The night The Surveyor came out, Scoop stopped in at Elaine's for a nightcap. Several of his journalism buddies were there. They'd had dinner and a good deal of wine, and now were quietly sipping whiskey, waiting for the evening to evaporate. The new arrival brought them to life. The comments ran like this:
"Scoop! Where's G? Thought you'd bring him around for a glass of slivovitz, or whatever the hell Kosovo freedom fighters drink."
"Never met a member of the KLA. Was looking forward to it."
"You really think you got a story there? Your man G wasn't stepping on your hind leg?"
"The squaw princess is going to have your ass if you're wrong."
"Scoop, you didn't make this one up, did you? That's a no-no—even for Justin Boyd, though don't hold me to that."
Scoop took the kidding in good grace but realized now more than ever that he really had to uncover all the facts and write "30" to the story.
. . .
Jack Gullighy was coming from lunch with a friend and (had he not been working for the mayor) potential client—a newly minted computer billionaire who thought he might like to run for the Senate in Colorado—when he spied the "Hush-Hush Park Avenue Mystery" headline on a newsstand copy of The Surveyor. He grabbed it up and devoured the story, ignoring the gentle admonition of the Middle Eastern newsdealer that reading unpurchased publications was not permitted.
Jack slammed down the one-dollar cover price and continued reading as he walked along, attracting dark looks from the two people he jostled while turning to the breakover page. His reading concluded, he found a quiet recess in the lobby of an office building he passed, pulled out his cell phone and called Mayor Hoagland's hot line (something he had previously done perhaps twice in the time he'd been associated with the mayor).
Eldon himself answered and Gullighy told him straight off that he "mustn't panic," though the slight quiver in his voice did not inspire calm.
"What the hell are you talking about?" the mayor asked, perplexed.
Gullighy described the story and read parts of it aloud, over an undercurrent of small groans from the other end of the phone. "You must not panic," he exhorted again. "There's no mention of you or your heavies, no hint that they're on your trail. Quite the contrary, it seems. It was gangsters, Eldon, gangsters who did the dirty deed. And that dog walker's clearly afraid of talking. So shut up and stay cool."
"I'll try, Jack," the mayor said weakly.
. . .
Tommy Braddock and Gene Fasco were on duty that night, waiting for the mayor and Mrs. Hoagland to emerge from a dinner at their friend Wendy's. Braddock walked around the corner to get coffee at a deli for the two of them when he, too, saw The Surveyor headline. He bought the paper with his coffee but refrained from looking at it until back in the safety of the mayor's car. He scanned the story quickly and then read excerpts to Fasco, much as Gullighy had done with the mayor.
"So that Shouesh! Shouesh! was Albanian. Interesting," Fasco said, trying to remain calm.
"Forget the language. Brother, don't you feel some hot breath on the back of your neck?" Braddock asked him.
"Yeah. Hot, ugly dog breath."
>
. . .
Brendon Proctor did not much resemble the stereotypical trusts and estates lawyer. He did not have a slick appearance, a comforting baritone voice or a wardrobe of elegant Savile Row suits. Instead he was bumpy and roundish, balding with unruly tufts of hair surrounding a shiny bare spot, and a high, almost squeaky, rapid-fire voice. Not to mention an undistinguished wardrobe of suits and shirts that always seemed to be rumpled and often spotted, too tight or too loose.
His lack of superficial charm notwithstanding, he was the trusted lawyer and confidant of an impressive stable of wealthy clients, who saw beneath the surface a lawyer of high intelligence and ingenuity. And when he conferred with them as clients, speaking rapidly and flapping his hands, they realized, appreciatively, that the hyperexuberance he displayed was all directed to understanding and solving their special problems.
Proctor had for years been Harry Brandberg's lawyer and now managed Sue's legal affairs. This particular afternoon he did not look forward to the prospect of tea with her. Despite his outward show of enthusiasm, after 40 years as a trusts and estates lawyer with the old-line firm of Chase & Ward he was becoming weary of hand-holding rich widows. Most, like Sue, preferred to confer about their affairs at home; whether office settings frightened them or merely gave them the feeling that they were less in control, he had never figured out.
Transmitting wealth from person to person and generation to generation, with a minimum of fuss and taxation, was Proctor's specialty. But he often also served as the discreet intermediary, when necessary, between his clients and the less elutriated members of the bar expert in such coarser specialties as divorce and immigration law.
Today he was such an intermediary, and he did not relish giving Sue bad news. Especially since she had implied rather strongly that if he did not solve this particular problem to her satisfaction he might not have the luxury of solving others, and charging her for doing so.
Once inside the Brandberg residence, seated across from the portrait of Wambli, he hemmed and hawed and finally came to the point: there seemed no legal way of keeping Genc Serreqi in the country. Granted he was an electrical engineer, an occupation much in demand amid the construction boom around the nation, but that cut no ice with the immigration authorities. Nor did the fact that he came from an impoverished, troubled Eastern European country. The naked fact was that he had overstayed the term of his tourist visa and was now illegal and subject to deportation.
"I'm very disappointed in you, Brendon," Sue told him. "I expected more. Some imagination, or some pressure applied in the right places."
"I can't change the law, Sue."
"Isn't there anything that can be done? Any way to keep Genc here?"
"I'm afraid not, my dear."
"Thank you, Brendon. Thank you very much," Sue said coldly, abruptly getting up and making clear that the interview was over, along perhaps with Brendon's tenure as her legal adviser.
Then, just as he reached the door, Proctor turned back to his client. "Of course, Sue, there is one way. But it's too ridiculous even to mention."
"Well, what is it?"
"You're an American citizen. You could marry him."
. . .
Alone once again, Sue poured herself a drink. Marriage. What a preposterous idea! A man a quarter of a century younger than she.
But then she thought of OOOH! SHPIRT! How she would miss those passionate shouts if Genc had to leave the country. Maybe, just maybe. . . . No it was absurd. She'd be subject to subversive ridicule. Or would she? she mused. If people laughed, they would have to do so surreptitiously, lest they cause her to stop the flow of her many benefactions.
Could she bear mean, behind-the-back cattiness? Or perhaps more to the point, could she bear lonely nights without those screams of OOOH! SHPIRT!?
Absurd as the idea was, she'd have to think about it.
. . .
Two days later, Sue called Betsy Twinsett's office and asked if she could bring a guest to the St. Francis Festival. Not for a moment realizing how she was directing fate, Ms. Twinsett said yes, by all means.
So Sue would surface Genc, on a very public occasion. Just to see how it went.
. . .
The day of the St. Francis Festival, Mayor Hoagland tried to hurry through the day's business at City Hall so that he could meet at home with Gullighy and Betsy for a final run-through before the great affair occurred. The concentration required also took his mind off what he was certain would be a distasteful event, at least for him. It was times like this that made him long for the surface tranquillity of the university.
He did stop hurrying when he met with Lucille Barnes, the chairperson of the City Art Commission. He had called her in because he wanted to discuss what he saw as a problem—the care of the numerous works of art in City Hall.
"Lucille," he greeted the costume-jeweled blonde, "I've been thinking. We've got a terribly valuable collection of art here in this building, do we not?"
"Absolutely, Mr. Mayor. Some of the paintings are next to priceless."
"What I thought. Are they properly insured, do you know?"
"Oh yes, we've seen to that."
"And what about caring for our patrimony—cleaning the canvases, that sort of thing?"
Ms. Barnes sighed. "Oh, Eldon, I know. Some of our pieces are in terrible shape. But we just don't have the money to do what's necessary."
"Well, I propose to fix that. I'll make available whatever you need from my contingency fund. But I think you should get on with the job, before things crack and crumble some more. Could you start right away?"
"We'd probably do the cleaning and restoration at the Met. I'd have to check to see how busy they are."
"Will you do that? Tell them I'm very concerned about this. And Lucille, do you agree with me that our biggest treasures are those up in the Governor's Suite? Those Trumbull portraits of Jay and Hamilton and Washington, the Vanderlyn, the Sully and so on?"
"Absolutely, no question."
"So I would start by taking them down and shipping them up to the Met just as fast as possible. And what about those two huge chandeliers up there? They within your jurisdiction? Yes? Then I'd replace them temporarily and get them cleaned, and probably rewired."
"Mr. Mayor, this comes as a very pleasant surprise. We've been urging refurbishment like this for years."
"Well, now that Governor Foote's using those quarters—for the purpose they were originally intended—I think the art up there should be in tip-top shape."
"I'm delighted, Mr. Mayor, just delighted. And I guess I'm going to see you at the mansion in a little while."
"Yes."
A good piece of work, Eldon thought. Let the Honorable Randy Randy look at the bare walls. Perhaps by candlelight.
. . .
Back at Gracie, Betsy Twinsett handed the mayor, Edna and Jack Gullighy copies of the final invitation roster.
Eldon swallowed hard when he once again came to Sue Nation Brandberg's name. "Who's the guest?" he asked, seeing Betsy's penciled notation by her name.
"She didn't say," Betsy said.
"Some pretty boy, no doubt," the mayor noted.
"What are you wearing to this event?" Edna asked her husband.
Before he could answer, Gullighy had an inspiration.
"You know, Eldon, what would be great? Show your humanity? Informality?"
"No, what?"
"Why don't you wear Bermuda shorts? It's a beautiful day, not too cool. Lighten things up, stress the informality."
"Are you out of your mind?" Edna said. "Remember that The Surveyor—" She stopped quickly, suddenly realizing that the innocent Betsy was present.
But Jack got the message, remembering the reference to the man with tooth marks in his calf walking around free in New York. "Forget it, forget it."
"I think shorts would be cute," Betsy added. "A real cool touch. Surprise everybody, Mr. Mayor. Do it!"
"I'm wearing the dark business suit I've got
on. End of subject."
No one was prepared to argue, so Eldon turned to another matter.
"Gene Fasco and Tommy Braddock came uptown with me. I assume they're on duty all afternoon. Call them in here."
The two detectives were found and came into the living room.
"Boys, this damn festival is going to be a mess, I'm sure of it. Dogs and cats crapping all over the place, people tripping on leashes and so on and so on. Why I ever agreed to do this I don't know. But let me get one thing straight—I want you boys beside me the whole time. I don't want to have to pet any dog, any cat or any of God's other goddam creatures. I don't want little Nippy jumping up on me.
"In other words, just make believe those animals are terrorists and keep them away from me. Understood?"
Fasco and Braddock nodded dutifully.
"Okay, I'm going to shave. Then into battle."
SIXTEEN
At four o'clock on October 4th, the feast of Saint Francis, a bright sun seemed to bode well for the festival. The mayor and his wife, flanked (as directed) by Fasco and Braddock, came down the front steps. They walked to the far edge of the property, the East River in the background, where they could see the arrivals as they came around the side of the mansion onto the immaculately kept lawn. The three bars were in place, rows of glasses gleaming on white tablecloths. Interspersed were tables covered with trays of canapés. It was a movie set for a proper English garden party.
The good-looking young wait staff, both men and women wearing white jackets, maroon shirts and green neckties, waited in anticipation. Almost all were aspiring actors (the remainder were playwrights and novelists) waiting for their big break, which, if it came, was likely to be a supporting role in a soap opera or a detergent commercial.
Arriving guests had their names checked off at a table next to the sentry booth on the York Avenue side, then passed by two uniformed policemen who scrutinized them discreetly.
The earliest visitors were largely distinguished presbyters from the most established of CAW's constituents—the ASPCA, the Humane Society, the Animal Hospital. Among them were