by James Duffy
The organ-grinder/accordionist burst forth with "New York, New York" as the mayor went up the steps and stood before the microphone that had been set up. His remarks were brief. A small joke about how sorry he was that no one had brought a cow for him to milk, then some Gullighy-crafted sentences about how much New Yorkers (and by calculated implication, he himself) loved animals and how fortunate the city was to have first-class zoos with animals who were well treated and first-class donors who supported them. Nothing about New York as the country's leading center for medical research, or the estimated quarter million rodents and other animals who contributed, if that is the word, to that effort.
The party broke up soon after the mayor spoke, the ALA contingent exiting quickly, having made their protest, but leaving their paraphernalia behind. The organ-grinder was the last to leave, playing "Arrivederci, Roma" as he walked toward the sentry box. One of the cops put a dollar—the day's first contribution—in the monkey's cup.
SEVENTEEN
Well, the ark got ashore without anyone drowning," Eldon said as he drank a scotch, feet up, at a postmortem in the Gracie living room. Edna, Gullighy and Betsy were sitting with him.
"Yep," Gullighy said. "That was damn good Preemptive Prophylaxis." Betsy gave him a puzzled look and he realized his gaffe. "Just a figure of speech, Betsy. Good civic event to prevent municipal unrest."
"But how did those so-called Liberationists get in?" Edna asked, looking sharply at the mayor's scheduler.
Betsy looked downcast, and with a soft blow pushed a strand of her blonde hair back. "It's not my fault, Mrs. Hoagland. I checked the guest list, and they were put on by a secretary at Friends of Animals. She must be a secret member of the ALA."
"It doesn't matter," Eldon said. "They livened things up, if the truth be known. No great harm done. They tried to give me a hard time, but I just mumbled something noncommittal and walked away."
"They somehow managed to piss off the cardinal and Rabbi Friedman," Gullighy said.
"Yes, something must have happened," Edna said. "They left in a terrible hurry and, now that you mention it, seemed a bit frosty when they said good-bye."
"That's all right. I'll call them in the morning. Can't be anything very serious." Eldon helped himself to another scotch and asked how the wine at the party had been. "I didn't touch it myself."
"I had some of the Whalebone white. Tasted as if it had been made from whalebones," Edna said.
"Glad I was spared."
"Who was that jerk in the organ-grinder outfit?" Edna asked.
"His name is Louie Kohane," Betsy explained, brightening. "He got rich on Wall Street in his twenties and now spends his time playing jokes like that. He gives a lot of money to the Animal Shelter."
"Was that his monkey? Or did he rent it somewhere?" Edna wondered.
"Rented, I'll bet. You can rent or buy anything in this city, Edna," Gullighy said.
"Including a dope pusher's parrot," Eldon noted. He told his fellow drinkers about Manfred, then asked Jack if he thought the festival would make the evening news.
"Maybe the late news."
"What will they use? My speech? Embracing Estes? The guy with the snake?"
"Yes, who was he?" Edna asked, turning on Betsy once again.
"You got me there. But remember we've never had an event like this without at least one crasher."
"Yeah, remind me to commend the police commissioner on the security arrangements," Eldon said, heavy sarcasm in his voice. "Though thank God for Fasco and Braddock, who kept me from being bitten."
"Again," Edna interjected, then realized her gaffe. "Since the time when you were a paperboy," she added quickly, before Betsy could take in her unguarded remark.
Gullighy had a dinner date and said he had to take off. Betsy joined him, leaving the First Couple to a quiet if inedible dinner: cocido magico de mollejitas de pollo.
. . .
"Why did you leave me?" Sue asked Genc as they rode home in her hired car.
"I was upset."
"Why? You were wearing that new suit I bought you, everyone was being nice—there's no excuse."
Genc looked forlorn, but not because of Sue's reproach.
"I have something to tell you, Miszu. Something very strange."
"Oh, for heaven's sake. What?"
"Miszu, the three men who killed your dog?"
"Yes. What's the matter, you feeling sorry for them?"
"The three men, the three men in black suits. I saw them at the party."
"WHAT?" The "what" was now pitched several decibels higher.
"The mayor and his bodyguards. The mayor stepped on Wambli's leg and the other two shoot him."
"WHAT?" Even higher decibels.
The driver turned back toward them, glad that he was about to be rid of this hysterical lady. She left the car, Genc tailing after her, without saying another word until she was inside and up the stairs, standing in front of him and looking straight at him.
"Are you sure, Genc, about what you are saying? Are you sure? This is very serious."
"Miszu, I tell you. I recognize them. The black guy, the little guy, the drunk guy. There they were."
"Genc, will you marry me?"
Her companion's mind went blank, as it had that fatal night in Central Park. Is this woman crazy? he asked himself.
"Miszu, Miszu, calm down. Please."
"No! Will you marry me, or won't you?"
"I don't understand."
"You dimwit. Let me draw a map. You say the mayor of this city and his men killed my dog. You're the only witness. And you can't speak because you're a goddam illegal alien. So we have to make you legal and there's only one way to do that. Marry an American. Marry a Native American, for God's sake. Marry me!"
Genc's mind raced. Was this what she had meant when she said there was a solution to his problem? He hesitated, not because he ruled out the idea—not at all; it seemed like a solution to his green card dilemma—but for the simple reason that he had left a wife behind in Tirana. But who would know thousands of miles away? And couldn't he always leave Sue once he was legit? He gave her a melting smile.
"Yes, Miszu, if that is what you want."
She did not respond with any of the gestures or endearments one might have expected at such a moment. "Good! Let me call Justin Boyd and that reporter of his. But you're sure?"
"Yes, Miszu, I'll marry you."
"No, no, you're sure that the mayor's men killed Wambli?"
"I am certain."
. . .
After their chicken gizzards magic stew and a nightcap to deaden the taste, the Hoaglands went up to the master bedroom and turned on the ten o'clock news on New York One, the channel that had sent a crew to the festival. Eldon sprawled on the bed while Edna sat in a chair beside him. The teasers came on, and the very first one was: "Mayor Supports Animal Extremists."
"Queer way to put it," Eldon remarked.
Soon the pert Hispanic anchorwoman came on with the full story:
"Mayor Eldon Hoagland this afternoon at Gracie Mansion strongly endorsed the stand of a militant animal rights group against experimenting on animals as part of medical research. Our reporter Andy Hartwell has the story."
Hartwell, with the Gracie lawn, strewn with debris (not to mention an unspeakable amount of animal droppings) as a backdrop, elaborated:
"The scene was a reception for officials and guests of the Coalition for Animal Welfare and its constituent organizations to coincide with the feast day of that greatest friend of animals of all time, St. Francis of Assisi. Those attending were invited to bring their pets, and many did." (Pan to Manfred the parrot and the anony mous snake owner)
"The tranquillity of the occasion was broken when six members of a militant animal rights organization, the Animal Liberation Army, broke into the party. According to a spokesman for the group, it is against the keeping of pets, the slaughtering of animals for food and their use in medical experiments. The interlopers set up a ser
ies of displays, including one condemning the use of animal embryos in research laboratories.
"Mayor Hoagland surprised—if not shocked—the crowd by forcefully endorsing the ALA antiembryo stand when confronted by one of the militant protesters."
(Pan to ALAer) "Mr. Mayor, what do you think about embryology experiments involving animals?"
(Pan to mayor) "We must watch out for all God's creatures, great and small."
(Pan to ALAer raising his fist) "You tell 'em, Mr. Mayor!"
"We asked Dr. George Englund, a Noble Prize–winning embryologist at Rockefeller University, when he was leaving the party, what he thought of the mayor's stand."
(Pan to Dr. Englund, standing on York Avenue) "It's contemptible. The mayor is a smart man, but it's clear he doesn't understand the first thing about embryological research. Not that he should, mind you, but he ought to keep his mouth shut about matters he knows nothing about. To endorse those young extremists was disgraceful, truly disgraceful."
Dr. Englund's remarks were the only follow-up to the mayor's "strong endorsement," and the news went on to the story of a truck overturning in Brooklyn.
"I don't believe it!" Eldon said. "Did you see the way they cut that? Mouthy bastard—click!—then me!—click!—then another mouthy bastard. Strong endorsement, my foot!"
"You should have kept still."
"Thank you, Edna. I thought I avoided the whole subject with that quote from St. Francis. Damn!"
He had taken an audible groan from his wife during the news segment as protest at what she was hearing. But now he learned he had been wrong.
"I assume you saw your favorite during that segment," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"Amber."
"Amber?"
"Yes, Amber. The little minx you're so protective of. Didn't you see her standing there in the middle of that bunch of loons? Her nose ring shining in the sun?"
"No, no I didn't. Are you sure?" But now he remembered that he had seen her, back in those halcyon moments before he made his "endorsement."
"Look, there's no mistaking that girl. Those darling Pre-Raphaelite curls. She's one of them! Or at least she's a fellow traveler."
"Now that you mention it, I did see her. Didn't think anything of it at the time."
"You wouldn't. She's history, Eldon. I'm going to fire her in the morning. Get her out of here."
"You do what you have to do, Edna," he said sadly. "But what do I do about this bear hug I supposedly gave those animal rights people?"
"Don't call it a bear hug, for starters. Maybe the papers will have a different take on it. Then you can ignore the whole thing and it will blow over."
"Maybe, but don't count on it. You want a drink?"
. . .
Eldon had recently been of the view that print journalism had changed rather drastically since his days as a paperboy in Minnesota. Back then, "news" meant stories of what had happened not later than the day before and were detailed in scope; he recalled vividly delivering an extra edition of the Minneapolis Star on the day Franklin Roosevelt died, mere hours after the president's death had been announced. Now it seemed that only hurricanes, Far Eastern train wrecks, large school shootings and earthquakes were extensively covered on a timely and complete basis; other stories were printed only when an editor got around to doing so, or were reduced to short-paragraph bites in summary columns or collections of personality items.
His theory proved correct the next morning, when he scanned The Times over breakfast. It had only a short squib in the "Public Lives" column that began, "There were no cows, but a variety of other animals, in evidence yesterday when Mayor Eldon Hoagland entertained supporters of the Coalition for Animal Welfare at Gracie Mansion. . . ." The ALA invaders were mentioned, but in a light and benign way. The Times played the festival story just about right, Eldon thought, and certainly had not twisted his "all God's creatures" remark out of shape.
Then he got to The Post-News. In his theorizing about what stories still grabbed an editor's attention, he had forgotten that not only disasters received up-front coverage but, at least in the case of editors like those at The Post-News, stories embarrassing to politicians on their enemies list as well. So it was that the front page blared forth:
ANIMAL LIBS MAKE ZOO OFMAYOR'S GARDEN PARTY
—————
Hoagland Backs Liberation Army Militants
With, of course, a picture of the ALAer with fist raised as he stood at the mayor's side, and a page-three story taking the same slant as the previous evening's TV report.
"Those bastards," Eldon muttered to the not-as-yet-fired Amber as she cleared the breakfast table.
. . .
Jack Gullighy, who had missed the New York One newscast, saw The Post-News and realized that his clever exercise in Preemptive Prophylaxis had probably been less than a complete success. And had ignited a raging fire that had to be smothered. After the cow-milking triumph, why this? He taxied down to City Hall to await the mayor's arrival. And probable wrath.
. . .
On 62nd Street another sort of breakfast was taking place. The night before, Sue had managed to reach Justin Boyd, in his Bentley, and told him it would be "worth his while" to come to breakfast, with his ace reporter in tow. Boyd in turn had reached a bleary Scoop—out of sorts because he had lured a prospective conquest from Squiggles to his playboy pad and did not need interference from his boss.
Sue appeared tired when the Surveyor team arrived at eight o'clock. She had been so keyed up after Genc's revelation that she had not been able to sleep. Nor had she responded—most unusual for her—to Genc's attempts at lovemaking. Lovemaking with his wife-to-be that he had approached with the ardor he thought the occasion demanded. After all, one did not get engaged that often; he had done it only once before.
. . .
Seated around a coffee table in the library, Sue made Genc recount his tale of discovery to the two journalists, after telling them, without further explanation, that Genc was prepared to talk on the record. Boyd in particular cross-examined him intensely.
"The dog was pissing and the mayor stepped on his hind leg. Right?"
"Yes sir."
"And the dog bit him?"
"Yes sir."
"Which leg?"
"The right."
"And then?"
"He said to 'off ' the dog."
Boyd smiled contentedly.
Scoop was more distracted, wondering if he had somehow missed the story—had there been enough clues for him to have pieced it together, to have figured out who the men in black were? He thought not, but he wanted to reflect on the matter very critically since his competency as an investigative reporter, and therefore his very reason for being, as well as his self-esteem, were at stake.
The two men left without any commitment as to how they would handle the story, but Sue had enough confidence in Justin's instinct for the melodramatic to feel sure that he would do justice to Genc's tale.
. . .
"What do you think?" Boyd asked, looking over at his reporter in the backseat of the Bentley.
"He sure seems certain."
"Certain enough for me. Will you start writing this morning?"
"Sure," Scoop said but then, after a moment's silence, added, "I'd feel more comfortable if I had a second source for the story. Didn't Woodward and Bernstein say they always had two sources for everything?"
"Yes, but those were anonymous squealers. Here you've got a live one who talked on the record."
"I guess so," Scoop said, not entirely convinced. Then he asked Boyd how this story would square with the latter's obsequious support for the mayor in his bid for election.
Boyd was only half paying attention. Drumming on the plush armrest next to him, he was savoring the consequences of the Wambli epic for The Surveyor. It would be the story of the year, a clear beat on the laggard daily press. Might it just be the jump-start needed to convince Ethan Meyner to go daily? The possibilit
ies were delicious.
"What?" Boyd asked, still preoccupied.
"You've been very pro-Hoagland. Can you just, um, reverse field now?"
"My boy, the first law of journalism is that you have to follow the story. Take it where it leads you, and then print it. Let the devil take the hindmost."
"But The Surveyor was his biggest backer," Scoop persisted.
"That was before I knew the man was a dog murderer," Boyd told him.
. . .
While he waited outside the mayor's office, Gullighy fiddled with a computer and read the morning e-mail (he had the privilege of access to Eldon's account). The thunder had begun already:
My father's life was saved by insulin injections. Insulin was developed in experiments on dogs, right? Why would you want to kill myfather?
I've been told that apes are essential to the search for an AIDS vaccine, since the disease probably started with them anyway. Is is really better to have thousands of AIDS victims die rather than use 0afew apes in experiments? Get real, Mayor.
Thank God there is someone in public life with a sense of balance.Close the laboratories! If experiments are so important, do them ondoctors!
And so it went. Seventy-three missives, all polarized and vehement.
Then Gullighy got a message on his pager. Fasco was calling, from home. He dialed him back.
"Mr. Gullighy, remember the conversation we had about that dog? The one we terminated?"
"Of course."
"Well, I've been thinking about it all night, and I think I better talk to you."
"Shoot," Gullighy said, before realizing that was perhaps not the most apt choice of word.
"That dog belonged to Mrs. Brandberg, okay? And she was at that lawn thing yesterday, okay?"
"Yes and yes."
"Well, did you see the guy she was with?"
"Didn't really notice."
"It's the one who was walking the dog that night."