After she had moved her things to her friend Gretchen's, Amber Sweetwater went to the nearest newsstand and looked over the display of front pages, seeking the name of Scoop's publication. There it was. The Surveyor.
She called the paper's number, wondering if the operator would know who Scoop was. Fortunately the nickname had been in sufficiently wide use that she did and Amber was put through.
Scoop had been tempted to tell the operator that he was on deadline and to refuse the call, but when he was told it was Amber calling he instantly changed his mind; he remembered that she was the girl from Gracie Mansion.
"Hello."
"This is Amber."
"Yes. You work for the mayor, right?"
"Hmm. Yes."
Before Scoop could ask if he could see her—might not she be the second source he wanted?—she requested a meeting with him.
"I need some advice," she explained.
Scoop had a dilemma. His Wambli story was not going well and was due at noon the next day. But he thought he'd better spare the time to see the girl, just in case she could reveal something that might help him.
They met at Humpty Dumpty's, a bar on Second Avenue. It was deserted at three o'clock in the afternoon, so they could talk freely. Amber told the story of being fired and her desire for revenge.
"Were you mistreated?"
"No, not exactly. She was a real bitch to me but no, I wasn't."
Scoop thought a bit, sipping on a beer. "You a city employee? Civil service? I don't know anything about it, but can't you bring a grievance?"
"I dunno. I wasn't a member of the union. Julio, the chef, joined but I didn't. Couldn't afford the dues on what I was paid."
"Which was?"
"Room and board and a hundred and fifty dollars a week."
"Slave labor! There may be an angle there if you want to go public."
"I'll carry a banner through the street. Naked. If I can get back at them. Specially her."
"Let me think about it."
Amber tentatively brought up the matter of her diary. "You know anything about publishing?" she asked.
"Not much, but I can find out. Why?"
"Well, I did, like, keep a diary of what went on at the mansion."
"You did?" Scoop asked, a light suddenly going on. "Like what happened the night of August sixteenth?"
"Sure. But I don't know anything went on that day."
"Late that night—did the mayor come home with a dog bite on his leg?"
"Gee, I don't remember anything like that. But I'd have to look to see what I wrote."
The pair hurried off to Gretchen's, several blocks away, where the diary was stashed in a box of Amber's meager possessions.
"What was the date again?" she asked, once she had retrieved her bound notebook.
"Let's see . . . lunch for Mrs. Hoagland and some people from Ronald McDonald House. We'd been told no hamburgers, so had some kind of tortillas instead. . . . Then she had dinner alone. Ate the rest of the awful chicken gizzards from the night before, I remember. . . . Wait, let's see . . . 'That black jerk Tommy Braddock came down to the kitchen after midnight and woke me up while he searched around for first aid supplies. Said the mayor had a cut on his leg. Very unfriendly. Mayor may have been drunk. . . .'"
"You wrote that? Let me see!" Scoop shouted.
He read the passage and pulled out his own notebook.
"Can I copy this?"
"I guess so," Amber said, puzzled at his excitement.
"Anything else you can tell me about that night?"
"Let me think. Braddock came back later, I remember, with that other creep, Gene Fasco. They sat and drank coffee and had a long conversation. I could hear them, but not much of what they were saying. Except Braddock did raise his voice once, shouting about garbage bags, I think it was."
Scoop wrote this down; were they looking for a garbage bag to dispose of Wambli's body, perhaps?
"Any mention of a dog?"
"Dog? No, I don't think so."
"I've got to go, Amber. I'm on deadline. But let's do Squiggles some night. Can I call you here?"
"Sure. And you will find out about publishing for me, won't you?"
. . .
Publishing, indeed. He was about to break the story of the year. He returned to the newspaper office and began phoning. Leaky Swansea. Was the mayor at your apartment on August 16th? ("I don't remember.") Did he get drunk? Slam went the phone.
Gene Fasco and Tommy Braddock (if Amber had their names right). "I'm sorry, it's against department rules for members of the mayor's security guard to talk to the press," the Police Department press officer told him. "But I'll be happy to try and get an answer to any question you may have."
Scoop decided not to pursue the Police Department lead. No point in having the NYPD up in arms before the story ran. Instead he called a press corps buddy from Elaine's, a reporter for The Post-News, and asked him if he could find out Fasco's and Braddock's full names. It took his more experienced colleague one phone call to get the information; little did he know he was helping put together a news beat that would acutely embarrass his own paper.
Working through the night, Scoop had a draft ready for Justin Boyd when he appeared in the morning. Boyd scanned it eagerly and announced that it "really kicks Hoagland in the achers."
"Achers?"
"Sorry. Britspeak for 'balls.' Or as I suppose you'd prefer to say, 'testicles.' Be that as it may, I have a few quibbles.
"Park Avenue Pit Bull, the freedom fighter angle, thunder from Jack Gullighy—all that's fine. And that girl, Sweetwater, excellent. But you're too fond of 'appears' and 'apparently,' my boy. Step up to the plate. The mystery doesn't appear to be solved, it is solved. And the mayor didn't apparently tell his men to shoot the dog, he did tell them.
"Then, later, you have him emerging from the apartment building. How about emerging 'unsteadily'? I think we can get away with that."
"By the way," Scoop asked, "you want me to work in something about the animal rights thing?"
"No, no. We'll put a graph or two about that inside, to cover ourselves. But no point in touting the competition's story."
"Don't you have a problem with that? Mine says the mayor ordered his men to shoot Wambli, the other will say he so loves animals that he sided with the ALA."
"That's for him to puzzle out, not me. Isn't it just possible he's a hypocrite?"
. . .
Scoop's story went to press that night, but before The Surveyor appeared on the newsstand the following noon, The Times was heard from. Contrary to Eldon's belief that the "Public Lives" item would be the end of its coverage, the editors did a full-court press on the ALA controversy, obviously miffed at The Post-News's purple reporting. Under a front-page headline, "Mayor in Bitter Animal Rights Dispute," The Times story began: "Mayor Eldon Hoagland yesterday was between the Scylla of the support he gave the militant Animal Liberation Army's position against research involving animal embryos and the Charybdis of the city's medical establishment, vocally opposed to the mayor's stand."
The story, which was restrained and fair, recounted the details. Then it ran quotes from a dozen diverse, and polarized, sources, including Cardinal Lazaro, Dr. Englund, the heads of the National Institutes of Health and the National Right to Life Committee, Barbra Streisand, a spokesman for the National Abortion Rights League and two congressmen embroiled in the embryology-funding controversy in Washington.
The paper also ran three sidebars: a history of the animal rights movement, a status report on the current work being done in embryology and what can only be described as a history of the embryo. The last feature stretched back to quote Galen's second-century treatise The Formulation of the Fetus and reproduced a Leonardo da Vinci drawing of a fetus in utero along with a photograph showing a chicken's egg in the third day of gestation. All that was lacking was a pronouncement from the editorial board.
. . .
The Hoaglands, oblivious to The Times's new tack, were spending a quiet evening at Gracie watching Titanic on the VCR when Gullighy burst in, copies of the newspaper in hand.
"The fat lady has sung."
He handed over one to Eldon, one to Edna.
Eldon read the whole coverage without comment. Edna did, too, but remarked, "Well, Eldon, this is certainly educational. I know much more about embryos than when I started. And I'm a doctor."
"I don't know what we do," Eldon said, in a toneless voice. "We've got this, and from what you told me earlier, Jack, a piece in The Surveyor as well. I'm going back to Minnesota."
"It's gonna be tough, Eldon," Gullighy told him. "But keep cool. You're still the mayor of the greatest city in the world."
"Yes, tonight."
. . .
Scoop's story appeared on schedule on Thursday:
PARK AVENUE MYSTERY SOLVED:MAYOR'S MEN SHOT PIT BULL
—————
Kosovo Freedom Fighter Recognizes Assailants
—————
Mayor Ordered Cops to "Off" the Dog
By FREDERICK P. RICE
The brutal killing, reported here last week, of the Park AvenuePit Bull outside 818 Fifth Avenue on August 16th has been solved.The killers of the dog were two bodyguards of Mayor EldonHoagland, acting at his direction.
Last week The Surveyor reported the midnight murder of heiressSue Nation Brandberg's prize Staffordshire bull terrier, namedWambli, outside the exclusive Fifth Avenue apartment house. Thedog's walker at the time he was killed, who originally identifiedhimself to this reporter only as "G," has now come forward to accuseEugenio R. Fasco and Thomas N. Braddock, two members of themayor's security detail, of the killing.
Originally, "G" was unwilling to talk on the record but Tuesday,the day after attending the St. Francis Festival on the lawn of GracieMansion, he changed his mind. Here are the facts.
"G," identified only by his initial and his past as a soldier in theBalkans fighting for Kosovo's independence, has agreed to go onthe record: he is Genc Serreqi, a 26-year-old Albanian who worksfor Mrs. Brandberg.
Mr. Serreqi attended the mayor's festival for officials andfriends of the Coalition for Animal Welfare as a guest of his employer. Previously he had identified the dog's killers only as unknown "men in black suits" that he took to be gangsters. But at theGracie Mansion fete he recognized two of the "gangsters" as themayor's bodyguards—and the third as the mayor, Eldon Hoagland,himself.
It is believed that the mayor was visiting his former Princetonroommate Milford Swansea at the Fifth Avenue address the nightof the tragedy, although Swansea, when contacted by this reporter,refused to confirm or deny this.
When the mayor emerged unsteadily from the apartment building, he lost his balance and tripped over the hind leg of the dog, whowas pissing at the time. The animal reacted violently and bit themayor on his right calf.
At this point the two bodyguards opened fire, sending a hail ofbullets into the helpless dog's body, presumably killing it. Mr. Serreqi, fearful for his life, as was earlier reported, ran from the sceneinto the comparative safety of Central Park.
At the time of the fracas, Serreqi alleges, he heard the mayor tellhis men to "off " the dog, and their shots were in response to hiscommand.
Additional confirmation for this account comes from the testimony of Amber Sweetwater, 24, until this week a nonunion employee in the kitchen at the mansion.
Sweetwater told this reporter that on the night in question Officer Braddock came down to the kitchen, after he and his partnerhad brought the mayor home, in search of first aid supplies. Later,he and Sgt. Fasco had a long conversation over coffee in the mansion kitchen. Sweetwater, who slept in a small adjoining room,could hear their voices but not what they were saying, except for areference to "garbage bags"—possibly as a means of disposing of thedog's body.
Last Tuesday, Sweetwater was abruptly fired from her job in theGracie Mansion kitchen by Edna Hoagland, the mayor's wife, forunspecified reasons. It is not known whether her dismissal was related to knowledge she may have had of the dog's slaying.
Neither Mayor Hoagland nor his wife was available for commentconcerning Serreqi's grave allegation. However, John R. Gullighy,the mayor's press secretary and close political confidant, said thatthe allegations were "absolutely untrue" and "somebody's hallucination."
"I have no idea what happened to that dog, if anything," he toldThe Surveyor. "All I know is that Mayor Hoagland spent thatevening with an old friend and came home, as was customary, withhis bodyguards." He acknowledged that the two plainclothesmenwere Fasco and Braddock but said he had no way of knowingwhether they had been dressed in black.
"You better be careful with this one, young man," Gullighywarned this reporter. "I think you've got an unstable young fellowon your hands. You'd better be sure of your ground."The Public Affairs Bureau of the Police Department refused tolet the two suspected murderers talk to this reporter. Nor wouldthe bureau spokesman confirm or deny whether the police had anyrecord of the shooting, or if a Firearms Discharge Report hadbeen filed, as is required whenever a police officer's weapon isfired.
Asked if there had been a cover-up, Gullighy angrily dismissedthe idea."To have a cover-up, there has to be something to cover up.That was not the case here."
Ms. Brandberg, a former Native American beauty contest winner and widow of billionaire industrialist Harry Brandberg, saidthat she believed her employee, Serreqi, "completely." "I'm outraged. All I can say is, I hope the mayor and his goons will bebrought to justice."
Ainsley Potter, chairman of the Coalition for Animal Welfare,also expressed shock at the charge. "The mayor very hospitably entertained us last Monday and appeared to be a friend of animals.But if this charge is correct, it is reprehensible."
Will the mayor have to resign? this reporter asked. "If the allegation turns out to be true, I would certainly think so."
[The mayor's bad week: embroils himself in animal rights controversy. Story, page 3; editorial, page 6.]
Justin Boyd's editorial was hard-hitting:
LIFT YOUR PANTS LEG, MR. MAYOR
—————
Mayor Eldon Hoagland has a crisis on his hands. We aren't referring to his pusillanimous dispute with a bunch of animal rights crazies over the esoterics of embryological research, but the seriouscharge of dog murder leveled against him by a young Kosovo freedom fighter, Genc Serreqi.
As our front-page story today details, this brave young man, freshfrom bloodshed in the Balkans, was walking a young dog on FifthAvenue when it was cold-bloodedly shot by three men he has sinceidentified as Mayor Hoagland and his two bodyguards. The shooting took place, according to Serreqi, after the dog bit the mayor onhis right leg and the mayor ordered his men to shoot.
This is a serious charge, going to the question of the mayor'sjudgment and character. As one of his earliest and most enthusiastic supporters, we would be both shocked and saddened if Serreqi's tale were true.
The mayor's spokesman has emphatically denied the story,and further denied that there has been any attempt to cover up the incident.
Who should we believe? We need to know the truth. And thereseems to us a sure way to determine that truth: permit an independent physician to examine Eldon Hoagland's right leg for signs of adog bite. If the telltale evidence is there, we are owed an explanation. If it's not, we'll be the first to apologize to him.
Lift your pants leg, Mayor Hoagland, and let's see the truth!
. . .
"All right, Jack, what do we do about this?" Eldon demanded, drumming his fingers on the latest Surveyor.
"Keep your pants on. Literally and figuratively."
"Very funny."
"What's your choice? Deny, deny, deny. You're going to have to do it in person very soon, you know. You can't hide behind my skirts forever."
"Hmn."
"As for the take-off-your-pants thing, you can ignore that. It's a silly, undignified demand. Justin Boyd sensationalism."
"I don't understand Justin. He was my biggest supporter. Why would he turn on me like this?"
"He's a journalist."
. . .
After leaving his distraught employer, Jack Gullighy turned his attention to another idea. If this Albanian freedom fighter The Surveyor wrote about was an illegal, as everyone seemed to believe, why not get him deported? Pursuing the mayor would be a lot harder if the principal witness were back in the Balkans, he reasoned.
To that end he called an acquaintance in the Immigration and Naturalization Service information office. The latter had not seen The Surveyor story, so Gullighy filled him in.
"If he's a wetback, and we think he is, it doesn't look too good for you guys—an illegal alien getting these headlines," Gullighy explained and then, helpfully, supplied his contact with Sue Nation Brandberg's address.
A long shot, Gullighy realized, but with calamity just around the corner it was worth a try.
. . .
That morning, before The Surveyor story appeared, Sue Brandberg had called Brendon Proctor and asked him to come and see her. The lawyer, aware that he was in at least temporary disfavor with his client, said he would come by as soon as he could that afternoon. Her intention was to work out the details of her marital arrangements with Genc. Then, after she had read Scoop's article, she began to have second thoughts. The story of her dog's assassination was out; it seemed only a question of time before Eldon Hoagland would be brought to account. Was Genc necessary to the process? Perhaps he was. But what if he was not? Did she really care if he was deported?
After a few minutes' reflection, she decided that she did indeed want him around, with those cries of OOOH! SHPIRT! So when Proctor arrived, she told him that she was going to marry Genc Serreqi.
The wisps of hair on Proctor's bald head were sticking out, as usual; had they not been, her announcement would certainly have propelled them outward.
"Mrs. Brandberg, you are serious?"
"Absolutely. He's a charming young man. And I think I love him."
"I certainly hope you're going to have a prenuptial agreement."
"That's what I wanted to ask you about. Do I need one?"
"Need one! He's penniless, I'm sure, and you have millions. If you should die, he could get half your estate." He didn't add that given the discrepancy in the lovebirds' ages, it was probable that she would predecease Genc.
"What about children?" Proctor asked.
"Children? At my age?"
"You might adopt."
"Most unlikely."
"Well, you might want to cover that. I assume he's some sort of Muslim or Mohammadan or whatever. And I'm sure you'd want your children to be raised as Christians."
"Not necessarily. There are Native American religions, you know." She enjoyed making Proctor uncomfortable.
"Oh yes, I see."
"But I don't think I need to pay for a lawyer's time to draft clauses about our children's religion. The money, yes. I understand that part of it."
"I'll need a schedule of your assets. But I guess I can put that together for you."
"Fine. The sooner the better."
"He spells his name S-E-R-R-E-Q-I? No 'U' after the 'Q'?"
"That's right."
"Most odd. Are you absolutely sure, Mrs. Brandberg, that you want to go through with this?"
"Yes, Brendon. As certain as I am that I want you for my lawyer."