The new management found itself confronted with a mixed press reaction the next day. The Times, albeit with a front-page picture of a troubled Eldon Hoagland, ran a forthright account of his press conference. Reference to Sue and Genc's wedding was buried in the story and termed an "odd twist," without any other comment. An accompanying editorial noted that "the silly season is over" and the Wambli incident forgotten, "notwithstanding the not very clever behavior" of the mayor and his bodyguards.
This view was not shared by The Post-News. RESIGN! its cover headline read, over a story beginning:
Mayor Eldon Hoagland yesterday lifted his pants leg, figuratively at least, and admitted his complicity in the killing of Sue Nation Brandberg's Staffordshire terrier puppy. In a crowded CityHall press conference, the mayor acknowledged what had been rumored for days—that his black-suited bodyguards, at his behest,killed Wambli, the hapless and helpless animal.
Hoagland's press conference came as the cover-up engineered byhis administration had started to unravel. It was unclear whetherNew Yorkers were more stunned by the killing or by the mayor's attempt to conceal the sordid details.
The story went on to quote "respected" animal rights leaders, including a spokesman for the Animal Liberation Army, to the effect that Eldon's conduct had been "barbaric," and questioned whether it was appropriate for such a man to remain in office. And his officiating at the marriage of the victimized dog owner in the "pomp" of a City Hall ceremony was declared to be nothing more than a "craven" attempt to silence Mrs. Brandberg.
The Post-News's editorial was rabid (as befitted the subject matter):
The revered Mahatma Gandhi once said that "the greatness of anation can be judged by the way its animals are treated." The samecould be said of our city. So what does it say about ourselves whenwe are led by a First Citizen who cold-bloodedly orders the shooting of an innocent puppy belonging to one of our most distinguished citizens?
What it says is that Mayor Eldon Hoagland must resign. Hisconduct in the dog murder that has riveted the attention of law-abiding citizens for so many weeks is unspeakable, unconscionableand uncivilized. The fact that the dog's owner, bedazzled both bylove and the prospect of a City Hall marriage, has forgiven him doesnot mean that we have to.
Mayor Hoagland has set us a terrible example. He must go, andgo now. Nothing he said in his press conference—cheap politicianand-dog remarks reminiscent of Richard Nixon's infamous Checkers speech—gives us grounds for forgiveness. He has committed hiscrime and must suffer the consequences. Go, Mayor Hoagland, andspare your city further embarrassment.
The morning's e-mail was no more encouraging:
Dear Swedish Meatball: Some of us love dogs, some of us don't. Butwe don't run around killing them. Archie Meehan
Dear Mayor Hoagland: Please don't come to Staten Island, everagain. I don't want to have to lock up my dear Rusty when you're inthe neighborhood. Donna Manzoni
. . .
Over the next few days the "crisis"—The Post-News's word—over Wambli did not go away as Eldon had hoped, but heated up volcanically. Political psoriasis was no longer in remission.
The band of Animal Liberation Army troops who had disrupted the St. Francis Festival gathered in a grim fifth-floor walk-up downtown on Avenue C to plan strategy. They had been summoned by their leader, the goateed man who had passed out the antipet pamphlets at the festival. His name was Ralph Bernardo, a perennial graduate student in philosophy. The son of alumni of the 1968 Free Speech Movement, he had been inculcated with radical and Marxist teachings by his parents. He had felt the burden of carrying on the family ideological tradition but had not found a crusade extreme enough to suit him until a girlfriend interested him in animal rights. The cause was perfect: a way of attacking the bourgeois establishment (pet owners and meat eaters all) with an ideological jumble of Marxism, utilitarianism and political correctness. The girlfriend had long since left both him and the movement (in favor of a sexy Tibetan and his intellectual commitments) but Ralph stayed with animal rights, becoming one of the founders of the ALA.
The festival crew was intact: the girl horrified at the serving of foie gras canapés (named Stacey), the fat youth who had accused the attending clerics of eating meat (named Conrad), the baby-faced towhead who had tricked Eldon into his antiembryo stance (named Alfred), the boy who had triumphantly raised his fist for the TV cameras (named Lenny) and the girl concerned with animals' souls (named Mary Ann). Plus Amber Sweetwater, the army's newest recruit.
The seven of them sat either on the floor or on a sagging Salvation Army sofa as Ralph exhorted them.
"Hitler Hoagland has got to go," he began as he waved a copy of the morning Post-News. "The traitor has gone back on his stand on embryo research. Not to mention the horror of offing that dog.
"But that dog just may be the martyr we need. If we can force Hoagland out of office, we'll put ourselves on the map. We won't be seven people meeting in an apartment but seven million people marching for animal rights."
"How do we do that?" Amber asked. "God knows I'm ready to get the bastard."
"We've got to think up guerilla tactics—terrorist tactics. Arouse the public. Bring the city to a halt."
"A big demonstration. Tying up traffic. A mob scene at City Hall. Blocking the Brooklyn Bridge. Like the cops did a few years ago," Lenny said.
"That's brilliant!" agreed Conrad.
"Yeah, brilliant all right. But can we do it? We call ourselves the Liberation Army, but let's face it, there're only seven of us," Ralph said.
"But maybe we can. Stir up the animal rightists on the Internet. I'm for it," said Alfred.
"When should we do it?" Ralph asked.
"Hey, if we could combine it with the Greenwich Village Halloween parade, we'd really have something," Conrad said.
"No, I don't think so," Ralph replied. "Those Village weirdos who dress up on Halloween aren't interested in serious issues like animal rights. Besides, we should strike while this issue is hot. Let's say for fun next Wednesday, October twentieth. Shall we go for it? October twentieth at City Hall. Four o'clock in the afternoon. Just before the rush hour."
"Cool! Let's put it out on the Web right away," Alfred said.
"But we need to do more than that. Guerilla tactics to get attention. Any ideas?" Ralph asked.
The group had plenty of ideas, which became evident in the days before the Wambli Memorial Rally, as they decided to name it.
. . .
Noel Miller called at midday for an appointment. Eldon saw him soon after lunch.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Eldon asked. "The animal nuts suing me?"
"Not yet. I was sorry to read about that dog business." Eldon detected an emphasis on the word "read" and perhaps the unstated implication that Miller should have been informed about the Incident before learning of it from the newspapers.
"What I must talk to you about has to do with that. Danny Stephens called to feel me out this morning. What he should do as police commissioner about your bodyguards."
"Fasco and Braddock. Nothing, I should think."
"It's not that simple. Aside from the animal people's outrage at them—Danny's a big boy and can withstand pressure from that direction—there's a rather sensitive technicality.
"You probably already know this, but those fellows never reported that they had used their automatics, as they're required to do. He feels he has to suspend them. I agree, but wanted to pass it by you."
"Look, I've already taken the full blame for what happened and apologized."
"Be that as it may, the department's rules were violated. If he lets them off the hook, no telling what New York's Finest will do next time they shoot a human."
"A widow or child, of course. And black, brown or yellow."
"I'm going to tell Danny to go by the book. He says he'll give them thirty days. It'll shut up the howlers—maybe—and keep the department's skirts clean."
Eldon sighed deeply. "I suppose. Poor bastards did what they thought was right—shot the dog and then dumped him in the East River."
"They did what?"
"Shot the dog and dumped him in the East River," Eldon said crossly.
"They dumped the body in the river?"
"That's what they said."
"Oh, my. Another violation."
"What the hell do you mean?"
"Unfortunately I'm an expert on dumping after that Mafia garbage scandal last year. Under the New York State Navigation Law it's a misdemeanor to put a dead animal in the navigable waters of the state. Penalty is one hundred dollars or a year in jail, as I recall. The district attorney invoked the law against those gangster dumpers."
"I have two thoughts, Noel. First, I don't think the DA needs to enforce the whatever it is, the Navigation Law. And second, if he wants to prosecute my loyal men under that law, he's become even more eccentric than we already know."
Miller pondered these observations, then allowed that only a misdemeanor was involved, so possibly "we can let sleeping dogs lie."
"Noel, if you must use a cliché I'd prefer 'Let well enough alone.'"
It was agreed that Miller would tell the police commissioner to go ahead with Fasco's and Braddock's suspension.
"When you talk to him, please convey my very strong view that they thought they were following orders and therefore the lightest possible penalty should be imposed," Eldon instructed.
"Did you really tell them to shoot that animal?"
"Noel, I find it hard to believe I did, but I can't honestly remember the words I used. It doesn't matter, they thought they were following orders and I'm not going to try to undercut them."
"Yes sir."
"Should I call Stephens?"
"No, I'll give him the message. You understand it means you'll have a new shift of bodyguards."
"Yes, yes. So also please tell him that I want a new pair with Braddock's height and girth, not Fasco's. The way things are going, the taller my security men, the better."
. . .
Police Commissioner Stephens himself phoned later. Eldon took the call impatiently. He was running late for an appearance at a school in Queens.
"Danny, I assume you've talked to Noel Miller. And that he conveyed my views about Fasco and Braddock."
"Yes, he told me. I've given them fifteen days rather than thirty, in deference to you. But that's not what I'm calling about."
"What then?"
"You know those animal righters, the Animal Liberation Army? The ones who made a mess of your festival?"
"What about them?"
"They want to have a rally at City Hall, outside in the park, on October twentieth. The Wambli Memorial Rally."
The beat goes on, Eldon thought.
"Do you want to stop it?" the commissioner asked.
"Of course I want to stop it! I don't want to hear about the goddam dog, or the ALA, ever again. But I don't see how you can call a halt. Free speech, you know. Right of Assembly. First Amendment. Motherhood."
"Noel could try for an injunction."
"Against a dog lovers' parade? Get real, Danny."
"Well, at least we can block off the steps and walkway outside City Hall."
"No way. Don't forget I promised in the campaign that City Hall would no longer be the Kremlin, as my beloved predecessor had made it. And I said we'd get rid of all the fascist gimmicks he used to suppress dissent. Remember?"
"Yes, that's why a lot of people voted for you, I suspect."
"Those crazies have already made me look like a dithering idiot on the embryo issue and a war criminal worthy of Nuremberg for that dog's death. I'm not going to let them destroy my civil liberties reputation, too. So let them have their rally. As Voltaire said . . . oh, forget it. Just make sure there are lots of cops—and that the cops behave themselves."
"Yes, Mr. Mayor."
"October twentieth, you say? I want to write that down in my engagement book. Don't want to miss it. What time?"
"Four o'clock."
"Make them move it back to two-thirty. Maybe we can avoid a rush hour debacle."
"Noted."
. . .
Eldon picked up a new security detail as he rushed out of his office. Fasco and Braddock, who normally would have been starting their afternoon tour, were gone. Their replacements, who introduced themselves as Adam Polanski and Rick Leiter, were roughly the size of the tallest member of the Addams family.
The trio got acquainted on the way to Mario Procaccino Elementary School in Queens. Both were married, lived outside the city in Nesconset and came to their new assignments from the NYPD's SWAT team. Eldon knew this was the elite force that protected visiting foreign dignitaries from assassination. He was gratified by this but hoped it did not mean that some new threats on his life had been withheld from him.
The mayor's visit to the school was another attempt at business as usual, despite the distractions of the Incident. It was also a pay-back to Wendy Halstead. One of her favorite charities was an outfit called SchoolArt, which attempted to supplement the pathetic Board of Education appropriations for art education in the public schools by paying young artists to give classes. This was the 25th anniversary year of the project and Eldon was to visit a class to commemorate and publicize the milestone.
At Procaccino Elementary he was met by Wendy. "Eldon, dear, it was so good of you to come. I know this must be a very trying time for you."
"Yes. And if I'd never gone to that dinner party of yours, I might not have a care in the world."
"Come. I know you'll be impressed with the work we're doing. We're going to see a third-grade drawing class. It's being given by a sweet young artist named Audrey Fine. You'll love her and you'll love it."
Ms. Fine was a delight, at least to the eye. Pert, with long brown hair tied back, she shook hands with Eldon and gave him a dazzling smile. Her fifteen wiggly charges looked on with interest.
"Today we're having a free-form-drawing session. The students have all been thinking about what they might draw for you." Crayons were at the ready before blank pages in the drawing pads. "Go ahead and ask any of them to draw something."
Eldon selected a pigtailed sprout at the front of the classroom. "What is your name?"
"Esther."
"Well, Esther, what are you going to draw for me?"
"My house."
"Wonderful."
The girl set diligently to work and soon had produced a sketch of a housing development high-rise.
"I live there," she said, putting an "X" midway up the building.
"Splendid." In short order Eldon had not only a house but a fire engine, a new baby sister and an apple tree rendered for him.
"One more," the teacher said.
"How about you?" Eldon pointed to a ruddy-faced boy with an old-fashioned brush cut. "What are you going to draw?"
"You'll see."
The mayor looked over his shoulder as he began making the outline of an animal. As the sketch developed, Eldon asked if it was the boy's dog.
"No, no. It's Wambli. Can't you tell?"
Ms. Fine obviously did not read the newspapers, as she congratulated the budding artist on his effort. "How nice. A dog named Wambli. How do you spell that?"
"I don't know. I heard it on television. He's the dog that got shot."
Eldon sucked in his breath and managed a tight, very tight, smile. "Good, young man."
Wendy, at Eldon's side, drew him away. "I'm afraid that's all we have time for," she said. Fortunately she was quick enough that the pool photographer accompanying them did not get a picture with the artist and his subject.
"My apologies, Ms. Fine, but I'm running late and must go. But thank you for a delightful time. And good luck to you."
"I'm sorry, Eldon," Wendy whispered as they left the classroom.
"That's all right, my dear. I've got to reconcile myself to the fact that that dog has taken over my life."
. . .
Coverage of and editorializing about the Incident ceased for the next couple of days. It was clear, however, that the staff of The Post-News had been told to keep the issue alive wherever possible, with a tenacity befitting a Staffordshire terrier biting into a human leg. Thus a sports columnist, writing about the glories of attending an autumn game at Yankee Stadium, slipped in, "unless, of course, you'd rather be out shooting innocent dogs." And one of their several self-righteous preacher-columnists, writing as he often did about moral degeneration, managed to make a reference to the evils of "relativism," which would allow one to slay a sentient animal.
. . .
The mayor's e-mail had not improved. One bullet was addressed to "You Speciesist Shit" and another wondered if the mayor "would slaughter his pig wife."
"These people are deranged," Eldon remarked to Gullighy, who read the computer's disgorging with him.
The e-mail also included a copy of the ALA's posting to animal rights sympathizers, announcing the Wambli Memorial Rally and urging one and all to attend.
"Well, at least Barbra Streisand isn't going to sing."
"Don't bank on it."
. . .
At lunchtime, Gullighy burst into his boss's office.
"I'm afraid there's something out here you ought to see."
Fearing the worst, Eldon followed his press secretary to a front window in the Blue Room. Outside, at the edge of City Hall Park, was an inflated balloon some 18 feet high in the shape of a dog, albeit a spotted one, probably a Dalmatian. Nonetheless it had a large sign around its neck saying WAMBLI and was festooned with black ribbons. It was one of the ALA's guerilla tactics, the guy ropes held by Stacey, Conrad and Alfred, with Amber Sweetwater in front, passing out flyers for the October 20th rally. (Gullighy and Hoagland did not know that Conrad had once worked in the promotion department at Macy's; he had located the New Jersey balloon maker for the Macy's parade and rented out the retreaded Dalmatian.)
"Remember that girl, the one with the leaflets?" Eldon asked.
"Vaguely."
"She used to work at Gracie until Edna fired her."
"Hell hath no fury—"
"Oh, shut up."
. . .
Eldon decided to pack things in early that day. One of the prerogatives of being mayor was that he could set his own schedule; he did not have to work the nine-to-five day of a bank teller or an ordinary civil servant. He was free to do as he pleased, except for the inexorable demands of appearances at events scheduled by Betsy Twinsett and Gullighy. For two nights in a row he had been at benefit dinners she had committed him to attend. Their banal sameness was predictable: an execrable dinner in a badly ventilated hotel ballroom, hackneyed and overlong speeches extolling the honoree of the evening (read: a successful CEO whose corporation had taken two or three pricey tables to support the sponsoring charity), with graceful and appropriate remarks by the mayor at the beginning, middle or end of the dreary affair. It was the exceptional case when anyone enjoyed being at such a dinner; it was mostly you-scratch-my-back-and-I'll-scratch-yours reciprocity—I'll take a table at yours if you take a table at mine. It was a tedious way to raise money for charities, however worthy they might be, but no one had come up with a better method.
Two nights before, he had attended a gala benefitting a Bronx orphanage at which a Silicon Valley hotshot, aged 28, had been feted. (Hope springs eternal—perhaps the attention would lead the nerd executive to turn some of his paper profits to account for the orphans.) Then last night there had been something called a "super supper," prepared by a bevy of New York's hottest chefs, in honor of the nonagenarian Victoria Lawrence, owner of the Airedale, Stephen, who had created a minor disruption at the St. Francis Festival. She, long gloves intact, was being celebrated for still another beneficence from her late husband's fortune, this time to a bilingual literacy program ("Uno, no. Dos, sí!"). Eldon, on the defensive, thought there had been a smirk or two when he shook hands with the organizers of these events, but mercifully there had been no cheap jokes at his expense or references to the Incident. (The one exception had come at the Lawrence supper when he had encountered Governor Foote as they found their places on the dais. He gave her the obligatory air kiss—the media would have babbled about a slight or a snub had he not done so—and she whispered, "Bowwow!" as he pressed against her rough cheek.)
No, tonight he and Edna were going to dine at Gracie, quite possibly on one of Julio's greasy olla podridas. So he picked up his security detail and was driven north to the mansion.
"Holy Hannah!" Polanski exclaimed as he drove up York Avenue and approached the mayor's residence.
There on the sidewalk near the entrance was the inflated spotted dog, transported uptown from City Hall. It suddenly became clear that this apparition was going to follow Eldon wherever he might go, as it did for the next few days.
The ALAers jeered as his car entered the driveway, but otherwise there was no trouble. As predicted, dinner was olla podrida. He and Edna choked it down and tried to remain oblivious to the boisterous noise outside.
Both The Times and The Post-News ran pictures of the inflatable Wambli the next morning. The latter also had extensive coverage of the ALAers' planned rally, peppered with quotes from Ralph Bernardo about the rightness of their cause and their hopes for bringing the mayor down. The weekly "Critters" column (one of several desperate attempts to attract a more upscale readership, on the theory that pet owners were by and large affluent) ran a feature on the psychology of dog murder; a number of therapists were interviewed, each one with a different theory of motivation for the canine-killing act (examples of actual executions being notably lacking).
And the inflatable Wambli was back outside City Hall.
. . .
Brother Aloysius, the chief dog breeder at the Order of St. Eustache monastery, called George McGinty in the Chancery Office that morning.
"Monsignor, we need the cardinal's help. I don't know how familiar you are with our operation, but we are very dependent on sales of the dogs we breed."
"Yes, I know about what you do. Pit bulls, isn't it?"
"We prefer not to call them that. The, um, connotations of that term are not felicitous. We prefer to say American Staffordshire terriers. Which brings me to the reason for my call. This controversy that's going on about your mayor. It has not helped us at all. People are canceling orders for our newly bred dogs right and left because your mayor has characterized our terriers as brutal and vicious."
"Yes. I'm familiar with the issue."
"Could not His Eminence call him? Ask him perhaps to make a statement that however blameworthy the dog that bit him was, he did not mean to criticize all American Staffies as a breed? You know, sort of the sins of the father being visited upon the sons—the puppies we are trying to sell? Otherwise we may very well have to disband."
"Brother, I will convey your request to His Eminence, but I can't promise anything."
"God bless you."
. . .
It was well that Monsignor McGinty had not made a promise to Brother Aloysius. Cardinal Lazaro found the idea "preposterous."
"Why are they breeding dogs anyway? Why don't they make jam? Or invent a new liqueur? No, I take that back. Better stick to jam."
"So I should tell him no?"
"Tell him I am very sympathetic to his plight. I shall pray for the monks. But the mayor, poor man, needs my prayers, too. This whole controversy is so petty—blown up out of all proportion. You don't need to tell Brother Aloysius that, but it's true."
"I'll simply say you don't think it would be prudent to intervene."
"Exactly." Then, a tiny smile on his face, he added, "George, just one other thing."
"Yes, Your Eminence?"
"Cave canem."
. . .
When Monsignor McGinty relayed the cardinal's gentle rejection to Brother Aloysius, this did not end the matter. Years before, the monk had been in Catholic high school with Francis Xavier O'Noone, the founder and one of several dozen members of something called the St. Sebastian Society, ready to take the sharp arrows pointed at Catholics by an unfriendly secular world. Anything more radical than a Roman-collared Bing Crosby singing "Swinging on a Star" set O'Noone off; he could find blasphemy lurking in the most innocent artistic expression. His strident charges of anti-Catholic bigotry, often leveled at the most hapless targets, were a constant embarrassment to Cardinal Lazaro, who was not a supporter but nonetheless felt constrained from denouncing him because of his evidently sincere religiosity. As the cardinal once said, paraphrasing Alexander Pope, the worst madman is a saint run mad.
By way of illustration, the SSS's most recent campaign had been against the common appellation for a vodkaless Bloody Mary—a "Virgin Mary." O'Noone had railed against this label as being an undignified evocation of the Blessed Virgin, though it was not clear whether this was merely because the Blessed Mother's name was invoked or because her name was associated with a nonalcoholic drink (O'Noone having some knowledge of spirits himself). In any event, the SSS staged a campaign to eliminate the Virgin Mary name from drink menus in the city's cocktail lounges, the suggestion being that "Bloody Shame" would be a more fitting identifier. This of course quite overlooked the vulgar connotation of "bloody" in O'Noone's ancestral land, but the SSS pressed the matter to the point of scraggly picket lines outside the Plaza Hotel and the Four Seasons restaurant.
The SSS's effort was so ludicrous that both the secular media and the Catholic press ignored it, though many restaurants began substituting "Bloody Shame" or "spicy tomato juice cocktail" on their drink lists. But it showed how truly hyper-sensitive the outfit was and how eager and inventive it could be in finding slights or injury.
Brother Aloysius called his old acquaintance to discuss the Staffie situation.
"Our plight is apparently not of sufficient importance to interest His Eminence the cardinal. But I can assure you, Frank, that our little community is in danger of going under unless something is done."
"That would be a black day for Mother Church," O'Noone replied.
"Is there anything the SSS can do? Sadly, it's not the kind of issue you usually deal with."
"These dogs. Your monastery is the principal breeder of them?"
"No, there are others. But we like to think we're the best."
"So here we have the mayor attacking—slandering, you might say—a breed of dog. And by so doing endangering the future of the best breeding outfit for those dogs—a Catholic monastery."
"Yes."
"That's anti-Catholicism in my book. As far as I'm concerned indirect bigotry, which it sounds like we have here, is as pernicious as the direct kind."
"Interesting."
The conversation halted for a few moments as O'Noone pondered the problem.
"I read in the paper this morning that some animal rights people are going to stage a demonstration against the mayor next week. My group could join that, protesting Hoagland's anti-Catholic slur and asking for an apology, a retraction. With luck, we'd get on the news. Give some publicity to the proposition that your Staffords or whatever you call them are not dangerous."
"That's what we want—the mayor to retract his calumny against our dogs."
"We'll do it. We haven't had a good outing since that movie about Casanova and the nuns."
"Bless you, Frank. I knew you would see our dilemma clearly."
. . .
Later that morning, Eldon left City Hall for a luncheon uptown with the president of Brazil. When his car reached the Towers entrance of the Waldorf-Astoria, ALA protesters had preceded him and had the Wambli balloon set up behind a police barricade across the street. Spying the mayor, they began to chant "Dog killer!" and jiggled their inflated canine vigorously. He ignored the taunts, while at the same time marveling at their logistical agility, and quickly ducked into the hotel entrance.
Making nice with the visiting Carioca was all in a day's work for him, but he was tired and did not relish the expenditure of effort that he knew politeness would require. After working the room at a small reception, he went arm and arm with the president to the dais in the ballroom.
As he ate his nondescript fish lunch, he fielded the visitor's questions about the city's subway system, actually glad to be responding to inquiries that did not involve the Incident. But then the president changed the subject.
"You know, Mr. Mayor, before our Carnival each winter, our people get ready months and months ahead. The escola da samba practice in the street for weeks and weeks. Is this what is happening here?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean."
"That dog figure outside. Are they not rehearsing for what you call it, the Ma-cees parade? My family and I visited New York some years ago and saw that parade. Very amusing. The big balloons. But they are getting ready most early, are they not?"
Eldon answered noncommittally. Judging by his lunch companion's English, he guessed—and hoped—that he had not read the newspapers since his arrival.
"Wambli—is that the name I read on the sign? I do not know the cartoon he represents. Is he like Donaldo Pato, or, how you say, Donald Duck? Or Mickey Mouse maybe?"
Reluctantly Eldon explained that he was a symbol of protest for the animal rights movement and that the protest was directed against him.
"And you permit this? It is not right that you should be subject to such ridicule. We have ways of dealing with such matters in my country."
Mercifully the master of ceremonies began the speaking program so Eldon was spared the necessity of delivering a lecture on the First Amendment and freedom of speech. He merely nodded and drew out the notes for his remarks from his jacket pocket. He pretended to study them intensely, though they were of the fill-in-the-blank variety suitable for all such occasions. ("There has always been a warm bond between the people of New York and the people of ———.")
The canine effigy was still outside when he left.
. . .
Artemis Payne enjoyed his tenure as New York City's public advocate. This strange position, created in the latest revision of the City Charter, had few defined duties, letting the incumbent pick and choose his targets at will. And to stand ready to succeed the mayor if that should ever come to pass.
The public advocate, soon after he was inaugurated, declared war on the city's banks. Unknown to the public, Payne had a history of bouncing checks, dating back to his hand-to-mouth days as a struggling lawyer. He now proposed that the city adopt legislation prohibiting banks from returning a check without first notifying the person who had drawn it. The penalties proposed were severe: a $100 fine for the first check bounced on an account without notice, then ranging upward as high as $1,000. Payne rightly argued that most banks would never return a check for its gilt-edged customers; they would be politely notified of any shortfalls in their accounts, or be automatically extended overdraft facilities.
The proposal drew protesting howls from the banking community; orderly, high-speed computer check-clearance procedures would be impossible as the banks sought to notify wayward patrons.
Payne received no support for his proposal from the press—next there might be penalties for nondelivery of newspapers. Eldon, who realized the impracticalities of the scheme and who did not want to give the bankers another excuse for moving operations to New Jersey, kept silent. So did most City Council members.
Without additional backing, Payne's initiative went nowhere. But it did serve to make him a popular, or perhaps populist, figure in the city's poorer neighborhoods, where bankers had few friends. The city's business leaders were relieved at Payne's lack of success but held their collective breath as they wondered what scheme he would propose next.
Payne had graduated from City College and Cardozo Law School with respectable, if not spectacular, records and had set himself up in practice in an office near the courthouse in Brooklyn. But he never succeeded in developing a practice that prospered, a hard task for any lawyer without a staff of junior lawyers and paralegals. Thus when a seat on the City Council opened up in his district he went for it and managed to win the Democratic primary. The general election was a cinch and when he later ran for two more terms there was no opposition in the primaries and almost none in the elections themselves.
Payne had already decided to go for the public advocate's job even before Eldon declared for mayor. And then, with Eldon's endorsement, he had won easily.
A large man, friendly and smiling, he had undeniable appeal to the voters (at least those who were not bankers). In his private life he was an inveterate golfer, a game he had mastered as a young man in a recreation program sponsored by the Police Athletic League.
He fully realized that the city owned thirteen municipal golf courses, and as the public advocate, he believed it his duty to "inspect" them regularly on behalf of the city's golfer consumers. This he did conscientiously an afternoon or two a week, to the point where he became widely known in government circles as "Putter Payne."
Putter met for drinks at five o'clock each Wednesday with whatever other black politicians (Democratic ones, that is) happened to be around—state legislators, city councilmen, occasionally a congressman. These gatherings took place at Foley's, an ancient saloon convenient both to his office on Centre Street and to City Hall.
There was never an agenda for these informal sessions, just a chance to share the latest political gossip and review the current state of affairs.
On this particular Wednesday, three councilmen, a state senator and an assemblyman joined Payne. There was, needless to say, much talk about the Incident.
"I'm not sure Eldon can survive this one," Assemblyman Darrel Green opined.
"Oh hell, it will all blow over," Payne said. "The Post-News can diss him all they want but he's not going down for the count because of a dead dog."
"I'm not so sure," Senator Bill Tracy said. "Those animal righters are really fired up. I think we're going to see one helluva ruckus on the twentieth."
"So what? They'll make a lot of noise and that will be the end of it."
"And if it isn't," Green said, "he'll have to resign. And you know what that means, baby."
"Yeah. I'll be the mayor."
"You got it, mister," Green said.
The speculation continued as the pols had a second round.
"Wouldn't be so bad to have a black mayor again, you know," Tracy said. "Or for a black man to get a head start before the next election over our Hispanic brothers."
"You're blowing smoke, boys," Payne protested. "Besides, I can't get into the middle of the mess."
"You're probably right, Artie. But let's think about it. If that rally really is a blast, Eldon might just have to get out. What do you think, guys, couldn't we help give it some juice?" Bill Tracy asked.
"I don't see how," Payne said.
"Think about it," Tracy continued. "The dog that got killed was a pit bull, right? And who owns more pit bulls than anybody else in this town? Blacks, that's who. And Hispanics, of course. They should be real angry at what happened. Now I know, Artie, there's nothing you can do directly. You've got to go with the flow. But George, you're a councilman up in Harlem. Couldn't you quietly pass the word that some of the street bucks who own those dogs might want to join the protest? For the honor of the pit bull? You hear what I'm saying?"
George Hayes, the councilman being addressed, looked surprised. He took a deep sip of his rye whiskey as he thought about the matter.
"Yes, I suppose I could," he said finally. "Have to be real careful, though, so Eldon never finds out, finds out that I perpetrated anything. But yes, we can stir something up. Sure."
"Then I say do it," Tracy said. "Quick, fast and in a hurry. Artie doesn't have to know, nobody has to know. Eldon doesn't have to know. It'll just be some homeboys exercising their constitutional rights."
"I didn't hear a thing," the public advocate said as the group broke up. "I'm out. Peace, brothers."
. . .
Early the next morning, shortly after daybreak, Edna Hoagland was awakened by a persistent jangling noise coming from the lawn. She went to the bedroom window to investigate. Then she rushed back to wake her husband.
"Eldon, you're not going to like this, but you'd better take a look out the window."
Half asleep, the mayor got up and did as he was told.
"Good grief!" was his only reaction to the cow lumbering across the lawn with a large sign around its neck reading MILK ME OR KILL ME. In the middle of the night the ALA had struck again, though the security staff managed to spirit the animal away before the press got wind of its presence.
. . .
The running story in The Post-News described a "groundswell" of support for the Wambli Memorial Rally. An American Staffordshire terrier organization announced that it would take part in the protest, as did a number of fringe animal rights groups, but not the ASPCA or the Humane Society.
The ASPCA was not, however, silent. An embarrassed Gifford Livingston, its local chairman, called Noel Miller.
"Since you're the mayor's lawyer, I wanted to alert you to a little problem," Livingston began. "I don't know how familiar you are with the laws about cruelty to animals."
"Not very. Though animals have been much in focus down here of late."
"Yes, I'm sure. Noel, take a look at Section three-five-three of the State Agriculture and Markets Law. Article twenty-six. It says any person who, quote, causes, procures or permits, unquote, any animal to be killed is guilty of a misdemeanor. Punishable by imprisonment for a year or a thousand dollar fine, or both."
"I'll take your word for it. But Gifford, what are you suggesting? That I should have the police arrest the mayor?"
"Of course not. But there is a slight problem. Section three-seven-one says that, quote, any agent or officer of any duly incorporated society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, unquote—that's us—may arrest a violator of the Agriculture and Markets Law."
"So one of your people could arrest Eldon Hoagland?"
"Precisely."
"But surely you can forbid your dogcatchers—sorry, Gifford, that's a bit pejorative—from doing so."
"It's more complicated than that. Note that the statute says, quote, officer, unquote, as well as 'agent,' the agents being what you call dogcatchers. We call them humane law enforcement agents. As far as officers are concerned, as chairman I'm one, so I could arrest Eldon."
"But that's absurd."
"Bear with me. There's a faction on my board—not a majority, at least not yet—that wants me to do just that. A visible and symbolic act to call public attention to the animal cruelty problem."
"Good Lord, you wouldn't do that. Would you?"
"No, I'd probably resign first. Eldon's behavior with that dog was disgraceful, but not enough for me to arrest him. But the society's enforcement agents are damn mad and I can't guarantee that one of them won't try something, even if I forbid it."
"Have these, um, agents, ever made an arrest before? Or is this just some crazy law that's never been enforced?"
"Three hundred arrests last year."
"Are they armed? Will Eldon be shot if he resists?" Miller tried to lighten up the conversation.
"They are armed. But responsible."
"All in uniform, I assume."
"No, there are plainclothes agents as well."
Who could sneak up on Eldon unannounced, Miller thought.
. . .
Once the ASPCA chairman was off the phone, Miller checked his McKinney's Annotated New York Laws and found that Livingston's description of the law had been accurate. The legal authority for the society's agents to make arrests went back to the 1860s. He decided not to alert Eldon to the potential hazard of arrest—poor fellow, he was besieged enough already. But he did call the head of the mayor's security detail.
"I don't know how you identify them, but you should keep the humane law enforcement agents away from the mayor. They want to arrest him."
"Don't worry, Mr. Miller, we can spot them. They all look like beagles."
If that were only true, Miller wished.
. . .
Three days after the cow incident, Amber Sweetwater returned to Gracie Mansion with an unidentified, slightly chubby young man. Each one carried two suitcases, which she explained to the guard, with whom she was on friendly terms, were to take away her remaining belongings. The sentry suspected nothing, though he did think it odd when the pair went by his booth only a few minutes later, without the suitcases.
Soon after Amber and her friend departed, Edna Hoagland startled the sentry and the household staff with her screaming. The cause was soon apparent, as the mansion was overrun with tiny mice. Trying to calm herself, she called Eldon at the office. Normally she relayed any message through a staff member or waited until she met up with her husband in person; it somehow seemed improper to her to interrupt official city business with (usually trivial) personal matters. But this time she called and asked to be put through to him.
"Eldon, I don't know what to do! You have no idea what it's like up here!"
"My dear, what on earth is the matter? Where are you?"
"I'm at the mansion. And someone has let loose hundreds of mice—all over the house."
"Good God."
"The housekeeper and one of the guards are beating them back with brooms, but they're everywhere. I'm going to call the Health Department unless you've got a better idea."
Eldon felt helpless. What was he supposed to do? As husband? As mayor of the City of New York? What could he do?
"That sounds right—"
Eldon was interrupted by a muffled cry. "One of them just started to crawl up my leg," Edna shouted. "It's like a bad sciencefiction movie. Only it's real."
"Let us call the Health Department from down here. Have them send up an emergency crew right away. You stay calm—or better yet, go somewhere for lunch."
"These animal crazies are going to be the death of us, Eldon. They really are."
"Our ALA friends?"
"Yes. They left a note downstairs. 'Today Gracie Mansion, tomorrow the World. The Animal Liberation Army.' "
"How the hell did they get inside?"
"I mean to find out."
The Health Department squad arrived and after reconnoitering the invading mouse army, advised Edna to vacate the premises. "What we'll do isn't going to be pretty, ma'am," she was told.
"That's all right. I'm a doctor," she said but then reconsidered and decided to leave. Before doing so, she questioned the guard in the outside sentry booth, who told her about Amber Sweetwater, her pudgy companion and the suitcases.
The mice, stolen as it turned out by the ALA from a laboratory at Rockefeller University, had been in the suitcases, but the tiny creatures had not made any impression on the metal detector at the gate.
. . .
That week's Surveyor, under Scoop's byline, carried a story about "animal terrorist" tactics, past and promised, directed against Mayor Hoagland. The story detailed the plans for the Wambli rally but also gave accounts of both the cow and mice episodes at Gracie.
These latter descriptions intrigued Jack Gullighy. No other publication had mentioned the errant bovine or the scurrying rodents. Especially in the case of The Post-News, eager for any scintilla of a story embarrassing to Eldon, it seemed likely that the ALA had not alerted the press to their doings. So how did The Surveyor come by the stories? It appeared to Gullighy that its reporter had been uncomfortably close to the action, if not a part of it. And Rice fitted the description given by the Gracie sentry of the fellow carrying two of the mice-filled suitcases.
He placed a call to Justin Boyd.
"I see you're still on the animal rights beat."
"Absolutely. Best running story we've ever had—and it ain't over yet."
"How well I know," Gullighy said. "But tell me, Justin, is it not possible your man Rice is a bit too close to the situation?"
"Dogging the story for all it's worth, if that's what you mean."
"Dogging, hmm. 'Badgering,' I think, would be a better word."
"Ha! Ha! To what do I owe this amusing call?"
"Justin, there were two people who staged that mouse attack on Gracie Mansion. My hunch is that your man Rice was one of them."
"So? Let's just say he was tipped off and was on the spot."
"Fine. But he was seen carrying suitcases full of mice into the mansion."
"So?"
"So he wasn't reporting. He was creating a story."
"Oh, Jack, come, come. Such niceties!"
"Let me give you a hypothetical. Vietnam. The Ho Chi Minh Trail. Reporter goes out with a patrol. Quiet. No news. Reporter, who is armed, starts shooting. Next day reports on a fierce gun battle. Ethical?"
"Why not? There was a gun battle, right?"
"But the reporter started it!"
"As I say, Jack, niceties. A story is a story, regardless of who instigated it. You fellows are getting too uptight down there at City Hall. Stay loose, my boy!"
Gullighy slammed down the phone. "Unscrupulous limey bastard!" he shouted, but there was no one around to hear him.