Gullighy had also received a call the day before from Scoop, inquiring about the "bigamous marriage" the mayor had performed. He had hung up on the reporter, after calling him a "crazy bastard." What will they try next? he thought to himself. Once he had been shown The Surveyor, Eldon asked the same thing.
"I can't seem to do anything right. The first marriage I performed as mayor and it turns out to be bigamous.
"The Court Street lawyers that reporter consulted said I committed no crime, unless I knew of the bigamy. Well, I sure as hell didn't. But please check with Noel Miller to make sure that 'knowledge' is there in the law. Jack, the way things are going, they'll put me in a black box, like the 'coffin' for that damn dog, and parade me around City Hall Park. Why the hell did I take this job, will you tell me?"
It was a question for which, under the circumstances, Gullighy had no ready answer.
. . .
In late afternoon Scoop returned to his apartment, a copy of The Surveyor under his arm. Genc was there and, to Scoop's surprise, greeted him cheerfully.
"Scoop, I know you're my friend—about the only one I have over here—but you didn't have to go and see Greta. It was gentle of you to do that. She was feeling very down and felt happy that a friend was supporting her."
Scoop was conscience-stricken. He had told Greta that he was a friend of her husband's and that he would try to help her. But he needed to know the facts before he could. He had failed to mention that he was a reporter, and one writing a story about her husband's marital adventure. She may even have thought he was a lawyer, though his conscience told him—almost—that he really had said nothing to further that impression, though he had carried a briefcase and had taken notes on a yellow legal pad purchased in the stationery store around the corner, rather than his customary notebook. He chose to stay mute as Genc continued to speak.
"You're a good man, Scoop. I thank you. But I think we do not need your help. I've talked with Greta and told her the truth. That my marriage to Sue was for green card. When I have it—I wait two years, I understand—I can get good job, say bye-bye to Sue. Then bring Greta over to have a real life, not illegal's. She understand now, and if Sue pay up, she will go home without her mouth opening."
"Genc, you better read this," Scoop said, handing him The Surveyor and pointing to the lead story.
Genc read slowly. "You fucking Gypsy," he said finally, coolly angry and waving the newspaper. "You ruin all my plans! My plans for my life!" He put on his shirt and started gathering up his possessions into his backpack.
"Genc, I'm sorry. Really I am. But you must remember I'm a reporter. My first duty is to my paper and my readers. You and Sue committed a serious crime. The public is entitled to know that and it was my obligation to write about it."
Scoop managed to finish his little speech, even while recognizing his priggish and self-righteous tone. More precisely, he heard the voice of Justin Boyd echoing in his own.
"What are you going to do?" he asked as Genc finished his packing.
"I'll think of something. Do not worry. But don't expect to put it down in your newspaper."
Genc headed to the door and, before leaving, bowed with mock solemnity toward Scoop. "Thank you for everything, my friend. My best friend in America!" He slammed the door hard and was gone.
Scoop sat on the edge of his bed, staring for some minutes at the headline—and byline—in the paper Genc had thrown to the floor.
. . .
The Post-News once again had to swallow its pride the next morning and parrot The Surveyor's bigamy story; its reporters had been unable to locate Genc or Greta. Sue, as instructed, refused any comment, and Gullighy indignantly denied Mayor Hoagland's criminality. This did not stop the paper's editorialists, who wrote, under the heading "Something Smells":
We are not going to write about Mayor Eldon Hoagland anddogs today. Instead our subject is the mayor and a fish—a verysmelly fish in City Hall. As reported on our front page, the marriage ceremony that he performed uniting Sue Nation Brandbergand her boyish live-in, Genc Serreqi, was a sham. It turns out thatthe smooth young Albanian who caught beauty queen Brandberg'sfancy already had a wife back home in the Balkans. This makes himguilty of good, old-fashioned bigamy—still a felony in New York.And it makes her guilty, too, if she smelled something fishy, so tospeak.
And what about the mayor? There was deep suspicion when theSerreqi-Brandberg nuptials were announced that there was aquidfor hisquo:he would preside at her hastily arranged "marriage" ifshe would keep quiet about the slaying of her beloved dog, Wambli,by the mayor's condottieri.
We have two questions for Eldon Hoagland:
1.Did he make a deal with Mrs. Brandberg to marry her in exchange for her silence? Did that deal involve only the woman'spromise to be quiet, or was it more complicated than that?
2.As to the bigamy matter, one is reminded of that questionfrom another ancient scandal: What did he know, and when did heknow it?
We need answers, Mr. Mayor, and the faster the better.
The Times, presumably on the quite valid theory that it could not corroborate Scoop's story, was silent for the day.
The morning e-mail was surprisingly quiet. The only message was not, however, especially comforting:
I hope that Native American and her Albanian did have a bigamousmarriage, and I hope you knew all about it. Marriage is a dumb irrelevancy forced upon us by religious fanatics. So bigamy should beirrelevant, too. Who cares how many times someone goes through amarriage ceremony? Stand up for sexual freedom—don't let thebastards get you down. Yours in good sex—Bruce
Having not heard from Noel Miller by noontime, Eldon gave him a call. The corporation counsel confirmed that the mayor was not in violation of the law by marrying Genc and Sue, as long as he didn't have knowledge of Genc's marital status.
"That means I'm in the clear, Noel, since I had no idea her young stud had a wife. The Post-News doesn't agree with that, if you've seen it this morning, but what do you expect? They're certainly accusing me of high crimes and misdemeanors. What if they were right? Could I be impeached?
"I'd like to know the answer to that. Could you call me? Edna and I are getting out of here and going to Leaky Swansea's, on Long Island, for the weekend. You can reach me there. You have the number? Good."
. . .
Eldon was grateful for the chance to leave town; at least the Wambli balloon did not follow him to Southampton. The Swanseas were good hosts, plied their guests with good food and wine and refrained from discussing dogs or dubious marriages.
He and Edna went for a walk on the deserted, windswept beach late in the afternoon. The mild weather, the impending sunset and gently breaking waves were conducive to an intimate chat.
"I don't know if I'm going to make it, Edna. All the insults, the shouting, the innuendos in the damn Post-News, they're getting to me. That editorial this morning, practically accusing me of taking a bribe. Not to mention committing a crime."
"It's politics, dear. Of the New York City variety."
"I now understand why no mayor has ever gone on to be president. They all became exhausted trying to keep the melting pot from boiling over."
"They ought to revise the song. 'If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere—if you survive.'"
"I know that things will calm down. The animal righters will run out of steam. It'll be clear I did nothing worse than lose control when that wretched dog bit me. And the idea that I committed a crime is preposterous. Eventually people will understand that."
"You're right—I think."
"The real question is whether it will settle down soon enough—soon enough for me to push the programs I promised. We're all ready to launch our technology zone project, but it needs my full-time attention. I can't give that with all the stupid distractions. It's so tedious and boring."
"You've been through it with nutcases before, dear. Those new-wave upstarts in your department were almost as extreme as the Animal Liberation Army. And that Dean of the Faculty at Columbia made it about as difficult for you as The Post-News. Everything's going to be all right."
"Let's hold hands and look at the sunset. As long as we're okay, we'll hang on."
. . .
Noel Miller called early Saturday morning.
"Good news, Eldon. As I thought, there's absolutely no provision for impeaching a mayor. You're in the clear unless you become mentally disabled. Then they can push you out." Miller chuckled.
"Don't laugh. The way things are going I could be round the bend tomorrow. But thanks for the good word, Noel. Not that I was worried."
"You're okay, my friend, absent mental illness or physical incapacity. Otherwise the only way they can get rid of you is if the governor removes you. Which is a pretty preposterous idea."
Eldon felt an uncomfortable tightening in his throat. "She could do that?" he asked incredulously.
"Yep. All by herself. But for God's sake, don't trouble your head about that. Relax and have a good weekend."
The mayor did his best to follow his counsel's advice. But he did spend a restless Saturday night, dreaming, among other things, of quarreling with Randilynn Foote over her B minus and hearing her obscenity-laced anger at the removal of the furnishings from the Governor's Rooms.
. . .
Governor Foote had had a brief meeting with Attorney General Mason Mudson on Friday afternoon. An obese, slow-moving (and by more than one account, slow-witted) small-town lawyer, he had been the bastion of the Republican Party in his upstate county seat. Since all of Randilynn's running mates in her campaign for election had been from the metropolitan area, Mason had been picked to balance the ticket.
Mudson had also been able to raise a surprising amount of money for his own campaign. Many business interests, bruised by attacks from a succession of vigorous, populist, proconsumer attorneys general, saw in him the ideal: a dyed-in-the-wool conservative and a lethargic one. Those dreaded words in the heading of legal complaints, "The People of the State of New York versus . . .," would not be versus them.
Once elected, he happily discovered that one was not chained to Albany, the state capital, or the snowbound Brasilia, as some called it. Overcoming an upstater's revulsion to Sodom-on-the-Hudson, he had come to like it, though his wife, Prudence, resolutely re fused to leave Skaneateles; in her view the people in New York City "smelled funny."
Mudson was an appreciative dais-sitter at fund-raising and political dinners. He thought the food was marvelous, and there was always the VIP attention—gathering with the event's guest of honor and an occasional celebrity in a private room away from the hordes attending the function in question, drinking free drinks and being addressed as "General." They were even more fulfilling than those Kiwanis Club weekly dinners in Skaneateles, though he had enjoyed them, and the mystery-meat entrees, too.
He had a set speech—written for $100 by a Syracuse Herald-Journal reporter—about the great Empire State and the benefits that free enterprise could bring to it (the Syracuse reporter, given the meagerness of his fee, had lifted this portion of the text from various right-wing foundation press releases).
Randilynn Foote was grateful to Munson, so eagerly representing her administration at the banqueting events she could not abide. "He likes having his ass licked," she once observed to Raifeartaigh, "and as long as he doesn't get a sexually transmitted disease in the process, that's fine with me."
At their Friday meeting in her office, Governor Foote made it clear that no decisions had been made but that she wanted to "explore all the options." She told her AG that Ms. Baine had done a great job in researching the applicable law, but she wanted to be doubly sure that Mudson agreed with her young assistant's conclusions.
"You make certain you're in synch," she had instructed him, "because if I do anything you're going to have to spread holy water all over it."
Mudson, like everyone else who had looked at the question, was amazed at the power in the governor's hands. But he promised to vet Ms. Baine's conclusions, and the meeting was adjourned until eleven o'clock on Monday.
"I'd meet earlier," the governor explained, "but I'm off on a camping trip to Schroon Lake—assuming that piece of junk they make me fly in can get to the Adirondacks—and I'm not coming back until first thing Monday morning." She reminded Raifeartaigh to write a reimbursement check to the state for the trip; it was a private one, though she said that the state should pay her money for riding in the rickety executive plane.
Now they were back in her office. As expected, Mudson confirmed Sheila Baine's legal research.
The governor, scratching at some ugly bites on her legs—"Why didn't they tell me there would still be blackflies in the sticks in October?" she grumbled—informed her trio of listeners that she still hadn't made up her mind what to do about removing Eldon.
"I'm tempted, that's for sure. Having Putter Payne in there would be perfect. But could I get away with it?"
While the governor had been pondering the issue in an Adirondack pup tent, Raifeartaigh had been doing the same, in the dark Village coffeehouse he frequented.
"If I understand the law correctly," he said, "the governor can suspend the mayor for thirty days while charges are being readied. Right?"
Baine and Mudson nodded.
"So, why don't you suspend Hoagland and announce that charges, and what they consist of, are being prepared? If the out-cry is too great, you can back off. If not, you go ahead and remove him."
"Effing brilliant! I knew there was a reason for keeping you around, Raifeartaigh. I'll do it! Mason, you and Sheila get up a letter I can deliver to His Honor telling him he is suspended. And that charges are being prepared to remove him. Raifeartaigh, get hold of that bog-trotter of his and tell him I'm coming downstairs to see the mayor at two o'clock, or whatever time this afternoon suits him. Hot damn! This is going to be fun!"
. . .
The mayor, Police Commissioner Stephens and Noel Miller were conferring downstairs while the governor was mapping her strategy. The Animal Liberation Army, true to its threat of having weekly demonstrations, had applied for a permit for a rally on Wednesday afternoon.
"My view is that they've had their say and we should deny it," the commissioner said.
"I'd like to agree with you, Danny. But free speech is free speech. And you have to admit that they haven't achieved their objective."
"Getting you to resign, you mean?"
"Yes. I say give them their permit—but for God's sake ban animals. That's what got your boys into trouble last week."
"Last week won't happen again, Mr. Mayor. Not on my watch. So we grant them the permit—for humans only?"
"Correct."
As they reached their conclusion, Gullighy came bursting in, red-faced and agitated.
"Something's up. I don't know what, but something's up."
"What are you talking about?" Eldon asked impatiently.
"Randilynn Foote wants an appointment to come see you this afternoon. That half-breed Raifeartaigh says its about a legal mat ter and the governor thinks Noel should be there, too. Mason Mudson will be along."
"She wants to come down here, not me go up there?"
"Correct."
"It must be important. Randy Randy has probably figured out a way of taking over all of City Hall. But tell her I'll be waiting with bells on. And Noel, you'll join us. I'm almost tempted to invite you, too, Danny; not a bad idea to have the police commissioner around when she lets loose."
"Thank you, no. I'll stick to four-legged bitches."
. . .
Gullighy came into the mayor's office again a half hour later.
"Raifeartaigh just called back. They think Putter Payne should be at this meeting."
"The more the merrier," Eldon said with a sigh.
Or maybe not so merry, he thought once Gullighy had left. What was it Noel Miller had said over the weekend about removal? But that B minus had been deserved, it really had.
. . .
Sue Nation Brandberg was in a sour mood as she opened her morning's mail. She had been to Café Boulud the night before with one of her walkers and had had the feeling throughout that those seated in the banquettes and tables near hers were discreetly gesturing in her direction and talking about her. It had been uncomfortable.
In her pile of mail she came to a letter on the cheap stationery of the Brandywine Hotel, the message crudely written with a ball-point pen:
Dear Miszu,
I write this letter as good-bye. Greta and I have talked much and decided is better I go back to Albania. We go to start our lives over.
I love America and am glad to have seen some of it, New York especially. But the authorities don't want me and after all that happened, I go back. Maybe someday I come as legal and maybe Greta will come, too. Now is better I go to Tirana. I can work as an engineer, even if for little money, instead of being watched as illegal person.
I put this in the mail as we go to JFK. We fly to Rome tonight, then to Tirana. Thank goodness Greta has a credit card! Our adventure was interesting and I remember you always.
Goodbye, Genc
Sue thought regretfully of the OOOH! SHPIRT!s; she was glad they had been "interesting" for Genc. She couldn't be angry with him. He had, after all, told her he was already married. And with all the publicity, he would probably have been thrown out anyway. Instead, her anger focused on Eldon. Wasn't he the cause of all her troubles? The death of her beloved Wambli. The public and notorious scandal about her marriage, a scandal inflamed by the press hordes outside the mayor's office after the ceremony. (She had concluded that their presence was no accident.) Not to mention the pack of reporters still camped out in front of her house.
Should she seek revenge? What if she told the press that he knew about Genc's living spouse when he performed the marriage? That would make it hot for him! Brendon Proctor had told her she was unlikely to be prosecuted for bigamy. So what was the risk?
Questions, questions, she thought. She needed time to work out some answers.
. . .
At two o'clock on the dot Governor Foote and Attorney General Mudson came down to the mayor's office. Mudson was sweating, either from the effort of climbing down the stairs or from tension. Eldon and Noel Miller were waiting; Putter had been located but would be late, coming in from Queens.
The foursome exchanged handshakes, but there was no small talk.
"Governor, do you mind if I ask Jack Gullighy to join us?" Eldon asked.
"By all means."
The group sat quietly until Gullighy arrived. Eldon sat at his desk, with Noel Miller at his right. Foote and Mudson took places on a sofa at the side of the room. Gullighy stood by the door, possibly to guard it, possibly to be ready for a quick escape.
"Governor, to what do I owe the pleasure?" the mayor asked.
"Mr. Mayor," the governor began stiffly—this was not an Eldon and Randilynn occasion—"I think this letter explains it best."
No one had noticed until then that she had come in carrying an envelope. She opened it, took out two copies of a letter, and handed them to the mayor and Noel Miller.
Putting on his glasses, Eldon read:
Dear Mayor Hoagland:
Last week, on October 20th, the citizens of the greater metropolitan area were subjected to a paralyzing disruption of both air and ground transportation. This was a direct result of a rally staged in City Hall Park, the purpose of which was to call for your resignation as mayor of the City of New York. The New York City Police Department was unable to contain the demonstrators; this resulted in disruptions widely believed to be the most serious in the area's history.
The organizers of last week's protest have indicated, on their Web site and in the press, that a second demonstration will be held this Wednesday. Indeed, they have stated their intention of holding a demonstration each Wednesday until you resign. All signs point to another disruption beyond the control of the police and, quite possibly, one even more severe than the one experienced last week.
I have reluctantly concluded that charges should be brought against you, looking toward your possible removal as mayor. These will be more fully documented forthwith in a detailed statement. In substance they will allege (1) that you have failed to maintain the effectiveness and integrity of city government operations, as required by Section 8a of the New York City Charter, (2) that the enforcement of law and order and the maintenance of the public safety in the city have been endangered by the consequences of your actions, (3) that your personal conduct on the night of August 16th, in connection with the murder of the dog called Wambli, constituted a violation of Section 353 of the Agriculture and Markets Law, with respect to overdriving, torturing and injuring animals, and (4) that you have violated your duty as a magistrate, under Section 8b of the Charter, by performing a bigamous marriage ceremony between Sue Nation Brandberg and Genc Serreqi on October 13th in violation of Section 255.00 of the Penal Law, allegedly to procure the silence of Ms. Brandberg regarding the aforesaid incident involving her dog Wambli.
As you know, as governor I have the plenary power to remove you from office pursuant to subsection 2 of Section 33 of the Public Officers Law and Section 9 of the New York City Charter. It is my intention to make a determination of whether or not to exercise such power not later than 30 days from the date hereof, during which 30-day period you shall have the opportunity, under the laws cited, to present to me whatever manner of defense you desire.
In the meantime, pursuant to the powers vested in me, as aforesaid, I hereby suspend you from your duties as mayor as of midnight tonight.
Very truly yours,
Randilynn R. Foote
Governor
Eldon's hand was shaking by the time he had finished.
"Is there anything to be said? I suppose not. Though I can't refrain from asking you, Governor, whether you are completely serious about this. Or is this a ploy of some kind?"
"No, Mr. Mayor, I'm serious. I've called a press conference for four o'clock to announce your suspension."
"And as for what you call my 'defense,' is there any point in presenting one?"
"That's up to you."
"Mason, are you on board with this?" Miller demanded of Mudson. "You must realize that nothing like this has ever been done before. Aren't you afraid of a rather strong public reaction?"
"Noel, I am aboard. The law is clear about the governor's pow ers. She is exercising them in what she considers the best interests of the people of New York—state and city."
"Well, I guess that's it," Eldon announced. "Except, Randilynn, would you do me the courtesy of talking with me privately for a moment?"
"Of course."
Before the meeting could break up, Putter Payne made a breathless entrance.
"What's up, guys?" he said jovially, before sensing the tense atmosphere.
Miller handed him a copy of the governor's letter. Putter read it, emitting a soft whistle as he did so.
"Let me get a grip on this," he said when he had finished. "Does this mean I'm the acting mayor after tonight?"
"That is correct, Mr. Payne," Mudson told him. "Until the governor makes her decision about removal—and then, um, possibly thereafter."
"Holy Jesus." Then, after a pause, "I guess I'll have to start dressing up," pointing at his own attire—a polo shirt and khakis. "No more casual Fridays—or Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Thursdays." His feeble sally did not go down well.
Eldon again asked if he could see Randilynn alone, as the others prepared to leave. "And Artie, we'd better talk when I'm through."
"I'll be waiting right outside, Mayor," Payne replied, with just the slightest pause before uttering the word "Mayor."