Dog Bites Man (17 page)

Mead, intent on his presentation, did not realize his unfortunate choice of metaphor. Jared Vaughan did and hastily covered his mouth, though it was unclear whether to conceal a look of amazement or a grin. The others sat stock-still with pursed lips. Eldon stared intently at the chart.

"Show the map, Garry," Mead instructed. "As you can see, the
location we have picked in the South Bronx is conveniently located next to railroad sidings and arterial highways, as well as subway and bus lines."

The exposition went on, and Eldon tried desperately to focus his attention on what was being said. The subject was a favorite one—he saw the zone program as the capstone of his administration—but his mind kept going back to the Incident, to the morning's headlines, to the upcoming press conference.

He realized he must "compartmentalize," as they had said so recently in Washington, putting Wambli in one part of his brain and this bold new program in another. It was nearly impossible and he now realized, as he had only suspected back then, that compartmentalizing was a fiction; if your adversaries were trying to wreck your house, it was damn hard to sit in the living room insouciantly sipping a cocktail. Your survival instincts fought against attempts to focus on anything other than the imminent danger that threatened to destroy you and your reputation.

Eldon could not let his feelings show. His task force had worked hard and had, as near as he could tell in his agitated state, done a masterful piece of work in realizing his vision of a "technological Radio City" for the new century. So with great force of will he tried to be attentive, asking questions that he knew were perfunctory and that he would have treated with some disdain in a seminar back at Columbia.

After 45 minutes, Mead, with justifiable pride, concluded by saying that the study, if implemented, "could turn this city around for good." He democratically asked his colleagues if they had comments to add. They didn't, except for Miskovitz, who said the projected numbers were solid, and Mina Gordon, who said there had been an "amazing" amount of agreement within the group on the recommendations being made.

"This is great work, Don, and I thank all of you," Eldon told them. "You've given me lots to think about. I'll get back to you just as soon as I can, then let's finalize this thing and get your report out. Agreed?"

They all did, and the meeting broke up.

G
ullighy was waiting outside the conference room where the task force meeting had taken place. "Here's the embryo statement. What else do you want? Shouldn't we do a practice Q & A?"

"What the hell for?" Eldon snapped. "You keep saying I should deny, deny, deny. Stonewall. What difference does it make what the damn questions are?"

"Okay, okay. I'll be in my office if you have fixes to the statement."

"Fine. Right now I just want to be left alone. I'll have lunch at my desk. Have them get me a roast beef on rye. Rare, raw animal meat, please."

.    .    .

Eldon entered his office and closed the door. Normally when he was organizing his thoughts he looked at the passing scene outside his window; today he stared at the portrait of Fiorello La Guardia that, in a spirit of nonpartisanship, he had ordered placed over the mantel. Had the Little Flower ever stonewalled? he wondered.

At length he reviewed Gullighy's draft. It was fine. Unequivocal. No animal would be safe from embryological research after the statement was disseminated. Then he pulled out a legal pad and began writing his statement about the Incident. Although he was computer literate, the printer for his PC was outside by his secretary's desk. What he was writing he did not want examined in advance, hence the legal pad. After tearing up two false starts, he
began again. Satisfied with the result, he ate his sandwich, which was properly bloody, and drank a diet iced tea.

By the time he had finished, Gullighy was knocking at the door and was summoned in.

"You ready, Mr. Mayor?"

"Ready to be fed to the lions, you mean? Or should I say the dogs?"

"It's standing room only in there. All the TV outfits. The London papers, for Chrissake."

"They love animals over there."

"Must be a hundred bodies in all."

"Let's go."

"You sure you don't want a quick Q & A practice?"

"Nope. Come on."

As they walked across to the Blue Room and toward the crowd overflowing out into the hall, Gullighy inquired in a low voice, "What are you going to say when they ask you to lift your pants leg and show the bite?"

"What my grandfather would have said back in Minnesota:
Kyss
mig i arslet."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"'Kiss my ass.'"

"Don't say it, please."

.    .    .

The Blue Room was so crowded that Eldon and Gullighy had difficulty reaching the podium. People tried to move aside to let them through, but progress was still difficult in the crush. All the cameras, still and TV, seemed to be pointing down toward the mayor's legs.

Eldon pulled his papers from his suit pocket and smoothed them out on the podium. "I have three statements," he began.

"First. I spent this morning with Don Mead and the members of his task force studying the question of a technology zone for the city. He and his brilliant group have given me a preliminary report, which I'm not prepared to discuss until it has been finalized. But I can say that the task force has done a splendid job, and we should have something for you very soon. I'm excited about the report and maybe even you cynics will be, too.

"Second. I want to clear up any possible misunderstanding about my views on embryological research on animals. Through what I can only call some careless editing of the tapes of me at the St. Francis Festival at Gracie a week ago, it was made to appear that I am against such research. I was not and am not. New York is one of the great medical research centers in the world and it is certainly not the mayor's place to do anything other than stand in awe of the wonders that are accomplished here. The proper treatment of animal subjects is, I am certain, more than adequately handled by surveillance committees at the various research institutions. They do not need me interfering, and I have not done so. Is that clear?"

There were desultory murmurs from the pack of reporters and several hands were raised seeking recognition.

"No questions. Let me go on to the third matter. That is the killing, by my bodyguards, of Mrs. Sue Nation Brandberg's dog."

This simple declaration, acknowledging what had theretofore only been speculated about, was met with an excited buzz. Gullighy had a beet red, I-don't-believe-what-I'm-hearing look on his face. Eldon raised his hand for quiet and then spelled out how he had "accidentally" stepped on the dog "while it was relieving it
self." The animal had reacted by biting him "quite viciously," and his two police bodyguards, "fearful for my safety," shot Wambli.

"I sincerely apologize to Mrs. Brandberg for what happened. And I apologize to the citizens of New York for not bringing this matter to an end sooner than I have. It is now my hope that we can move forward and not let a dead dog divert our attention from where it belongs: on the technology zone program and on our other initiatives for moving this city forward. And perhaps now you gentlemen and ladies can once again start reporting the news, instead of what I like to call postnews.

"Thank you. There will be no questions today."

Pandemonium broke out as Eldon headed out of the room. Many raced to the door to relay the news, others dialed their cell phones and began dictating their stories in the Blue Room itself. And all microphones were directed at Eldon. He ignored the questions shouted at him. "Have you talked to Sue Brandberg?" "Are you going to pay her?" "What happened to the dog's body?" "Have you had a rabies shot?" Everything except whether he believed that Wambli had gone to heaven.

.    .    .

With Gullighy running interference, Eldon got back to the safety of his office.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Jack."

"It was your call, Mr. Mayor."

"I just had to put an end to all the nonsense. This city would have come to a halt if I hadn't. I've cleared the air and we can go on to other things."

"I hope you're right. I hope you're right."

.    .    .

Scoop Rice had attended the mayor's press conference. Most of the reporters present did not know him but one or two who did congratulated him as they filed out. "See what you started?" one said. "Great job."

Taxiing back to
The Surveyor
office, he was less sure that the "job" had been so great. Sure, he'd broken the story that had preoccupied the local media for over a month. But what had he really accomplished? Making the world safer for democracy? Uncovering corrupt skulduggery in high places? No, he told himself, he had caused great pain—obvious from Eldon's subdued and sober demeanor—to a guy who got caught up in a minor and silly incident. Involving a dog, for shit's sake. Was this what investigative reporting was about? Woodward and Bernstein wouldn't have bothered. It was
National Enquirer
stuff when you came right down to it.

And even if it was investigative reporting, he hadn't exactly covered himself with glory. He had missed leads that in hindsight seemed obvious, and the reality was that the story broke only because Genc Serreqi had recognized Wambli's killers at the mayor's festival—an event he had not even attended. His reportorial digging had not been responsible.

Furthermore, what about his boss? Shamelessly boosting Eldon Hoagland for months and then turning on him when the chance for a hot headline came along—is that what journalism was about?

Back at the office he tried to convey some of his thoughts to Justin Boyd. Unlike his fledgling reporter, Boyd had no reservations about what he had done. "My boy, as sure as eggs is eggs you've uncovered the story of the year. Nobody's going to top it. So what if it embarrassed the mayor? He never should have been in
politics in the first place, if you ask me. You're just having a little postpartum depression. Go have some drinks with the boys at Elaine's. You're a full-fledged member of the reporters' club up there now. Bask in the glory!"

Scoop was still troubled, and headed off instead to Squiggles. Maybe by this time some of the girls would have heard of the Wambli scandal and, he hoped, his part in it.

W
heels within the Immigration and Naturalization Service office moved slowly, but on the day of Eldon's confession, the seed planted by Jack Gullighy sprouted. Immigration enforcers liked the idea of bagging an alien prominent in the public eye, and Genc Serreqi qualified. Their computer searches had determined that he had long overstayed his tourist visa so that midmorning two agents paid a call at 62nd Street.

Luckily Sue had sent Genc off to get a haircut, less because she objected to his fulsome locks than because he needed a good professional shampoo. So she was alone when the government operatives appeared at her door.

Showing their badges, they explained that they were inquiring about one Genc Serreqi. Did she know him?

"Yes," she said warily.

"Can you tell us any more about him?"

"He works for me. He's my houseboy."

"Is he here? We'd like to talk to him."

"No, he's out at the moment. Can I ask what this is about?"

"Our records show that Serreqi is here illegally. His visa expired months ago. He must leave the country. And I should also warn you, Mrs. Brandberg, that you are subject to penalties for employing an illegal alien."

"I see," she said calmly, secure in the knowledge that her impending marriage would solve all problems.

"Where is he, Mrs. Brandberg?"

"He's been away." Thinking quickly, she told them he was visit
ing an old pal from her designing days. "He's with my friend Barbara Hopson up in Westchester."

The gumshoes looked dubious.

"He's an accomplished gardener, you know," Sue invented. "He's working temporarily for Barbara."

"What town in Westchester?"

"Bedford."

How could she get them out of the house? Genc might return, shorn, any minute.

"I do have the telephone number," she said eagerly. "Let me get it."

Sue retrieved her Filofax from the bedroom—quickly—and gave her questioners the number.

"If he returns, will you let us know?"

She nodded but said nothing.

Each of the Immigration agents gave her his card.

"I'll certainly let you know," she told them. "But right now you'll have to excuse me as my trainer will be here any minute."

"Fine, Mrs. Brandberg. I trust you will keep us informed about Serreqi's whereabouts."

The two men left before Genc's return, a mere five minutes later. He found her talking in an agitated way to Barbara Hopson, arranging a cover for her prospective husband. She put down the phone as he inquired whether she liked his new blow-dry hairdo.

"Yes, yes. It's gorgeous. But we have something else to talk about. The Immigration people are after you. We've got to go to the barricades."

"Barricades?"

"Shut up. Listen to me. I'm getting you a room at the Carlyle
Hotel. Under the name Gene Brandberg. You go there until I call you. Don't talk to anyone. The room will be paid for, so you don't have to do anything except to register under that name. Meanwhile, I've got to figure out how we can get married. Like this afternoon or tomorrow."

"That's what you want, Miszu?"

"Yes. Now hurry. You know where the hotel is. I took you there once. Madison and Seventy-sixth. Go there, lock yourself in your room and keep your trap shut."

"Trap?"

"Oh, Genc, just cooperate. Otherwise you'll be on the plane to Tirana before you know it. Call me and let me know your room number right away. Take a small bag with you so they won't ask questions."

"We are really going to get married, Miszu?"

"Yes, today, if I can arrange it."

.    .    .

Once Genc had left she called the Carlyle. The hotel, she was told, was fully booked, except for the Presidential Suite ($4,000 per night). She had no choice but to reserve it, asking the self-styled "reservationist" to have the bill sent to her.

"I'll need a credit card reference, Sue," the hotel operative said, affecting the first-name familiarity one associated with motel chains, not the Carlyle.

"Listen. I don't think you know to whom you're speaking. This is Sue Nation Brandberg, and if your credit manager doesn't know the name he's an idiot."

"Can you hold for a moment, Sue?"

In increasing fury, Sue listened to a canned version of the
Doctor
Zhivago
theme as the reservationist put her on hold.

"Mrs. Brandberg?" she said when she came back. "Of course we will send you the bill. Twenty-nine East Sixty-second Street, is it? We look forward to welcoming Mr. Brandberg."

Officious airhead, Sue thought. Then she called Brendon Proctor.

"Brendon, that prenuptial agreement. Can you have it ready this afternoon?"

Proctor's face tightened, but this being a client he wanted very much to retain, he answered affirmatively.

"And Brendon, will you please tell me what one has to do to get a marriage license? I need to know that now. Call me immediately."

Proctor deeply resented her request. In his years as a trust and estates lawyer, he had often been jerked around by wealthy clients, but seldom as peremptorily as this. And to find out information that in his lofty but wide and varied practice he hadn't a clue about.

Reluctantly he called Chase & Ward's managing clerk, who possessed, or knew how to obtain, such esoteric knowledge. Proctor had visions of a rumor sweeping the office within minutes that he, the perennial and contented bachelor, was about to tie the knot. But there was nothing he could do about that.

The answer came back in minutes: both parties had to appear in person at the Municipal Building downtown with unexpired picture IDs—passports were best—and documents relating to any prior marriage. Plus a money order for $30.

"
Money order!
Nobody's used a money order since the Second World War!"

"That's what they said, Mr. Proctor. No cash, no checks, no credit cards. Money order only."

"For Christ's sake."

"And there's a twenty-four-hour waiting period after the license is issued."

"Thanks. Thanks a bunch."

"Oh, and a blood test is no longer required."

"Will miracles never cease?"

.    .    .

Proctor relayed his newly acquired knowledge to his client. She was not fazed by the document requirements: surely Genc had a passport and she had hers. And she knew her marriage certificate and poor Harry's death certificate were in the safe upstairs in the bedroom. But the money order requirement flummoxed her, as it had Proctor. As did the 24-hour waiting period.

"Look, Brendon, you get the money order and come to the Carlyle Hotel, with that prenuptial agreement, at three o'clock. No later. Ask for Mr. Gene Brandberg. Oh, and Proctor, get a car. We have to get to the Municipal Building before the Marriage Bureau closes. And I'm sure there's some way that twenty-four-hour requirement can be waived. I'll tell them I'm about to give birth."

"I doubt we can do that, Sue. Got to give the prospective newly-weds time for a final day's reflection. And who, by the way, is going to perform the ceremony?"

"I don't give a damn, Proctor. Cardinal Lazaro perhaps. Can't they marry you right there at the license place?"

"I assume so but I don't know it," Proctor answered testily, angry with himself that he had not asked that question of his managing
clerk. "But you're going to have to wait twenty-four hours, I'm sure of it."

"To use an old Native American expression, Proctor, eaglefuck!"

.    .    .

Eldon had no idea what had gone on that day in Sue Brandberg's life when he called her after his press conference. He felt he had to make a personal apology to bring closure, as the postmoderns say, to the Wambli affair.

"Sue, it distresses me to tell you this, but those newspaper accounts of your dog's death are pretty much true. Your dog
did
bite me quite badly, after I accidentally stepped on him, but shooting him was wrong."

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor, I appreciate the call, though Wambli's death was probably the single worst thing that has ever happened in my life."

"I understand. What can I do to make it up to you?"

Sue, still upset and confused about her plan to save Genc from deportation, had a brainstorm.

"You can perform marriages, can't you?"

"I think so. I've never done it. But yes, I'm sure I can."

"Eldon, in a little while I'm going for a marriage license and I want to get married today."

"And who are you marrying?"

"Genc. The man who was walking Wambli."

Eldon swallowed hard but then offered his congratulations, improbable as the union seemed.

"There's only one problem," Sue told the mayor. "There's apparently a twenty-four-hour waiting period after you get the license. But I'm sure you as the mayor can waive that. Can't you?"

"I have no idea. But I'll find out. If I can do it, I will."

"Then we can let bygones be bygones, Eldon. Can you find out and let me know in, say, an hour?"

Eldon told her he would do his best and took down the number at the Carlyle. At once he called Noel Miller, his corporation counsel. Thirty minutes later the lawyer called back.

"I can't give you a clear answer," he informed the mayor. "The statute says twenty-four hours. But it is at least arguable that you can exercise your inherent powers as mayor to give a waiver."

"These days I'm not sure I have any powers, inherent or otherwise."

"The best thing to do would be to have your couple wait. What the hell is the emergency?"

"I can't say for sure," the mayor said.

"Well, I don't think you'll go to jail if you waive the requirement, but it's not a great idea."

.    .    .

Miller's lukewarm blessing was enough in the circumstances. He called Sue at the hotel and relayed the news.

"Can you marry us at five o'clock? Brendon Proctor tells me the Marriage Bureau is across the street from you."

"Sue, I obviously owe you one. Come at five o'clock, to the back entrance on the Court Street side. I'll have Jack Gullighy meet you."

.    .    .

The mayor called in his press secretary and told him the situation.

"Great! You think you can get her to say all is forgiven? This
place is still crawling with reporters and she could make a statement. First break you've had in a long time, Eldon."

"Yes."

.    .    .

At the Carlyle, luxuriating in the velvety splendor of the Presidential Suite, Sue told Genc and Brendon of the plan to have the mayor perform the marriage. The lawyer, at his most businesslike, explained the intricacies of the prenuptial agreement he had drawn up. He was especially careful to explain the provisions to Genc; he was nervous that the young man did not have his own lawyer, but there wasn't time for that.

He was not the only one nervous. Genc's stomach was churning. He had assumed the marriage ceremony would be a quiet one performed by a functionary in the registry office, or whatever it was called. Not one performed by the mayor of the city, and one sure to attract publicity that just might get back to Tirana. The prospective groom also little understood Proctor's legal exegesis of the prenuptial agreement. What was he getting into?

"The one thing we need, Mr. Serreqi, is a list of your property to be attached to the agreement."

Genc shrugged.

"My sneakers? My jeans? My suit?"

"No, no. Bank accounts, investments, real estate. That sort of thing."

"Nothing, sir. The only valuable possession I have is a ring, which is back at Mrs. Brandberg's."

"What ring, Genc? I've never seen you wear one."

"I don't wear, I keep. It is a family ring."

Prompted by the lawyer he described it as a simple gold band, but with some small diamonds embedded in the front.

Proctor wrote in the description on Exhibit B (Exhibit A consisting of 98 pages inventorying Sue's more valuable assets).

After signing, the trio took off in the car Proctor had hired. There was a quick stop at 62nd Street, where Genc changed into his Armani suit, recovered his Albanian passport from under his mattress and took down the prized ring from the back of the top closet shelf in his room. He stared at the ring for a long moment before slipping it into his pocket.

Back in the car he showed the ring to Sue, who was now wearing a well-tailored but simple green dress (her usual black somehow had not seemed appropriate for the occasion).

"It's beautiful," she said, though it was much less ostentatious than any of her jewelry. "My God. We need a wedding ring! Can we use this one? Will you give it to me, Genc?"

Serreqi seemed hesitant, but then said, "Of course, Miszu."

Proctor hurried them along, warning that time was running out.