Dog Bites Man (18 page)

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At the Marriage License Bureau, Genc and Sue sat side by side filling out the obligatory forms. When he came to the question about previous marriages, he leaned over and whispered to Sue, outside of Proctor's hearing.

"Miszu, there is something I must tell you. That ring I have? It was my wedding ring."

"I know," she said impatiently. "We already agreed we'd use it."

"No, it is
my
wedding ring. You see, I have a wife in Albania."

"You what?"

"I'm sorry. I had to tell you. Greta, my wife. She is in Tirana. We were separated before I left, but we never were divorce-ed. Here is a picture." He pulled out his wallet and extracted a faded snapshot showing a couple in the back of a rose-bedecked donkey cart—Genc in a dark jacket, the woman in a white dress.

"Fine time to bring this up! I don't believe it. You had a steady girlfriend. You lived with her. But you were not married," Sue said, denying the pictorial evidence before her. "And no children, for God's sake?"

"No, no children. But we married. Greta and me."

"Well, maybe in Albania. By the communists. Nobody would recognize that marriage here."

"Are you sure, Miszu? Should I ask Mr. Proctor?"

"No! Take my word for it. So there, where it says, were you ever married, the answer is
N-O,
no." She pointed to the space on the form in front of Genc.

Genc looked dubious but complied. A green card was a green card. But would this lie on an official form trip him up somehow, green card or no green card? The churning in his stomach did not cease.

As they left the bureau, license in hand, Sue spoke sternly to her husband-to-be. "I never want to hear about this Greta again. Do you understand me? Never."

"Yes, Miszu."

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As Eldon had advised, Sue, Brendon and Genc slipped into the back door of City Hall, but not before Genc had impulsively bought his bride a small bouquet of autumn daisies from a street vendor. The mayor was ready for them, having obtained from Miller a copy of
the form of words he was to use for the ceremony. He greeted his guests with what warmth he could muster in his exhausted state.

"Mr. Mayor, are you sure you can do this—that you can waive the waiting period? I haven't researched the matter," Proctor said. He wanted to cover himself, especially since he was certain he'd be pressed into service as a witness.

"I'm assured that I can. So shall we proceed? Oh—witnesses. You, I assume, Brendon. But what about a bridesmaid?"

Betsy Twinsett was hastily summoned from her downstairs office. She arrived out of breath but with enough wind left to blow a loose blonde lock out of her face.

She recognized Mrs. Brandberg and was sure her intended was Wambli's walker—the man who had recognized the mayor. What on earth were they doing here? But she didn't ask questions and remarked only that "weddings are fun."

The ceremony, utilizing Genc's "family" ring, was brief. Gullighy was absent on a sneaky errand—alerting the Room Nine press that something of interest was afoot. He returned just as the groom kissed his bride.

Eldon kissed her, too, and wished them both happiness. "Am I forgiven, Sue?" he asked.

"Yes, sweetie. You're forgiven. You did an awful thing, but you were man enough to 'fess up and apologize. In the end."

He smoothly guided the newlyweds out, this time through the main entrance of City Hall and straight into the army of flacks.

Sue was shocked as the photographers blazed away. Genc was terrified; might a photograph end up in Albania? Greta watched the international news program faithfully every night. His worst fears were being confirmed.

It was impossible to get past the inquiring phalanx. Why was
she at City Hall? Who was her husband? Did she have hard feelings toward the mayor?

To Gullighy's relief, she pardoned the First Dog Killer as the cameras clicked and ground away.

Aided by Proctor and Gullighy, and shielded by her new spouse, Sue finally extricated herself and reached her waiting car without answering more questions barked at her by her pursuers.

Once safely inside, she instructed the driver to go to the Carlyle, knowing that her own house was probably besieged by even more reporters.

"We'll spend the night at the hotel. In our Presidential Suite. And I'm going to expect four thousand dollars' worth of damn good fucking."

Genc gave her a weak smile.

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Over dinner and a bottle of champagne—to celebrate the end of the Incident—Eldon described to Edna the bizarre events of the afternoon.

"It sounds like your political psoriasis has dried up, dear."

"Yes, I feel cured." Eldon took a deep swig of his champagne. "You know, Edna, those restaurants, places that have done a lousy job, how they post a sign, 'Under New Management'? Well, tomorrow we start our restaurant with new management. A brand-clean joint. With no dogs allowed."

T
he 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, figura
tively at least, and admitted his complicity in the killing of Sue Na
tion Brandberg's Staffordshire terrier puppy. In a crowded City
Hall press conference, the mayor acknowledged what had been ru
mored 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 by
his administration had started to unravel. It was unclear whether
New Yorkers were more stunned by the killing or by the mayor's at
tempt 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 offi
ciating 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 a
nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated." The same
could be said of our city. So what does it say about ourselves when
we are led by a First Citizen who cold-bloodedly orders the shoot
ing of an innocent puppy belonging to one of our most distin
guished citizens?

What it says is that Mayor Eldon Hoagland must resign. His
conduct in the dog murder that has riveted the attention of law-
abiding citizens for so many weeks is unspeakable, unconscionable
and uncivilized. The fact that the dog's owner, bedazzled both by
love and the prospect of a City Hall marriage, has forgiven him does
not mean that we have to.

Mayor Hoagland has set us a terrible example. He must go, and
go now. Nothing he said in his press conference—cheap politician
and-dog remarks reminiscent of Richard Nixon's infamous Check
ers speech—gives us grounds for forgiveness. He has committed his
crime and must suffer the consequences. Go, Mayor Hoagland, and
spare 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. But
we don't run around killing them. Archie Meehan

Dear Mayor Hoagland: Please don't come to Staten Island, ever
again. I don't want to have to lock up my dear Rusty when you're in
the neighborhood. Donna Manzoni

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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.

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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 re
ported 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."

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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."