Dog Bites Man (15 page)

The upshot of this embarrassing comedy, when it was revealed, had been a declaration by the health commissioner that supervision of grants under his jurisdiction would be tightened. Dr. Englund, like every other research doctor in New York, believed with confident arrogance that he was pushing forward the frontiers of science and that he should be funded in this remarkable work with few, if any, questions asked; his televised admonition to the mayor to shut up pretty much summed up his attitude toward any potential critic or inquisitor.

He had been deputized because of his lofty reputation to give the governor an early warning that her commissioner might stir up unnecessary contention if he tried to breach the protective walls of the city's preeminent research institutions.

He had met the governor socially on a number of occasions, but
not nearly often enough to call her Randilynn. He had asked at an earlier lunch at the common table of his club whether she was "Madame Governor" or simply "Governor" and had been advised that "Governor" would do.

The conversation, actually a short monologue by the Nobelist, was proper and polite. At the end the governor said she had seen him on television the night before and agreed with him completely.

"They tell me I shoot my mouth off all the time," she said, "but I certainly wouldn't stick my hand in that bucket of worms, if I can use that phrase. What do you suppose got into the mayor?"

"I am at a total loss, Governor. He called me this morning and said he was misquoted, but it was not a satisfactory conversation."

"Is he losing his mind?" she asked hopefully.

"That's a trifle strong, Governor, but he certainly showed bad judgment."

When the conversation ended, she turned to Pedro Raifeartaigh with a cackle. "Listen to this, Raifeartaigh. The most eminent scientist in the Empire State thinks Eldon's losing it. I felt like saying, 'Fuckin'-
A
right he is,' but you know I only talk that way to you, sweetie."

"Yes, Governor." (And, "Three bags full, Governor," he murmured to himself.)

A
fter she had moved her things to her friend Gretchen's, Amber Sweetwater went to the nearest newsstand and looked over the display of front pages, seeking the name of Scoop's publication. There it was.
The Surveyor.

She called the paper's number, wondering if the operator would know who Scoop was. Fortunately the nickname had been in sufficiently wide use that she did and Amber was put through.

Scoop had been tempted to tell the operator that he was on deadline and to refuse the call, but when he was told it was Amber calling he instantly changed his mind; he remembered that she was the girl from Gracie Mansion.

"Hello."

"This is Amber."

"Yes. You work for the mayor, right?"

"Hmm. Yes."

Before Scoop could ask if he could see her—might not she be the second source he wanted?—she requested a meeting with him.

"I need some advice," she explained.

Scoop had a dilemma. His Wambli story was not going well and was due at noon the next day. But he thought he'd better spare the time to see the girl, just in case she could reveal something that might help him.

They met at Humpty Dumpty's, a bar on Second Avenue. It was deserted at three o'clock in the afternoon, so they could talk freely. Amber told the story of being fired and her desire for revenge.

"Were you mistreated?"

"No, not exactly. She was a real bitch to me but no, I wasn't."

Scoop thought a bit, sipping on a beer. "You a city employee? Civil service? I don't know anything about it, but can't you bring a grievance?"

"I dunno. I wasn't a member of the union. Julio, the chef, joined but I didn't. Couldn't afford the dues on what I was paid."

"Which was?"

"Room and board and a hundred and fifty dollars a week."

"Slave labor! There may be an angle there if you want to go public."

"I'll carry a banner through the street. Naked. If I can get back at them. Specially her."

"Let me think about it."

Amber tentatively brought up the matter of her diary. "You know anything about publishing?" she asked.

"Not much, but I can find out. Why?"

"Well, I did, like, keep a diary of what went on at the mansion."

"You did?" Scoop asked, a light suddenly going on. "Like what happened the night of August sixteenth?"

"Sure. But I don't know anything went on that day."

"Late that night—did the mayor come home with a dog bite on his leg?"

"Gee, I don't remember anything like that. But I'd have to look to see what I wrote."

The pair hurried off to Gretchen's, several blocks away, where the diary was stashed in a box of Amber's meager possessions.

"What was the date again?" she asked, once she had retrieved her bound notebook.

"August sixteenth. A Monday."

"Let's see . . . lunch for Mrs. Hoagland and some people from Ronald McDonald House. We'd been told no hamburgers, so had some kind of tortillas instead. . . . Then she had dinner alone. Ate the rest of the awful chicken gizzards from the night before, I remember. . . . Wait, let's see . . . 'That black jerk Tommy Braddock came down to the kitchen after midnight and woke me up while he searched around for first aid supplies. Said the mayor had a cut on his leg. Very unfriendly. Mayor may have been drunk. . . .'"

"You wrote that? Let me see!" Scoop shouted.

He read the passage and pulled out his own notebook.

"Can I copy this?"

"I guess so," Amber said, puzzled at his excitement.

"Anything else you can tell me about that night?"

"Let me think. Braddock came back later, I remember, with that other creep, Gene Fasco. They sat and drank coffee and had a long conversation. I could hear them, but not much of what they were saying. Except Braddock did raise his voice once, shouting about garbage bags, I think it was."

Scoop wrote this down; were they looking for a garbage bag to dispose of Wambli's body, perhaps?

"Any mention of a dog?"

"Dog? No, I don't think so."

"I've got to go, Amber. I'm on deadline. But let's do Squiggles some night. Can I call you here?"

"Sure. And you will find out about publishing for me, won't you?"

.    .    .

Publishing, indeed.
He
was about to break the story of the year. He returned to the newspaper office and began phoning. Leaky
Swansea. Was the mayor at your apartment on August 16th? ("I don't remember.") Did he get drunk? Slam went the phone.

Gene Fasco and Tommy Braddock (if Amber had their names right). "I'm sorry, it's against department rules for members of the mayor's security guard to talk to the press," the Police Department press officer told him. "But I'll be happy to try and get an answer to any question you may have."

Scoop decided not to pursue the Police Department lead. No point in having the NYPD up in arms before the story ran. Instead he called a press corps buddy from Elaine's, a reporter for
The Post-
News,
and asked him if he could find out Fasco's and Braddock's full names. It took his more experienced colleague one phone call to get the information; little did he know he was helping put together a news beat that would acutely embarrass his own paper.

Working through the night, Scoop had a draft ready for Justin Boyd when he appeared in the morning. Boyd scanned it eagerly and announced that it "really kicks Hoagland in the achers."

"Achers?"

"Sorry. Britspeak for 'balls.' Or as I suppose you'd prefer to say, 'testicles.' Be that as it may, I have a few quibbles.

"Park Avenue Pit Bull, the freedom fighter angle, thunder from Jack Gullighy—all that's fine. And that girl, Sweetwater, excellent. But you're too fond of 'appears' and 'apparently,' my boy. Step up to the plate. The mystery doesn't
appear
to be solved, it is solved. And the mayor didn't
apparently
tell his men to shoot the dog, he
did
tell them.

"Then, later, you have him emerging from the apartment building. How about emerging 'unsteadily'? I think we can get away with that."

"By the way," Scoop asked, "you want me to work in something about the animal rights thing?"

"No, no. We'll put a graph or two about that inside, to cover ourselves. But no point in touting the competition's story."

"Don't you have a problem with that? Mine says the mayor ordered his men to shoot Wambli, the other will say he so loves animals that he sided with the ALA."

"That's for him to puzzle out, not me. Isn't it just possible he's a hypocrite?"

.    .    .

Scoop's story went to press that night, but before
The Surveyor
appeared on the newsstand the following noon,
The Times
was heard from. Contrary to Eldon's belief that the "Public Lives" item would be the end of its coverage, the editors did a full-court press on the ALA controversy, obviously miffed at
The Post-News
's purple reporting. Under a front-page headline, "Mayor in Bitter Animal Rights Dispute,"
The Times
story began: "Mayor Eldon Hoagland yesterday was between the Scylla of the support he gave the militant Animal Liberation Army's position against research involving animal embryos and the Charybdis of the city's medical establishment, vocally opposed to the mayor's stand."

The story, which was restrained and fair, recounted the details. Then it ran quotes from a dozen diverse, and polarized, sources, including Cardinal Lazaro, Dr. Englund, the heads of the National Institutes of Health and the National Right to Life Committee, Barbra Streisand, a spokesman for the National Abortion Rights League and two congressmen embroiled in the embryology-funding controversy in Washington.

The paper also ran three sidebars: a history of the animal rights movement, a status report on the current work being done in embryology and what can only be described as a history of the embryo. The last feature stretched back to quote Galen's second-century treatise
The Formulation of the Fetus
and reproduced a Leonardo da Vinci drawing of a fetus in utero along with a photograph showing a chicken's egg in the third day of gestation. All that was lacking was a pronouncement from the editorial board.

.    .    .

The Hoaglands, oblivious to
The Times
's new tack, were spending a quiet evening at Gracie watching
Titanic
on the VCR when Gullighy burst in, copies of the newspaper in hand.

"The fat lady has sung."

He handed over one to Eldon, one to Edna.

Eldon read the whole coverage without comment. Edna did, too, but remarked, "Well, Eldon, this is certainly educational. I know much more about embryos than when I started. And I'm a doctor."

"I don't know what we do," Eldon said, in a toneless voice. "We've got this, and from what you told me earlier, Jack, a piece in
The Surveyor
as well. I'm going back to Minnesota."

"It's gonna be tough, Eldon," Gullighy told him. "But keep cool. You're still the mayor of the greatest city in the world."

"Yes, tonight."

.    .    .

Scoop's story appeared on schedule on Thursday:

PARK AVENUE MYSTERY SOLVED:
MAYOR'S MEN SHOT PIT BULL

—————

Kosovo Freedom Fighter Recognizes Assailants

—————

Mayor Ordered Cops to "Off" the Dog

By FREDERICK P. RICE

The brutal killing, reported here last week, of the Park Avenue
Pit Bull outside 818 Fifth Avenue on August 16th has been solved.
The killers of the dog were two bodyguards of Mayor Eldon
Hoagland, acting at his direction.

Last week The Surveyor reported the midnight murder of heiress
Sue Nation Brandberg's prize Staffordshire bull terrier, named
Wambli, outside the exclusive Fifth Avenue apartment house. The
dog's walker at the time he was killed, who originally identified
himself to this reporter only as "G," has now come forward to accuse
Eugenio R. Fasco and Thomas N. Braddock, two members of the
mayor's security detail, of the killing.

Originally, "G" was unwilling to talk on the record but Tuesday,
the day after attending the St. Francis Festival on the lawn of Gracie
Mansion, he changed his mind. Here are the facts.

"G," identified only by his initial and his past as a soldier in the
Balkans fighting for Kosovo's independence, has agreed to go on
the record: he is Genc Serreqi, a 26-year-old Albanian who works
for Mrs. Brandberg.

Mr. Serreqi attended the mayor's festival for officials and
friends of the Coalition for Animal Welfare as a guest of his em
ployer. Previously he had identified the dog's killers only as un
known "men in black suits" that he took to be gangsters. But at the
Gracie Mansion fete he recognized two of the "gangsters" as the
mayor's bodyguards—and the third as the mayor, Eldon Hoagland,
himself.

It is believed that the mayor was visiting his former Princeton
roommate Milford Swansea at the Fifth Avenue address the night
of the tragedy, although Swansea, when contacted by this reporter,
refused to confirm or deny this.

When the mayor emerged unsteadily from the apartment build
ing, he lost his balance and tripped over the hind leg of the dog, who
was pissing at the time. The animal reacted violently and bit the
mayor on his right calf.

At this point the two bodyguards opened fire, sending a hail of
bullets into the helpless dog's body, presumably killing it. Mr. Ser
reqi, fearful for his life, as was earlier reported, ran from the scene
into the comparative safety of Central Park.

At the time of the fracas, Serreqi alleges, he heard the mayor tell
his men to "off " the dog, and their shots were in response to his
command.

Additional confirmation for this account comes from the testi
mony of Amber Sweetwater, 24, until this week a nonunion em
ployee in the kitchen at the mansion.

Sweetwater told this reporter that on the night in question Offi
cer Braddock came down to the kitchen, after he and his partner
had brought the mayor home, in search of first aid supplies. Later,
he and Sgt. Fasco had a long conversation over coffee in the man
sion kitchen. Sweetwater, who slept in a small adjoining room,
could hear their voices but not what they were saying, except for a
reference to "garbage bags"—possibly as a means of disposing of the
dog's body.