by James Duffy
Mercifully there were no jokes about canine homicides, and Eldon, steeling himself, even made a tentative gesture to pet the dog. The crowd applauded some more, the photographer snapped away and the mayor left in friendly triumph.
"Better than last time," he muttered to Fasco and Braddock as they headed back to Manhattan.
. . .
Maybe better than last time, but it turned out only marginally so. The next morning's Post-News featured the photograph of Miguel and Eldon—the cheering crowd cropped out—on the front page, revealing a dogphobe's steely smile that scarcely concealed underlying fear and loathing. "Better Watch Out, Doggie," the caption began. And in the upper left corner of the front page was a black-bordered box—
—presumably referring to the mayor's reluctance to lift his pants leg.
. . .
"Can't win 'em all, Mr. Mayor," Gullighy told his boss helpfully Wednesday morning.
"Thank you."
"I've scheduled the press conference for two o'clock. You want to make a statement, or just get up and stonewall?"
"I want a statement about that embryo business. That I'm unequivocally in favor of properly conducted, responsible research on animal embryos. The rest I'll handle. Okay?"
"You got it."
"Meanwhile, if you will permit, I have a meeting with the Technology Zone Task Force. It will be nice to do some substantive work around this place for a change."
. . .
The meeting with the task force should have been a triumph. The chairman, Don Mead, was Eldon's commissioner of economic development. He was a former Wall Street investment banker with both a brain and a social conscience. He had been in the Peace Corps in Nigeria and had an idealistic view of the world that he had managed to retain even while rising to the top at an aggressive Wall Street banking house. He could be brash and tough—he had had to be in the brutal internal wars within his own firm—but he had avoided the seduction of regarding the ever-expanding accumulation of personal wealth, formerly known as greed, as his ultimate goal in life. He was that interesting and rare phenomenon, a true liberal who was also a multimillionaire.
Like Eldon, he shared the view that good could be done for—and more important, with—the poor, mis- and uneducated, often dysfunctional underclass. Eldon had spotted him on one study commission or another, and easily, as it turned out, persuaded him to join the Hoagland administration.
Mead's brief from the professorial Eldon had been to put aside the (failed) clichés of the War on Poverty, Urban Renewal (with a capital "U" and a capital "R") and the other nostrums for dealing with urban deprivation.
"I know they say if you teach a man to fish he will eat for a lifetime," Eldon had told him. "But that ignores that the waters he will fish in are polluted, his fishing gear is likely to be stolen and his family will soon tire of an all-fish diet. We need new approaches, Don, and you're a tough enough son of a bitch to develop them. The technology zone first and foremost."
Mead had accepted the challenge, at a cut in income that meant little to him, and assembled the Technology Zone Task Force from within and without the city administration. They were all present today in the mayor's conference room: Sal Miskovitz, an extraordinary number cruncher and municipal budget expert from the comptroller's office; Mina Gordon, Mead's cool assistant and an alumna of another downtown banking firm; Jared Vaughan, a black economist from the Finance Administration who had actually visited (or more precisely, grown up in) one of the desolate areas that were the task force's concern. The three staff members were two Ph.D. candidates from Columbia whom Eldon had supervised, Mary Palucci and Christopher Lehrman, and a young intern, Garry Spiller, from the Public Affairs Program at NYU.
This serious group rose as one when Eldon entered the room, which he circled, shaking hands. There were empty coffee cups amid the papers on the table, but no one had left exposed a copy of the morning Post-News (which they had all read avidly).
"What have you got for me?" he asked as he sat down next to Mead.
"Mr. Mayor, we hope we have a doable technology zone proposal and one that won't break your budget."
"Good. That's what I like to hear."
Spiller handed Eldon a stapled set of pages that duplicated the sheets on a flip chart at one end of the long conference table. Then he went and turned the title page on the visual display.
"Here it is in a nutshell," Mead explained. "One billion spread over five years to start the highest-technology state-of-the-art complex anywhere. That includes the construction of a high school building and a new City College branch at the site. As you will see, the potential is for a minimum of five thousand high school and college graduates within eight years and a minimum of forty-five hundred new jobs at the end of five."
"The schools. I hope they'll teach computer skills and not just how to change a spark plug."
"Yessir. That's a later chart. You'll see that."
"What about tax breaks for the industries coming in? You include them as a cost in your billion?"
"No, we do not. Hopefully the tax deals will be at a minimum and the chance for skilled labor in a convenient location will be enough to attract plenty of high-tech upstarts. We don't want tax considerations to be the tail wagging the dog."
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.
TWENTY
Gullighy 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 itself." 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.
TWENTY-ONE
Wheels 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 app
eared 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 visiting 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.
