by James Duffy
"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 especia
lly 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.
. . .
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."
. . .
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.
. . .
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."
TWENTY-TWO
The 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, figuratively at least, and admitted his complicity in the killing of Sue Nation Brandberg's Staffordshire terrier puppy. In a crowded CityHall press conference, the mayor acknowledged what had been rumored 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 byhis administration had started to u
nravel. It was unclear whetherNew Yorkers were more stunned by the killing or by the mayor's attempt 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 officiating 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 anation can be judged by the way its animals are treated." The samecould be said of our city. So what does it say about ourselves whenwe are led by a First Citizen who cold-bloodedly orders the shooting of an innocent puppy belonging to one of our most distinguished citizens?
What it says is that Mayor Eldon Hoagland must resign. Hisconduct in the dog murder that has riveted the attention of law-abiding citizens for so many weeks is unspeakable, unconscionableand uncivilized. The fact that the dog's owner, bedazzled both bylove and the prospect of a City Hall marriage, has forgiven him doesnot mean that we have to.
Mayor Hoagland has set us a terrible example. He must go, andgo now. Nothing he said in his press conference—cheap politicianand-dog remarks reminiscent of Richard Nixon's infamous Checkers speech—gives us grounds for forgiveness. He has committed hiscrime and must suffer the consequences. Go, Mayor Hoagland, andspare 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. Butwe don't run around killing them. Archie Meehan
Dear Mayor Hoagland: Please don't come to Staten Island, everagain. I don't want to have to lock up my dear Rusty when you're inthe neighborhood. Donna Manzoni
. . .
