by James Duffy
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.
. . .
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 reported 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."
. . .
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 spe
ech, 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."
. . .
Eldon picked up a new security detail as he rushed out of his office. Fasco and Braddock, who normally would have been starting their afternoon tour, were gone. Their replacements, who introduced themselves as Adam Polanski and Rick Leiter, were roughly the size of the tallest member of the Addams family.
The trio got acquainted on the way to Mario Procaccino Elementary School in Queens. Both were married, lived outside the city in Nesconset and came to their new assignments from the NYPD's SWAT team. Eldon knew this was the elite force that protected visiting foreign dignitaries from assassination. He was gratified by this but hoped it did not mean that some new threats on his life had been withheld from him.
The mayor's visit to the school was another attempt at business as usual, despite the distractions of the Incident. It was also a pay-back to Wendy Halstead. One of her favorite charities was an outfit called SchoolArt, which attempted to supplement the pathetic Board of Education appropriations for art education in the public schools by paying young artists to give classes. This was the 25th anniversary year of the project and Eldon was to visit a class to commemorate and publicize the milestone.
At Procaccino Elementary he was met by Wendy. "Eldon, dear, it was so good of you to come. I know this must be a very trying time for you."
"Yes. And if I'd never gone to that dinner party of yours, I might not have a care in the world."
"Come. I know you'll be impressed with the work we're doing. We're going to see a third-grade drawing class. It's being given by a sweet young artist named Audrey Fine. You'll love her and you'll love it."
Ms. Fine was a delight, at least to the eye. Pert, with long brown hair tied back, she shook hands with Eldon and gave him a dazzling smile. Her fifteen wiggly charges looked on with interest.
"Today we're having a free-form-drawing session. The students have all been thinking about what they might draw for you." Crayons were at the ready before blank pages in the drawing pads. "Go ahead and ask any of them to draw something."
Eldon selected a pigtailed sprout at the front of the classroom. "What is your name?"
"Esther."
"Well, Esther, what are you going to draw for me?"
"My house."
"Wonderful."
The girl set diligently to work and soon had produced a sketch of a housing development high-rise.
"I live there," she said, putting an "X" midway up the building.
"Splendid." In short order Eldon had not only a house but a fire engine, a new baby sister and an apple tree rendered for him.
"One more," the teacher said.
"How about you?" Eldon pointed to a ruddy-faced boy with an old-fashioned brush cut. "What are you going to draw?"
"You'll see."
The mayor looked over his shoulder as he began making the outline of an animal. As the sketch developed, Eldon asked if it was the boy's dog.
"No, no. It's Wambli. Can't you tell?"
Ms. Fine obviously did not read the newspapers, as she congratulated the budding artist on his effort. "How nice. A dog named Wambli. How do you spell that?"
"I don't know. I heard it on television. He's the dog that got shot."
Eldon sucked in his breath and managed a tight, very tight, smile. "Good, young man."
Wendy, at Eldon's side, drew him away. "I'm afraid that's all we have time for," she said. Fortunately she was quick enough that the pool photographer accompanying them did not get a picture with the artist and his subject.
"My apologies, Ms. Fine, but I'm running late and must go. But thank you for a delightful time. And good luck to you."
"I'm sorry, Eldon," Wendy whispered as they left the classroom.
"That's all right, my dear. I've got to reconcile myself to the fact that that dog has taken over my life."
. . .
Coverage of and editorializing about the Incident ceased for the next couple of days. It was clear, however, that the staff of The Post-News had been told to keep the issue alive wherever possible, with a tenacity befitting a Staffordshire terrier biting into a human leg. Thus a sports columnist, writing about the glories of attending an autumn game at Yankee Stadium, slipped in, "unless, of course, you'd rather be out shooting innocent dogs." And one of their several self-righteous preacher-columnists, writing as he often did about moral degeneration, managed to make a reference to the evils of "relativism," which would allow one to slay a sentient animal.
. . .
The mayor's e-mail had not improved. One bullet was addressed to "You Speciesist Shit" and another wondered if the mayor "would slaughter his pig wife."
"These people are deranged," Eldon remarked to Gullighy, who read the computer's disgorging with him.
The e-mail also included a copy of the ALA's posting to animal rights sympathizers, announcing the Wambli Memorial Rally and urging one and all to attend.
"Well, at least Barbra Streisand isn't going to sing."
"Don't bank on it."
. . .
At lunchtime, Gullighy burst into his boss's office.
"I'm afraid there's something out here you ought to see."
Fearing the worst, Eldon followed his press secretary to a front window in the Blue Room. Outside, at the edge of City Hall Park, was an inflated balloon some 18 feet high in the shape of a dog, albeit a spotted one, probably a Dalmatian. Nonetheless it had a large sign around its neck saying WAMBLI and was festooned with black ribbons. It was one of the ALA's guerilla tactics, the guy ropes held by Stacey, Conrad and Alfred, with Amber Sweetwater in front, passing out flyers for the October 20th rally. (Gullighy and Hoagland did not know that Conrad had once worked in the promotion department at Macy's; he had located the New Jersey balloon maker for the Macy's parade and rented out the retreaded Dalmatian.)
"Remember that girl, the one with the leaflets?" Eldon asked.
"Vaguely."
"She used to work at Gracie until Edna fired her."
"Hell hath no fury—"
"Oh, shut up."
. . .
Eldon decided to pack things in early that day. One of the prerogatives of being mayor was that he could set his own schedule; he did not have to work the nine-to-five day of a bank teller or an ordinary civil servant. He was free to do as he pleased, except for the inexorable demands of appearances at events scheduled by Betsy Twinsett and Gullighy. For two nights in a row he had been at benefit dinners she had committed him to attend. Their banal sameness was predictable: an execrable dinner in a badly ventilated hotel ballroom, hackneyed and overlong speeches extolling the honoree of the evening (read: a successful CEO whose corporation had taken two or three pricey tables to support the sponsoring charity), with graceful and appropriate remarks by the mayor at the beginning, middle or end of the dreary affair. It was the exceptional case when anyone en
joyed being at such a dinner; it was mostly you-scratch-my-back-and-I'll-scratch-yours reciprocity—I'll take a table at yours if you take a table at mine. It was a tedious way to raise money for charities, however worthy they might be, but no one had come up with a better method.
Two nights before, he had attended a gala benefitting a Bronx orphanage at which a Silicon Valley hotshot, aged 28, had been feted. (Hope springs eternal—perhaps the attention would lead the nerd executive to turn some of his paper profits to account for the orphans.) Then last night there had been something called a "super supper," prepared by a bevy of New York's hottest chefs, in honor of the nonagenarian Victoria Lawrence, owner of the Airedale, Stephen, who had created a minor disruption at the St. Francis Festival. She, long gloves intact, was being celebrated for still another beneficence from her late husband's fortune, this time to a bilingual literacy program ("Uno, no. Dos, sí!"). Eldon, on the defensive, thought there had been a smirk or two when he shook hands with the organizers of these events, but mercifully there had been no cheap jokes at his expense or references to the Incident. (The one exception had come at the Lawrence supper when he had encountered Governor Foote as they found their places on the dais. He gave her the obligatory air kiss—the media would have babbled about a slight or a snub had he not done so—and she whispered, "Bowwow!" as he pressed against her rough cheek.)
No, tonight he and Edna were going to dine at Gracie, quite possibly on one of Julio's greasy olla podridas. So he picked up his security detail and was driven north to the mansion.
"Holy Hannah!" Polanski exclaimed as he drove up York Avenue and approached the mayor's residence.
There on the sidewalk near the entrance was the inflated spotted dog, transported uptown from City Hall. It suddenly became clear that this apparition was going to follow Eldon wherever he might go, as it did for the next few days.
The ALAers jeered as his car entered the driveway, but otherwise there was no trouble. As predicted, dinner was olla podrida. He and Edna choked it down and tried to remain oblivious to the boisterous noise outside.
Both The Times and The Post-News ran pictures of the inflatable Wambli the next morning. The latter also had extensive coverage of the ALAers' planned rally, peppered with quotes from Ralph Bernardo about the rightness of their cause and their hopes for bringing the mayor down. The weekly "Critters" column (one of several desperate attempts to attract a more upscale readership, on the theory that pet owners were by and large affluent) ran a feature on the psychology of dog murder; a number of therapists were interviewed, each one with a different theory of motivation for the canine-killing act (examples of actual executions being notably lacking).
