by James Duffy
And the inflatable Wambli was back outside City Hall.
. . .
Brother Aloysius, the chief dog breeder at the Order of St. Eustache monastery, called George McGinty in the Chancery Office that morning.
"Monsignor, we need the cardinal's help. I don't know how familiar you are with our operation, but we are very dependent on sales of the dogs we breed."
"Yes, I know about what you do. Pit bulls, isn't it?"
"We prefer not to call them that. The, um, connotations of that term are not felicitous. We prefer to say American Staffordshire terriers. Which brings me to the reason for my call. This controversy that's going on about your mayor. It has not helped us at all. People are canceling orders for our newly bred dogs right and left because your mayor has characterized our terriers as brutal and vicious."
"Yes. I'm familiar with the issue."
"Could not His Eminence call him? Ask him perhaps to make a statement that however blameworthy the dog that bit him was, he did not mean to criticize all American Staffies as a breed? You know, sort of the sins of the father being visited upon the sons—the puppies we are trying to sell? Otherwise we may very well have to disband."
"Brother, I will convey your request to His Eminence, but I can't promise anything."
"God bless you."
. . .
It was well that Monsignor McGinty had not made a promise to Brother Aloysius. Cardinal Lazaro found the idea "preposterous."
"Why are they breeding dogs anyway? Why don't they make jam? Or invent a new liqueur? No, I take that back. Better stick to jam."
"So I should tell him no?"
"Tell him I am very sympathetic to his plight. I shall pray for the monks. But the mayor, poor man, needs my prayers, too. This whole controversy is so petty—blown up out of all proportion. You don't need to tell Brother Aloysius that, but it's true."
"I'll simply say you don't think it would be prudent to intervene."
"Exactly." Then, a tiny smile on his face, he added, "George, just one other thing."
"Yes, Your Eminence?"
"Cave canem."
. . .
When Monsignor McGinty relayed the cardinal's gentle rejection to Brother Aloysius, this did not end the matter. Years before, the monk had been in Catholic high school with Francis Xavier O'Noone, the founder and one of several dozen members of something called the St. Sebastian Society, ready to take the sharp arrows pointed at Catholics by an unfriendly secular world. Anything more radical than a Roman-collared Bing Crosby singing "Swinging on a Star" set O'Noone off; he could find blasphemy lurking in the most innocent artistic expression. His strident charges of anti-Catholic bigotry, often leveled at the most hapless targets, were a constant embarrassment to Cardinal Lazaro, who was not a supporter but nonetheless felt constrained from denouncing him because of his evidently sincere religiosity. As the cardinal once said, paraphrasing Alexander Pope, the worst madman is a saint run mad.
By way of illustration, the SSS's most recent campaign had been against the common appellation for a vodkaless Bloody Mary—a "Virgin Mary." O'Noone had railed against this label as being an undignified evocation of the Blessed Virgin, though it was not clear whether this was merely because the Blessed Mother's name was invoked or because her name was associated with a nonalcoholic drink (O'Noone having some knowledge of spirits himself). In any event, the SSS staged a campaign to eliminate the Virgin Mary name from drink menus in the city's cocktail lounges, the suggestion being that "Bloody Shame" would be a more fitting identifier. This of course quite overlooked the vulgar connotation of "bloody" in O'Noone's ancestral land, but the SSS pressed the matter to the point of scraggly picket lines outside the Plaza Hotel and the Four Seasons restaurant.
The SSS's effort was so ludicrous that both the secular media and the Catholic press ignored it, though many restaurants began substituting "Bloody Shame" or "spicy tomato juice cocktail" on their drink lists. But it showed how truly hyper-sensitive the outfit was and how eager and inventive it could be in finding slights or injury.
Brother Aloysius called his old acquaintance to discuss the Staffie situation.
"Our plight is apparently not of sufficient importance to interest His Eminence the cardinal. But I can assure you, Frank, that our little community is in danger of going under unless something is done."
"That would be a black day for Mother Church," O'Noone replied.
"Is there anything the SSS can do? Sadly, it's not the kind of issue you usually deal with."
"These dogs. Your monastery is the principal breeder of them?"
"No, there are others. But we like to think we're the best."
"So here we have the mayor attacking—slandering, you might say—a breed of dog. And by so doing endangering the future of the best breeding outfit for those dogs—a Catholic monastery."
"Yes."
"That's anti-Catholicism in my book. As far as I'm concerned indirect bigotry, which it sounds like we have here, is as pernicious as the direct kind."
"Interesting."
The conversation halted for a few moments as O'Noone pondered the problem.
"I read in the paper this morning that some animal rights people are going to stage a demonstration against the mayor next week. My group could join that, protesting Hoagland's anti-Catholic slur and asking for an apology, a retraction. With luck, we'd get on the news. Give some publicity to the proposition that your Staffords or whatever you call them are not dangerous."
"That's what we want—the mayor to retract his calumny against our dogs."
"We'll do it. We haven't had a good outing since that movie about Casanova and the nuns."
"Bless you, Frank. I knew you would see our dilemma clearly."
. . .
Later that morning, Eldon left City Hall for a luncheon uptown with the president of Brazil. When his car reached the Towers entrance of the Waldorf-Astoria, ALA protesters had preceded him and had the Wambli balloon set up behind a police barricade across the street. Spying the mayor, they began to chant "Dog killer!" and jiggled their inflated canine vigorously. He ignored the taunts, while at the same time marveling at their logistical agility, and quickly ducked into the hotel entrance.
Making nice with the visiting Carioca was all in a day's work for him, but he was tired and did not relish the expenditure of effort that he knew politeness would require. After working the room at a small reception, he went arm and arm with the president to the dais in the ballroom.
As he ate his nondescript fish lunch, he fielded the visitor's questions about the city's subway system, actually glad to be responding to inquiries that did not involve the Incident. But then the president changed the subject.
"You know, Mr. Mayor, before our Carnival each winter, our people get ready months and months ahead. The escola da samba practice in the street for weeks and weeks. Is this what is happening here?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean."
"That dog figure outside. Are they not rehearsing for what you call it, the Ma-cees parade? My family and I visited New York some years ago and saw that parade. Very amusing. The big balloons. But they are getting ready most early, are they not?"
Eldon answered noncommittally. Judging by his lunch companion's English, he guessed—and hoped—that he had not read the newspapers since his arrival.
"Wambli—is that the name I read on the sign? I do not know the cartoon he represents. Is he like Donaldo Pato, or, how you say, Donald Duck? Or Mickey Mouse maybe?"
Reluctantly Eldon explained that he was a symbol of protest for the animal rights movement and that the protest was directed against him.
"And you permit this? It is not right that you should be subject to such ridicule. We have ways of dealing with such matters in my country."
Mercifully the master of ceremonies began the speaking program so Eldon was spared the necessity of delivering a lecture on the First Amendment and freedom of speech. He merely nodded and drew out the notes for his re
marks from his jacket pocket. He pretended to study them intensely, though they were of the fill-in-the-blank variety suitable for all such occasions. ("There has always been a warm bond between the people of New York and the people of ———.")
The canine effigy was still outside when he left.
. . .
Artemis Payne enjoyed his tenure as New York City's public advocate. This strange position, created in the latest revision of the City Charter, had few defined duties, letting the incumbent pick and choose his targets at will. And to stand ready to succeed the mayor if that should ever come to pass.
The public advocate, soon after he was inaugurated, declared war on the city's banks. Unknown to the public, Payne had a history of bouncing checks, dating back to his hand-to-mouth days as a struggling lawyer. He now proposed that the city adopt legislation prohibiting banks from returning a check without first notifying the person who had drawn it. The penalties proposed were severe: a $100 fine for the first check bounced on an account without notice, then ranging upward as high as $1,000. Payne rightly argued that most banks would never return a check for its gilt-edged customers; they would be politely notified of any shortfalls in their accounts, or be automatically extended overdraft facilities.
The proposal drew protesting howls from the banking community; orderly, high-speed computer check-clearance procedures would be impossible as the banks sought to notify wayward patrons.
Payne received no support for his proposal from the press—next there might be penalties for nondelivery of newspapers. Eldon, who realized the impracticalities of the scheme and who did not want to give the bankers another excuse for moving operations to New Jersey, kept silent. So did most City Council members.
Without additional backing, Payne's initiative went nowhere. But it did serve to make him a popular, or perhaps populist, figure in the city's poorer neighborhoods, where bankers had few friends. The city's business leaders were relieved at Payne's lack of success but held their collective breath as they wondered what scheme he would propose next.
Payne had graduated from City College and Cardozo Law School with respectable, if not spectacular, records and had set himself up in practice in an office near the courthouse in Brooklyn. But he never succeeded in developing a practice that prospered, a hard task for any lawyer without a staff of junior lawyers and paralegals. Thus when a seat on the City Council opened up in his district he went for it and managed to win the Democratic primary. The general election was a cinch and when he later ran for two more terms there was no opposition in the primaries and almost none in the elections themselves.
Payne had already decided to go for the public advocate's job even before Eldon declared for mayor. And then, with Eldon's endorsement, he had won easily.
A large man, friendly and smiling, he had undeniable appeal to the voters (at least those who were not bankers). In his private life he was an inveterate golfer, a game he had mastered as a young man in a recreation program sponsored by the Police Athletic League.
He fully realized that the city owned thirteen municipal golf courses, and as the public advocate, he believed it his duty to "inspect" them regularly on behalf of the city's golfer consumers. This he did conscientiously an afternoon or two a week, to the point where he became widely known in government circles as "Putter Payne."
Putter met for drinks at five o'clock each Wednesday with whatever other black politicians (Democratic ones, that is) happened to be around—state legislators, city councilmen, occasionally a congressman. These gatherings took place at Foley's, an ancient saloon convenient both to his office on Centre Street and to City Hall.
There was never an agenda for these informal sessions, just a chance to share the latest political gossip and review the current state of affairs.
On this particular Wednesday, three councilmen, a state senator and an assemblyman joined Payne. There was, needless to say, much talk about the Incident.
"I'm not sure Eldon can survive this one," Assemblyman Darrel Green opined.
"Oh hell, it will all blow over," Payne said. "The Post-News can diss him all they want but he's not going down for the count because of a dead dog."
"I'm not so sure," Senator Bill Tracy said. "Those animal righters are really fired up. I think we're going to see one helluva ruckus on the twentieth."
"So what? They'll make a lot of noise and that will be the end of it."
"And if it isn't," Green said, "he'll have to resign. And you know what that means, baby."
"Yeah. I'll be the mayor."
"You got it, mister," Green said.
The speculation continued as the pols had a second round.
"Wouldn't be so bad to have a black mayor again, you know," Tracy said. "Or for a black man to get a head start before the next election over our Hispanic brothers."
"You're blowing smoke, boys," Payne protested. "Besides, I can't get into the middle of the mess."
"You're probably right, Artie. But let's think about it. If that rally really is a blast, Eldon might just have to get out. What do you think, guys, couldn't we help give it some juice?" Bill Tracy asked.
"I don't see how," Payne said.
"Think about it," Tracy continued. "The dog that got killed was a pit bull, right? And who owns more pit bulls than anybody else in this town? Blacks, that's who. And Hispanics, of course. They should be real angry at what happened. Now I know, Artie, there's nothing you can do directly. You've got to go with the flow. But George, you're a councilman up in Harlem. Couldn't you quietly pass the word that some of the street bucks who own those dogs might want to join the protest? For the honor of the pit bull? You hear what I'm saying?"
George Hayes, the councilman being addressed, looked surprised. He took a deep sip of his rye whiskey as he thought about the matter.
"Yes, I suppose I could," he said finally. "Have to be real careful, though, so Eldon never finds out, finds out that I perpetrated anything. But yes, we can stir something up. Sure."
"Then I say do it," Tracy said. "Quick, fast and in a hurry. Artie doesn't have to know, nobody has to know. Eldon doesn't have to know. It'll just be some homeboys exercising their constitutional rights."
"I didn't hear a thing," the public advocate said as the group broke up. "I'm out. Peace, brothers."
. . .
Early the next morning, shortly after daybreak, Edna Hoagland was awakened by a persistent jangling noise coming from the lawn. She went to the bedroom window to investigate. Then she rushed back to wake her husband.
"Eldon, you're not going to like this, but you'd better take a look out the window."
Half asleep, the mayor got up and did as he was told.
"Good grief!" was his only reaction to the cow lumbering across the lawn with a large sign around its neck reading MILK ME OR KILL ME. In the middle of the night the ALA had struck again, though the security staff managed to spirit the animal away before the press got wind of its presence.
. . .
The running story in The Post-News described a "groundswell" of support for the Wambli Memorial Rally. An American Staffordshire terrier organization announced that it would take part in the protest, as did a number of fringe animal rights groups, but not the ASPCA or the Humane Society.
The ASPCA was not, however, silent. An embarrassed Gifford Livingston, its local chairman, called Noel Miller.
"Since you're the mayor's lawyer, I wanted to alert you to a little problem," Livingston began. "I don't know how familiar you are with the laws about cruelty to animals."
"Not very. Though animals have been much in focus down here of late."
"Yes, I'm sure. Noel, take a look at Section three-five-three of the State Agriculture and Markets Law. Article twenty-six. It says any person who, quote, causes, procures or permits, unquote, any animal to be killed is guilty of a misdemeanor. Punishable by imprisonment for a year or a thousand dollar fine, or both."
"I'll take your word for it. But Gifford, what are you suggesting? That
I should have the police arrest the mayor?"
"Of course not. But there is a slight problem. Section three-seven-one says that, quote, any agent or officer of any duly incorporated society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, unquote—that's us—may arrest a violator of the Agriculture and Markets Law."
"So one of your people could arrest Eldon Hoagland?"
"Precisely."
"But surely you can forbid your dogcatchers—sorry, Gifford, that's a bit pejorative—from doing so."
"It's more complicated than that. Note that the statute says, quote, officer, unquote, as well as 'agent,' the agents being what you call dogcatchers. We call them humane law enforcement agents. As far as officers are concerned, as chairman I'm one, so I could arrest Eldon."
"But that's absurd."
"Bear with me. There's a faction on my board—not a majority, at least not yet—that wants me to do just that. A visible and symbolic act to call public attention to the animal cruelty problem."
"Good Lord, you wouldn't do that. Would you?"
"No, I'd probably resign first. Eldon's behavior with that dog was disgraceful, but not enough for me to arrest him. But the society's enforcement agents are damn mad and I can't guarantee that one of them won't try something, even if I forbid it."
"Have these, um, agents, ever made an arrest before? Or is this just some crazy law that's never been enforced?"
"Three hundred arrests last year."
"Are they armed? Will Eldon be shot if he resists?" Miller tried to lighten up the conversation.
"They are armed. But responsible."
