by James Duffy
"You're okay, my friend, absent mental illness or physical incapacity. Otherwise the only way they can get rid of you is if the governor removes you. Which is a pretty preposterous idea."
Eldon felt an uncomfortable tightening in his throat. "She could do that?" he asked incredulously.
"Yep. All by herself. But for God's sake, don't trouble your head about that. Relax and have a good weekend."
The mayor did his best to follow his counsel's advice. But he did spend a restless Saturday night, dreaming, among other things, of quarreling with Randilynn Foote over her B minus and hearing her obscenity-laced anger at the removal of the furnishings from the Governor's Rooms.
. . .
Governor Foote had had a brief meeting with Attorney General Mason Mudson on Friday afternoon. An obese, slow-moving (and by more than one account, slow-witted) small-town lawyer, he had been the bastion of the Republican Party in his upstate county seat. Since all of Randilynn's running mates in her campaign for election had been from the metropolitan area, Mason had been picked to balance the ticket.
Mudson had also been able to raise a surprising amount of money for his own campaign. Many business interests, bruised by attacks from a succession of vigorous, populist, proconsumer attorneys general, saw in him the ideal: a dyed-in-the-wool conservative and a lethargic one. Those dreaded words in the heading of legal complaints, "The People of the State of New York versus . . .," would not be versus them.
Once elected, he happily discovered that one was not chained to Albany, the state capital, or the snowbound Brasilia, as some called it. Overcoming an upstater's revulsion to Sodom-on-the-Hudson, he had come to like it, though his wife, Prudence, resolutely re fused to leave Skaneateles; in her view the people in New York City "smelled funny."
Mudson was an appreciative dais-sitter at fund-raising and political dinners. He thought the food was marvelous, and there was always the VIP attention—gathering with the event's guest of honor and an occasional celebrity in a private room away from the hordes attending the function in question, drinking free drinks and being addressed as "General." They were even more fulfilling than those Kiwanis Club weekly dinners in Skaneateles, though he had enjoyed them, and the mystery-meat entrees, too.
He had a set speech—written for $100 by a Syracuse Herald-Journal reporter—about the great Empire State and the benefits that free enterprise could bring to it (the Syracuse reporter, given the meagerness of his fee, had lifted this portion of the text from various right-wing foundation press releases).
Randilynn Foote was grateful to Munson, so eagerly representing her administration at the banqueting events she could not abide. "He likes having his ass licked," she once observed to Raifeartaigh, "and as long as he doesn't get a sexually transmitted disease in the process, that's fine with me."
At their Friday meeting in her office, Governor Foote made it clear that no decisions had been made but that she wanted to "explore all the options." She told her AG that Ms. Baine had done a great job in researching the applicable law, but she wanted to be doubly sure that Mudson agreed with her young assistant's conclusions.
"You make certain you're in synch," she had instructed him, "because if I do anything you're going to have to spread holy water all over it."
Mudson, like everyone else who had looked at the question, was amazed at the power in the governor's hands. But he promised to vet Ms. Baine's conclusions, and the meeting was adjourned until eleven o'clock on Monday.
"I'd meet earlier," the governor explained, "but I'm off on a camping trip to Schroon Lake—assuming that piece of junk they make me fly in can get to the Adirondacks—and I'm not coming back until first thing Monday morning." She reminded Raifeartaigh to write a reimbursement check to the state for the trip; it was a private one, though she said that the state should pay her money for riding in the rickety executive plane.
Now they were back in her office. As expected, Mudson confirmed Sheila Baine's legal research.
The governor, scratching at some ugly bites on her legs—"Why didn't they tell me there would still be blackflies in the sticks in October?" she grumbled—informed her trio of listeners that she still hadn't made up her mind what to do about removing Eldon.
"I'm tempted, that's for sure. Having Putter Payne in there would be perfect. But could I get away with it?"
While the governor had been pondering the issue in an Adirondack pup tent, Raifeartaigh had been doing the same, in the dark Village coffeehouse he frequented.
"If I understand the law correctly," he said, "the governor can suspend the mayor for thirty days while charges are being readied. Right?"
Baine and Mudson nodded.
"So, why don't you suspend Hoagland and announce that charges, and what they consist of, are being prepared? If the out-cry is too great, you can back off. If not, you go ahead and remove him."
"Effing brilliant! I knew there was a reason for keeping you around, Raifeartaigh. I'll do it! Mason, you and Sheila get up a letter I can deliver to His Honor telling him he is suspended. And that charges are being prepared to remove him. Raifeartaigh, get hold of that bog-trotter of his and tell him I'm coming downstairs to see the mayor at two o'clock, or whatever time this afternoon suits him. Hot damn! This is going to be fun!"
. . .
The mayor, Police Commissioner Stephens and Noel Miller were conferring downstairs while the governor was mapping her strategy. The Animal Liberation Army, true to its threat of having weekly demonstrations, had applied for a permit for a rally on Wednesday afternoon.
"My view is that they've had their say and we should deny it," the commissioner said.
"I'd like to agree with you, Danny. But free speech is free speech. And you have to admit that they haven't achieved their objective."
"Getting you to resign, you mean?"
"Yes. I say give them their permit—but for God's sake ban animals. That's what got your boys into trouble last week."
"Last week won't happen again, Mr. Mayor. Not on my watch. So we grant them the permit—for humans only?"
"Correct."
As they reached their conclusion, Gullighy came bursting in, red-faced and agitated.
"Something's up. I don't know what, but something's up."
"What are you talking about?" Eldon asked impatiently.
"Randilynn Foote wants an appointment to come see you this afternoon. That half-breed Raifeartaigh says its about a legal mat ter and the governor thinks Noel should be there, too. Mason Mudson will be along."
"She wants to come down here, not me go up there?"
"Correct."
"It must be important. Randy Randy has probably figured out a way of taking over all of City Hall. But tell her I'll be waiting with bells on. And Noel, you'll join us. I'm almost tempted to invite you, too, Danny; not a bad idea to have the police commissioner around when she lets loose."
"Thank you, no. I'll stick to four-legged bitches."
. . .
Gullighy came into the mayor's office again a half hour later.
"Raifeartaigh just called back. They think Putter Payne should be at this meeting."
"The more the merrier," Eldon said with a sigh.
Or maybe not so merry, he thought once Gullighy had left. What was it Noel Miller had said over the weekend about removal? But that B minus had been deserved, it really had.
. . .
Sue Nation Brandberg was in a sour mood as she opened her morning's mail. She had been to Café Boulud the night before with one of her walkers and had had the feeling throughout that those seated in the banquettes and tables near hers were discreetly gesturing in her direction and talking about her. It had been uncomfortable.
In her pile of mail she came to a letter on the cheap stationery of the Brandywine Hotel, the message crudely written with a ball-point pen:
Dear Miszu,
I write this letter as good-bye. Greta and I have talked much and decided is better I go back to Albania. We go to start our lives
over.
I love America and am glad to have seen some of it, New York especially. But the authorities don't want me and after all that happened, I go back. Maybe someday I come as legal and maybe Greta will come, too. Now is better I go to Tirana. I can work as an engineer, even if for little money, instead of being watched as illegal person.
I put this in the mail as we go to JFK. We fly to Rome tonight, then to Tirana. Thank goodness Greta has a credit card! Our adventure was interesting and I remember you always.
Goodbye, Genc
Sue thought regretfully of the OOOH! SHPIRT!s; she was glad they had been "interesting" for Genc. She couldn't be angry with him. He had, after all, told her he was already married. And with all the publicity, he would probably have been thrown out anyway. Instead, her anger focused on Eldon. Wasn't he the cause of all her troubles? The death of her beloved Wambli. The public and notorious scandal about her marriage, a scandal inflamed by the press hordes outside the mayor's office after the ceremony. (She had concluded that their presence was no accident.) Not to mention the pack of reporters still camped out in front of her house.
Should she seek revenge? What if she told the press that he knew about Genc's living spouse when he performed the marriage? That would make it hot for him! Brendon Proctor had told her she was unlikely to be prosecuted for bigamy. So what was the risk?
Questions, questions, she thought. She needed time to work out some answers.
. . .
At two o'clock on the dot Governor Foote and Attorney General Mudson came down to the mayor's office. Mudson was sweating, either from the effort of climbing down the stairs or from tension. Eldon and Noel Miller were waiting; Putter had been located but would be late, coming in from Queens.
The foursome exchanged handshakes, but there was no small talk.
"Governor, do you mind if I ask Jack Gullighy to join us?" Eldon asked.
"By all means."
The group sat quietly until Gullighy arrived. Eldon sat at his desk, with Noel Miller at his right. Foote and Mudson took places on a sofa at the side of the room. Gullighy stood by the door, possibly to guard it, possibly to be ready for a quick escape.
"Governor, to what do I owe the pleasure?" the mayor asked.
"Mr. Mayor," the governor began stiffly—this was not an Eldon and Randilynn occasion—"I think this letter explains it best."
No one had noticed until then that she had come in carrying an envelope. She opened it, took out two copies of a letter, and handed them to the mayor and Noel Miller.
Putting on his glasses, Eldon read:
Dear Mayor Hoagland:
Last week, on October 20th, the citizens of the greater metropolitan area were subjected to a paralyzing disruption of both air and ground transportation. This was a direct result of a rally staged in City Hall Park, the purpose of which was to call for your resignation as mayor of the City of New York. The New York City Police Department was unable to contain the demonstrators; this resulted in disruptions widely believed to be the most serious in the area's history.
The organizers of last week's protest have indicated, on their Web site and in the press, that a second demonstration will be held this Wednesday. Indeed, they have stated their intention of holding a demonstration each Wednesday until you resign. All signs point to another disruption beyond the control of the police and, quite possibly, one even more severe than the one experienced last week.
I have reluctantly concluded that charges should be brought against you, looking toward your possible removal as mayor. These will be more fully documented forthwith in a detailed statement. In substance they will allege (1) that you have failed to maintain the effectiveness and integrity of city government operations, as required by Section 8a of the New York City Charter, (2) that the enforcement of law and order and the maintenance of the public safety in the city have been endangered by the consequences of your actions, (3) that your personal conduct on the night of August 16th, in connection with the murder of the dog called Wambli, constituted a violation of Section 353 of the Agriculture and Markets Law, with respect to overdriving, torturing and injuring animals, and (4) that you have violated your duty as a magistrate, under Section 8b of the Charter, by performing a bigamous marriage ceremony between Sue Nation Brandberg and Genc Serreqi on October 13th in violation of Section 255.00 of the Penal Law, allegedly to procure the silence of Ms. Brandberg regarding the aforesaid incident involving her dog Wambli.
As you know, as governor I have the plenary power to remove you from office pursuant to subsection 2 of Section 33 of the Public Officers Law and Section 9 of the New York City Charter. It is my intention to make a determination of whether or not to exercise such power not later than 30 days from the date hereof, during which 30-day period you shall have the opportunity, under the laws cited, to present to me whatever manner of defense you desire.
In the meantime, pursuant to the powers vested in me, as aforesaid, I hereby suspend you from your duties as mayor as of midnight tonight.
Very truly yours,
Randilynn R. Foote
Governor
Eldon's hand was shaking by the time he had finished.
"Is there anything to be said? I suppose not. Though I can't refrain from asking you, Governor, whether you are completely serious about this. Or is this a ploy of some kind?"
"No, Mr. Mayor, I'm serious. I've called a press conference for four o'clock to announce your suspension."
"And as for what you call my 'defense,' is there any point in presenting one?"
"That's up to you."
"Mason, are you on board with this?" Miller demanded of Mudson. "You must realize that nothing like this has ever been done before. Aren't you afraid of a rather strong public reaction?"
"Noel, I am aboard. The law is clear about the governor's pow ers. She is exercising them in what she considers the best interests of the people of New York—state and city."
"Well, I guess that's it," Eldon announced. "Except, Randilynn, would you do me the courtesy of talking with me privately for a moment?"
"Of course."
Before the meeting could break up, Putter Payne made a breathless entrance.
"What's up, guys?" he said jovially, before sensing the tense atmosphere.
Miller handed him a copy of the governor's letter. Putter read it, emitting a soft whistle as he did so.
"Let me get a grip on this," he said when he had finished. "Does this mean I'm the acting mayor after tonight?"
"That is correct, Mr. Payne," Mudson told him. "Until the governor makes her decision about removal—and then, um, possibly thereafter."
"Holy Jesus." Then, after a pause, "I guess I'll have to start dressing up," pointing at his own attire—a polo shirt and khakis. "No more casual Fridays—or Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Thursdays." His feeble sally did not go down well.
Eldon again asked if he could see Randilynn alone, as the others prepared to leave. "And Artie, we'd better talk when I'm through."
"I'll be waiting right outside, Mayor," Payne replied, with just the slightest pause before uttering the word "Mayor."
TWENTY-SEVEN
Once she was alone with Eldon, Randilynn Foote put her feet up on his coffee table. She offered no apology or explanation for the extraordinary action she had just announced, waiting for him to initiate the conversation.
"I guess you deserved a B minus in State and Local Government, as well as my course," he began.
"Eldon, I'm not here to listen to insults."
"The idea of disrupting a democratically elected city administration by a state authority—I guess you must have been absent the day Professor Behr lectured on that."
"Do you have anything germane to say to me, or not?"
"I do, but I doubt that it will penetrate. For instance, you don't have to destroy me politically. I'm no threat to you—and certainly have no thoughts of running against you next year."
"Really? What about that cow? You went upstate to milk her f
or the fun of it?"
"Do you really think I was pandering for upstate votes? I milked that cow on a bet with Jack Gullighy, who said I couldn't do it."
"I don't believe you."
"Don't. But let me say one thing before you run off—"
"Run off to that shambles of an office upstairs."
"Squatters can't be choosy."
"Fuck you."
"Thanks, but no thanks. Obviously I haven't figured out how I'm going to respond to your little game, but I can assure you I'll make it as uncomfortable for you as possible."
"Go to it, babe. Just remember I'm the dealer."
. . .
The tête-à-tête with Artemis Payne did not go much better, though he at least expressed regret at the turn of events.
"Are you really sorry, Artie? You know, I saw on television those constituents of your buddy, Councilman Hayes. Carrying signs saying "'Resign! Resign!'" Except there was one that got there by mistake, for the George Hayes Democratic Club. George stirred things up on his own, I assume."
"I don't tell George what to do."
"But I'll bet he told you what he was planning and you didn't object."
"I don't remember."
"I thought so. You want to use this office while I'm—suspended? I can lock up anything personal and the place is yours."
"Yes, I think I will. You know, to show continuity, to demonstrate that the ship of state sails on."
"Fine."
"I assume, though, that you'll stay in the mansion—at least until your status gets resolved?"
"Christ Almighty, you want me to move out of Gracie Mansion? Are you serious?"
"I was just asking."
"Well, to use the favorite expression from the limited vocabulary of our esteemed governor, fuck you."
"No offense, man. No offense intended."
. . .
With Governor Foote's press conference about to happen, Eldon and Gullighy drafted a statement denouncing the governor's action. The mayor did not want to meet the press just yet, so he left City Hall to head home to Gracie—assuming Putter Payne had not already taken it over.
