At the jail, during the booking ceremonies, Ryan had the uneasy impression that he had opened the Social Register for the sub machine-gun set. The big man with the gardenia gave his name as Albert J. Bolsano which was probably correct. Only Ryan, like anyone else who had ever read a newspaper, knew him by a much more colorful one. The prisoners spent a quiet night, calmer, most likely, than Ryan's. The ASPCA agent passed several uneasy hours in a hotel and next morning appeared in magistrate's court for the disposition of the cases. Mr. Albert J. Bolsano's two lawyers were already on hand, along with Mr. Bolsano himself. They all wore fresh gardenias. "You there," one of the lawyers called. "Step over here, we'd like to talk to you."
"Now listen, Officer," the lawyer went on, "there's been a mistake here. A very embarrassing mistake for our client."
"I realize that," Ryan said. "His mistake was fighting those chickens."
"Chickens!" the second lawyer put in. "The whole business is absurd. You can't make a case out of chickens. Really, I don't think you understand the situation...." Bolsano, meantime, was looking carefully at Ryan, as if appraising his weight and calculating the amount of cement needed to offset it. The lawyers took a fairly direct approach with Ryan. He would, if he knew what was good for him, forget the whole thing. Ryan merely pointed out that he didn't give a damn who Albert J. Bolsano was. Cruelty to animals was against the law. The law included chickens. "All right," said the lawyer, "you give us two choices. We plead guilty or not guilty. If we plead not guilty, we come to trial, with a jury."
"Then," Ryan said, "it seems to me the problem is up to the jury."
"You take your chances, just like everybody else. I'm not worried about the jury," said the lawyer coldly. "Listen, Ryan," the second lawyer said. "You make us go to court with this thing. All right. As the arresting officer, you'll damned well have to be in court too."
"I expect to be," said Ryan. "You don't understand," the lawyer went on. "I can get this case postponed from now till hell freezes over. Every damned time we go into that courtroom, I promise you I'll get a postponement. I'll have you dragging your rear end between here and New York City until you wish you'd never heard of chickens. You'll be a permanent commuter."
"Mister," Ryan said, "if I have to spend twenty-four hours a day in this town for the rest of my natural life, I'll do it. You get all the delays and postponements you want. The day this case comes to trial, I'll be sitting in that courtroom."
"You might not last that long," the lawyer said, "if you take my meaning."
"I'll worry about that," Ryan said. "But you still have another choice. Your client's guilty. Ever think about pleading that way?" The magistrate's court opened and the prisoners, including Albert J. Balsano, filed in. Presiding that day was a man Ryan had already met: the magistrate who had refused to give him a search warrant. As soon as Ryan saw him on the bench, he decided that he might as well pack up and go home-and take out a life insurance policy on the way. The judge gave no indication he had ever seen Ryan before. He shuffled his papers and went through the formalities of hearing the complaints. When Bolsano's turn came, the judge asked what plea would be entered. One of the lawyers stood up. "Your honor," he began, "my client pleads-"
"He pleads guilty," Balsano interrupted.
The first lawyer sputtered and the second lawyer put his head in his hands. The judge's pen stopped in mid-air. "What did you say?" asked the judge. "I think there's some confusion here." Bolsano got to his feet. "I said I plead guilty. This guy Ryan claims I was fighting some chickens last night. He's right. I was. That makes me guilty of chicken flicking or whatever the hell you want to call it." The magistrate mopped his forehead. "Mr. Bolsano," he said shakily, "you understand that if you plead guilty I may have to sentence you to prison or fine you-or do both."
"You got an interesting decision to make," Balsano said. The judge cleared his throat. "Under the circumstances," he said, "and ah taking everything into consideration, I think a fine would be sufficient. The court ... ah ... fines you two thousand dollars." The judge rapped one with his gavel, then dropped it as if it had burned his fingers. Balsano reached into his pocket and peeled two bills from an enormous roll. He tossed it in front of the lawyer. "Take care of it, Jack." On the way out, Balsano stopped for a word with Ryan. "You know," Balsano said, "you got guts. I really think you'd have made that rap stick. You really would have chased back and forth from New York."
"That's what I said," Ryan answered. "You're a damn fool," Balsano said, "but I like you. I hate to see a guy like you waste his time." Ryan decided he would not need the life insurance policy after all. Later, the judge called Ryan back to the bench. "Tell me something," he said. "Last night I had the peculiar feeling you expected to run into me at that cockfight."
"Why, I never said anything like that," Ryan replied. "I don't know what gave you an idea-"
"Forget about that," said the judge. "What I want to know is this. Suppose I had been there. What would you have done?"
"Well," Ryan began, "I locked up Balsano--"
"But he's a crook. Everybody knows that. You mean to tell me you'd have arrested me, too?"
"I sure would," said Ryan. Ryan drove back to Manhattan that afternoon. He carried with him one of the spectators from the cockfight: a big yellow and green parrot. Ryan could not imagine what a parrot would be doing at a cockfight, unless possibly working as referee. Since no one claimed the bird, Ryan took the parrot to the shelter, where the Society put it up for adoption. Ryan heard no more from Frankie, except for one card, postmarked Mexico City. The climate, Frankie wrote, was wonderful, very good for his health and he hoped to stay there quite a while.
9 - The Waltzing Toreadors
Bullfighting, in New York, is as much against the law as chicken fighting. So, as soon as Ryan got wind of a bullfight scheduled in Madison Square Garden he went to investigate. There he found the bullfighter, a tall, gangling young man who went under the professional name of Esteban de la Torre. Esteban was neither Spanish nor Mexican, but a local North American amateur named Wilmer. He had, so he claimed, appeared in most of the world's famous bull rings although he did not mention how long his appearances had lasted. Nevertheless, Wilmer was a great student and aficionado of the sport; to prove it, he showed Ryan his traje de luces, the glittering, traditional costume of the matador. Ryan admired the embroidered jacket and breeches, agreeing that Wilmer looked very Spanish in them. However, he had to advise the dismayed matador that a bullfight is a sport forbidden by law. "But it isn't a sport," Wilmer protested, "it's a drama. A great drama. Like Greek tragedy. The corridor isn't just a game. See it this way-man confronted with his destiny whether he wins, or the bull wins, it doesn't matter."
"Are you sure about that?" said Ryan. "Ask any torero." Wilmer began. "Why not ask the bull?" Ryan suggested. "You still don't understand," Wilmer went on. "Look, at the climax of the corridor." Wilmer raised his hand with an imaginary sword, "there is the bull there is the man. This is the moment of truth!"
"Your moment of truth is right now," said Ryan. "The truest thing I can tell you. No bullfight."
"But it's all arranged," Wilmer cried in despair. "What am I going to tell my Carrillo? What about my picador my banderillero."
"Tell them the truth," Ryan said. "The show is off." Wilmer was on the verge of tears. "Suppose ... suppose," he said, "I don't really kill the bull? Just some fancy cape work, a few veronica’s and media veronica’s."
"Look," said Ryan, "I don't know what a veronica is. All I know is you can't work a bull with a cape. Not in New York."
"But cape work isn't bullfighting," Wilmer began. "It's bull baiting," Ryan said, "and that's just as illegal." Wilmer rubbed a hand over his forehead. Then he snapped his fingers. "I have it!" he said. "I won't use a cape and I won't use a sword. I'll use a chair!" Before Ryan could protest, the bullfighter continued. "Not for the bull. For me to sit on!"
"I can see it now," Wilmer went on enthusiastically, "like an etching by Goya the m
atador sitting calmly while the bull charges."
"You mean you're just going to sit still?" Ryan asked. "Yes!" Wilmer cried. "What an exhibition! What a triumph!"
"For you or the bull?" asked Ryan. "I told you that doesn't matter," Wilmer said patiently. "Do you have any objections to it? Am I breaking any law?"
"No," Ryan said, shrugging, "you're welcome to sit down and let as many bulls as you want run at you. That's one of your rights as a New Yorker. But if you want my personal advice, get a soft chair. A big, padded, upholstered, overstuffed easy chair."
"The chair," Wilmer sniffed disdainfully, "will be classically simple. All wood." The night of the bullfight, Ryan and Frank Howarth, another Society agent, were on duty at the shelter. Ryan had planned to look in on Wilmer's exhibition. The Manhattan headquarters in those days was close by the old Garden, and Ryan calculated that he had ample time. Wilmer, however, must have started his show earlier. When Frank answered the telephone, Ryan saw him listen in perplexity for a moment. "It's the manager of the Garden," Frank said, turning quickly to Ryan. "He says there's a bull in the box seats ... no, wait a minute ... in the bar. Yeah," Frank nodded. "I can hear it's the bar."
"Ask him about the toreador," Ryan called, starting for the door. "Yeah." Frank turned to the phone again. "He says," Frank advised, "what toreador?" Ryan started up one of the Society horse ambulances and barreled over to the arena. Pushing through the crowd, he found the manager in the bar, surveying a row of broken bottles and fractured glassware. The bar itself looked as if it had been raised off the floor and set back in place-only not very well in place. It leaned at an angle that would have caused any drinker to renounce alcohol. "The bull," said the manager, "is no longer here. He couldn't wait. He left a few minutes ago, heading down Madison Avenue." The manager pointed to a jagged hole in a partition. "He took a short cut."
"Where's the bullfighter?" Ryan asked. "The last I saw him," the manager said, "he was about four-no, five feet in the air, traveling toward the box seats."
"He really sat on a chair and let the bull charge him?"
"Yes," said the manager wryly, "but I think he might have changed his mind at the last minute. That was when the bull crashed into the chair. After that, he left very quickly even faster than the audience." The manager gestured toward the arena, where some of the spectators, venturing to return, poked among the splintered seats for their coats and hats. The breeches of the traje de luces shimmered from a railing. Frank, meantime, had arrived to lend a hand. He took over the horse ambulance while Ryan raced along Madison Avenue. The calm expressions of the pedestrians gave no indication that an infuriated bull had just gone by. Even the sight of a breathless ASPCA agent clutching a lasso attracted little attention. The bull, for all Ryan could tell, had disappeared into thin air. Near Madison Square park, however, Ryan knew he was on the right track when he heard a shriek from the ladies' comfort station: "Gladys! There's a bull in here!" By the time Ryan quickened his pace and reached the vicinity, he felt quite sure there were no longer any ladies within a wide area. Gingerly he opened the door of the comfort station and peered in. A large black bull peered back at him. "Mister," Ryan said, "you know you don't belong in there." The bull snorted and pawed at the tiles. Ryan could have sworn he saw sparks flash from the bull's nostrils. He wondered, irrelevantly, where Wilmer could have gone in only half a matador costume. Frank had backed the horse ambulance up to the ladies' room. For Ryan, now, the problem was simplified. All he needed to do was get the bull into the truck, the only distressing feature being that the bull had no intention of moving. Ryan immediately decided against luring the bull out by any fancy cape work. First, he remembered Wilmer; second, he had no cape. He did have a lasso. Ryan checked the sliding knot, gave the rope a few expert twirls and dropped the noose over the bull's horns as efficiently as any cowpuncher.
"You got him!" Frank called. "Yeah?" Ryan shouted back. "As long as I'm on one end of this rope and that bull's on the other-I don't know who's got who," Ryan packs a lot of strength, but no amount of tugging could move the bull. Frank added his own weight. The bull merely planted his feet more firmly and snorted at the two men. "If this is the moment of truth," grunted the sweating Ryan, "I wish this bull would lie a little." The only available thing stronger than the agents, Ryan realized, was the horse ambulance. He secured his end of the lasso to a concrete slab, hoping the bull would take a while to uproot it. One section of the ambulance could be turned into a sort of motor-driven ramp, or stretcher, used for hauling heavy animals into the vehicle, and Ryan saw a way to convert the mechanism into a winch. He attached his rope and started the engine. For a time, Ryan feared that bull power might out pull horsepower. The bull, if he came out at all, could easily take half the ladies' room with him. At last, the bull yielded slightly. His head and shoulders passed the door. From then on, it was as easy as hauling a whale into a motorboat. The engine labored, the improvised winch screamed and the cable-reinforced lasso looked on the verge of snapping several times. Step by step, the bull drew closer to the ambulance. Finally the animal was inside, and Ryan tumbled against the doors. Still breathing hard, Ryan and Frank drove to Madison Square Garden. Ryan reported the bull was back, safe and sound. The manager did not appear to welcome the news. Ryan could, he explained, have the bull all for himself.
He never wanted to see or hear of bulls again. As for Wilmer, he had evidently resolved to give up the sport forever. There was no sign of him in the Garden. "But if you find him," the manager said, "you can take him along with his bull." While Ryan pondered over the consequences of bringing a bull to the ASPCA shelter in the middle of the night, one of the Garden hands, a man named Tony, offered to buy the animal. On condition that Ryan make the delivery. "OK," Ryan agreed. "But once that bull's on your property, he's your baby."
"Sure thing," said Tony. "What's the big deal? I don't have no trouble." The two ASPCA agents, Tony and the bull set off for the outer edges of Brooklyn. New York can be an exciting town, especially toward dawn and when you have a wild bull in tow. On the ferry which then crossed the East River, while Ryan had momentarily turned his back, a drunk crept into the ambulance and cheerfully climbed on top of the bull. Ryan delicately lifted him off, not wanting to see the man's evening spoiled as a result of his being squashed flat. Tony lived on a tiny farm on the outskirts of the borough. In the moonlight, Ryan and Frank worked to bring the bull out again while Tony darted back and forth like a conspirator, warning everyone to be quiet. "Listen, Tony," Ryan hissed, "moving a bull isn't quiet work. I can shut up, so can Frank. But I'll be damned if I know how to make the bull shut up. What's the trouble?" Just then a bedroom window flew up. A woman in hair curlers leaned out. "Tony, is that you?" she called. "Yes, baby," Tony answered meekly. "We're just trying to lock up this bull-"
"A bull is it? Don't tell me you're not drunk!" with a yell, the woman slammed down the window.
A second later, she was outdoors, a buggy whip in her hand. Ryan and Frank waited patiently while she chased Tony around the yard. For her size, Ryan noticed she was remarkably quick on her feet. "I guess that's it," Frank said, as Tony and his wife disappeared up the road. "I guess so," Ryan nodded. "He was only a length ahead of her, but the last I saw she was moving up fast." The two men locked the bull into an empty stall and returned to Manhattan. Tony did not show up at the Garden next day, or the next day, or the next. He did not show up at all. He had disappeared as completely as Wilmer. About a year later, Ryan bumped into him on the street. Tony greeted him happily and pumped his hand. Ryan saw he was wearing a new suit, and a new pair of bright yellow shoes. When the ASPCA agent asked whether his wife had ever caught up to him, Tony smiled reminiscently. "Oh, we finally get everything straightened out," he said. "For a while, she's a little nervous about the bull. But it all works out."
"What did you ever do with the bull?" Ryan asked. "I go into the cattle-breeding business," Tony said. "I get lots nice calves, and good prices for them. Why, what else you do wit
h a bull?" That same week, Ryan was reminded of the bull once again, when he read a newspaper article about an American matador in Mexico City. The American had put on such an exhibition that the judges awarded him two ears. Ryan sincerely hoped it was Wilmer; yet, somehow, he doubted it. Wilmer was not the only would-be toreador in New York. Not long afterward, Ryan was dispatched on an urgent call to a stockyard near the river. There, on the dock, an enormous bull pawed and snorted and in general behaved like a man offering to lick anybody in the place.
Ryan leaned from the cab of the horse ambulance. "How'd he get out?" the agent called. The dock workers neither knew nor cared. Their main interest was how-and how fast-Ryan could get the animal back where he came from. The bull, Ryan saw, was too much in the open to risk using the lasso alone. The agent could easily imagine the bull jumping off the dock and heading for New Jersey, with Ryan at the other end of the rope. However, Ryan's attention went to a number of electric cable reels. Using the ambulance as a bulldozer, Ryan shoved the reels, one by one, into position around the bull. After that, the agent applied the same technique he had used before: rigging up a winch and hauling the bull into the vehicle. The method worked. Only the bull didn't like it. Inside the horse ambulance, he kicked and bellowed further challenges. Ryan sped toward the stockyard. Once past the gate and in the open court in front of the office building, Ryan began looking for a place to deposit his passenger. "Hey, you!" called a young man in an executive-looking double-breasted suit. "What are you doing with that bull?" Ryan explained that he was trying to find a safe pen. "That won't be necessary," said the young man. "The bull belongs to us. You can let him out right here."
"Here?" Ryan said in disbelief. "You heard me," the man answered testily. "We're used to handling animals. He won't give us any trouble."
"Are you crazy?" Ryan asked. A few bellows sounded from the back of the truck. "Look, sonny, you go find somebody with some authority around here." The young man drew himself up stiffly. "I am the authority around here," he said. "I am an officer and part owner of this company."
Fifty Years in the Doghouse Page 9
