Dog Bites Man (3 page)

E
ldon Hoagland emerged from 818 Fifth Avenue, the apartment house where Leaky Swansea lived, at 11:45 p.m. Their get-together had been a rambunctious success and the mayor, not to put too fine a point on it, was plastered. His principal bodyguard, Gene Fasco, a head shorter than Eldon, did his best to hold his charge on a steady course.

Fortunately the late-night doorman was not to be seen. Just as well, as the tall figure being helped through the lobby toward the door would not have inspired civic pride or reinforced faith in the democratic selection process.

Eugenio Fasco had been part of the Hoagland security detail during the campaign. Eldon had liked the policeman and, after the election, had requested that he and his partner, Thomas Nolan Braddock, be permanently assigned. A career officer ending his years in the department as a plainclothesman, Sergeant Fasco was happy with his new post and the not infrequent brushes with glamour that it entailed. Had he not shaken hands with, and been impulsively kissed by, Cameron Diaz? (He had not been quite certain of her identity, but his teenage son certainly was, adding that his aspirations were much more licentious than a mere buss by Ms. Diaz.) Or shaken hands, and even exchanged a few words in the mother tongue, with the president of Italy?

Fasco had a reputation as a dutiful but nonetheless scrappy officer. It was true that if positions in the Police Department were allocated on the basis of brains, Fasco might have been on limited
duty. But the mayor's protectors did not have to be rocket scientists, merely wide awake and always suspicious.

The higher-ups in the NYPD Intelligence Division had been confident enough in Fasco's ability that they thought he could even handle a "full Arafat," departmental slang for a counterdefense against a terrorist threat (every three weeks), a credible terrorist threat (once a year), or an actual terrorist attack (none yet, leaving aside the messy 1993 attempt to blow up the World Trade Center). Or the panic that occurred when a young Pakistani, detained by two foot patrolmen in City Hall Park on God knows what suspicion—sheer racism comes to mind—was found to have in his possession an architectural diagram of the building, complete with red-penciled arrows at crucial points. It turned out that the poor fellow, completely unarmed, was an Oxford-educated architectural scholar with a passion for studying spaces influenced by the Place de la Concorde in Paris. City Hall qualified, as the work of Joseph François Mangin, a collaborator on the design of the Concorde. The red marks were never explained, though closer police analysis showed that they all pointed to the location of the exceedingly rare rest rooms in City Hall. The wronged scholar brought a false arrest suit against the city that was settled for an undisclosed sum, so no attorney ever had a chance to determine what the bathroom red marks meant.

Fasco's partner, Braddock, was an imposing black man. Tommy overshadowed both the mayor and Fasco when they walked together; Fasco insisted that if there ever should be a shooting on their shift it would be up to Braddock to throw himself in front of the mayor.

While Eldon was inside Leaky's apartment, Fasco and Brad
dock had spent the waiting time seated in the mayor's unmarked black Chevrolet (the modesty and anonymity of the vehicle were security measures), discussing food, one of their few shared interests. Fasco had been convinced that all African-American fare was made with greasy pork, while Braddock believed that Italians ate only watery, tomato-laden pastas. Their nocturnal conversations had broken down, to some extent, their stereotypes. This night Fasco had been rhapsodizing to his skeptical colleague on the joys of preparing, and then eating, scaloppine alla capricciosa: "the veal sautéed, mushroom sauce with oregano, then cheese and ham on top—can't beat it." As his description reached a crescendo his cell phone rang, and Fasco heard a semicoherent pronouncement from the mayor himself, announcing that it was time to go home.

The mayor had forbidden his herders to accompany him inside presumably safe New York apartment buildings. Having guards standing about with visible earphones and heavy-laden suits struck him as ostentatious and undemocratic. "This is not the Former Yugoslavia," he had declared.

So now Fasco had to enter the building and take the handoff of his charge, who had been supported by Swansea to the foyer outside his apartment. The two inebriated Tigers were loudly bellowing a chorus of "Going Back to Nassau Hall" (the recessional for most drinking evenings they had together). Leaky asked Fasco if he would give him a receipt for his delivery.

"It's all right, sir," the detective said gravely, ignoring the idiotic request. "Leave him to me."

"I want a receipt," Leaky demanded again, but staggered back into the apartment without arguing further about it.

As the pair approached the front door of 818 Fifth, Hoagland squared his shoulders and affected a drunk's notion of dignified,
steady walking. This lasted for three steps, as Fasco prevented him from lurching forward, straight onto the marble floor of the lobby.

Fasco had maintained telephone contact with his partner during his downward journey and now alerted him that Egghead—the mayor's code name—was about to burst onto the street.

Braddock turned on the engine of the mayor's sedan and then jumped out to help Fasco, struggling to maneuver Eldon toward the car. But there was not a clear path from the entrance. Between was a shiny-coated, broad-shouldered black dog taking a luxurious, large-stream pee at the curb alongside the back door of the sedan. Fasco did not need this obstruction, so he barked at the tall youth holding the dog's leash to "move aside, buddy."

The young man perhaps did not understand or, more likely, given the circumstances, was unable to move the dog. Fasco tried to maneuver his boss around the vigorously peeing canine, but despite his iron-firm grip, the mayor lost his balance and stepped on the dog's hind leg.

The reaction was immediate. The dog yelped in pain, reared up, turned, sprayed urine on the mayor and bit his right calf, tenaciously locking his jaws on the First Citizen's pants and flesh.

Eldon, brought to alertness by the incisors gripping him, shouted, "Son of a bitch! Off! Off!" as he struggled to get free of the enraged animal. It was unclear who was more deranged, biter or bitee.

The dog's walker, meanwhile, tried to restrain the dog and to pull him away from the mayor.

"Shouesh! Shouesh! Pusho! Pusho!"
the young man shouted, to no avail.

Fasco was equal to the task. He pulled his Glock automatic from its ankle holster and fired two shots in rapid succession at the sali
vating animal. It collapsed, then writhed, emitting fiendish howls, on the pavement. Fasco fired again and Braddock, getting into action, delivered the coup de grâce with a fourth bullet.

Amid the hail of gunshots, the dog's walker took his leave, dashing across Fifth Avenue and scaling the low-level wall into Central Park.

Fasco and Braddock were so intent on exterminating the dog that the youth's departure was of secondary interest. He was too fleet for them anyway, lost now in the dark recesses of the park.

They shoved Eldon into the backseat of the sedan. Then, silently and simultaneously, they both pointed to the dead animal. Without speaking they quickly wrapped its bloody remains and leash in a blanket and put the bundle in the trunk. And for good measure retrieved the four spent shells lying in the street.

They took off into the night, eager to dispose of the two carcasses in their custody.

A
fter a stealth trip back to Gracie Mansion—no sirens, no flashing lights—Fasco and Braddock dragged Hoagland inside and upstairs to his bedroom. Called a "mansion," Gracie had actually been a modest Dutch burgher's residence and the interior rooms and stairways were small and narrow; manipulating the mayor's lanky frame up the stairs was not easy.

By now Eldon was quiescent. Fasco had applied a tourniquet to his leg in the car, and while his pants leg was a torn, gory and soggy mess, the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Edna, sleeping apart in her own room (as she did on her husband's nights out with Leaky), had been awakened by the bumping and scraping and appeared in her doorway.

"What happened this time?" she asked resignedly, spotting the blood.

Fasco explained the encounter with the dog and that "we thought we'd better bring him home instead of to a hospital."

"Good thinking," Edna said. "Don't need a picture of him looking like this on the front pages." She shuddered, thinking of her husband in the middle of the stab-wound victims, battered women, OD'd junkies and puking children that came to the city's emergency rooms at night. "Put him on the bed and let's have a look."

Eldon started, apparently under the impression that he was being robbed. He offered noisy resistance as the two detectives and his wife tried to depant him.

When they had done so, it was plain from Edna's professional
examination that the mayor's bite was serious and the tooth marks were deep. She ordered Braddock to fetch the emergency kit she said was kept downstairs in the kitchen. Then she quizzed Fasco about the exact details of the attack, satisfying herself that the dog's actions were provoked by Eldon's clumsiness and not by a case of rabies; sending out the policemen on a mission to locate rabies vaccine could be avoided.

Braddock was uncertain where the first aid materials were located. As he searched about, Amber Sweetwater heard him and came out from her improvised bedroom next door.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Nothing. Mayor got a little cut on his leg."

"Drunk?"

"No comment."

Amber pointed the officer to a large emergency kit. Braddock picked it up, along with a supply of towels from a pile nearby.

"Can I help?" Amber asked.

"Nope. Go back to bed."

She started to follow Braddock, but he turned with a look that made it clear she was not wanted.

Back upstairs, Edna dressed the wound, after some more wrestling with the patient. The task completed, the policemen said good night to her.

"Thanks, boys," she said quietly.

.    .    .

Braddock and Fasco, relieved to be rid of one body, went to the kitchen for a needed cup of coffee. Braddock cautioned his partner to keep his voice down, as Amber was undoubtedly still awake next
door. They discussed in low tones their other problem—the bloody remains outside in the trunk of the mayor's car.

"I dunno, Gene, you think we had to shoot that dog?" Braddock asked.

"Hell, yes. He would have wounded us all. And besides, Egghead told us to off it, right?"

"I guess so."

"You think the dog belonged to that kid?" Fasco asked.

"No. No. He was walking it for somebody. If it'd been his, he would have put up more of a fight."

"What the hell kind of language was he speaking? Sounded something like
shouesh, shouesh, pusho, pusho.
Not English."

"Dunno. My guess he's an illegal. That's why he ran. Afraid we'd turn him in to Immigration."

"Hey, that animal had tags," Fasco said, in a burst of insight. "Let me go look." He went out and returned minutes later, a collar with an ID attached in hand.

"Owner's named Sue Nation Brandberg, Twenty-nine East Sixty-second Street, 212-744-2163. Mean anything to you?"

"Think I've heard the name. Sue Nation. Sue Nation Brandberg. Can't place it, though. What's the dog called?"

"Wambli."

"Jesus."

"And what are we going to do with Wambli?" Fasco asked.

Stumped, the two men drank their coffee without speaking.

"Well, we could go call on this Brandberg broad and give her the bad news," Braddock said. "'Your little Wambli is dead, ma'am. We're
most
regretful!'"

"Yeah. 'We shot your dog. We're very sorry!'"

"Great."

"Nobody saw us, right? Or heard us?"

"We were lucky. Nobody except that
shouesh, shouesh
kid. And I don't think he's a problem, Gene. As I said, I'm sure he's an illegal."

"You got a better nose for that than I have," Fasco said, referring obliquely to Braddock's Jamaican ancestry.

"Brotherhood time, partner," Braddock replied, using their agreed code expression for acknowledging ethnic digs at each other. Fasco's remark was not meant as a slur, but it came (in Braddock's view) close.

"I think we better deep-six the body," Fasco said.

"Ah, the Mafia."

"Shut up. Brotherhood time yourself. No corpus delicti, no crime, no questions."

Braddock seemed dubious but had no alternative to propose.

"Put Wambli in a garbage bag with a couple of rocks, take a spin down the Drive and dump him in the East River somewhere in midtown."

"No, uptown. That was an uptown-type dog."

"What you mean?"

"Stupid, don't you realize Wambli was a pit bull? Never seen a pit bull?"

"Guess I haven't."

"Well, I sure as hell have. Every lowlife in Harlem's got one. Saw one bite off the head of a cat once."

"Jeezus, Egghead may have been lucky to get away alive."

"You said it, Gene. Now let's get going."

Braddock searched around the kitchen, opening cabinet doors, searching for a garbage bag. Exasperated, he called out to his partner, "Where the hell do you suppose the garbage bags are?"

"Ssh. You'll wake the Wiccan," Fasco cautioned, pointing to Amber's doorway.

"Never mind, here they are," Braddock said. "Nice big plastic trash bag for Fido. He'll fit in that real good. Then a few rocks, we tie it up and off we go to dump him in the East River. Just like you eye-ties would do it."

"Brotherhood, brotherhood, Tommy. Oh, and may Wambli—what the hell kind of name is that?—rest in peace."