The Kingdom of Dog by Neil S. Plakcy Page A

my office, Mike’s work-study assistant Dezhanne was waiting for me. She was a short, chunky girl who had been in my class the semester before.
    I remembered how the roster in that class was like a grocery list—a boy called Felae, and girls named Honey and Cinnamon, in addition to Dezhanne. I always wondered if she had been named after the mustard but had never asked her. She had huge circular holes in each earlobe and a rotating set of weird earrings, usually flat disks in electric colors. Today’s were bright red and matched her lipstick.
    A couple of dark curls had come loose from her ponytail, and she looked frazzled. “Oh, Mr. Levitan, I’m glad you’re back. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing, and President Babson was hunting for you. He said the police were terrible and he’s worried that if they talk to all the guests they’ll ruin our fund-raising forever. He’s meeting with Mr. MacCormac in his office now and he wants you to go down there as soon as you get in.”
    â€œThanks, Dezhanne. Don’t worry, he just gets excited.”
    The phone rang and she picked it up. “Hi!” she said. “Um, I mean, thank you for calling the office of public relations and publicity at Eastern College. How may I help you?”
    I smiled and walked into my office, where I hung up my coat, took a swig of cold water from a bottle on my desk, and went down the hall to Babson’s office. I found him sitting on the corner of his desk, his long, lanky frame leaning over Mike MacCormac’s shoulder, peering at a set of figures. His blue wool suit jacket was still buttoned, and it strained across his chest. “Come in, Steve, come in,” he said. “We’re trying to assess the damages last night caused.”
    â€œBefore we go any further, sir, I want to say I’m sorry it didn’t turn out as we planned. I still believe it was a good idea, if it had gone smoothly.”
    â€œNo one’s blaming you, Steve. I was all for the party, and I’m not going to waste time crying over it. Let’s just figure out how to move on from here.”
    Mike said, “The good news is that we’ve gotten more press for Eastern than any of us hoped for. And every article mentions the campaign and Eastern’s reputation. It’ll certainly enhance our recognition factor, and once the excitement over last night dies down I think it’ll have a good effect on both admissions and donations.”
    That was cold, I thought. But that was Mike. At least he wasn’t as eager-looking as I was accustomed to. That afternoon he looked more like Richard Nixon after Watergate.
    â€œThis is a short-lived excitement,” Babson said. “What matters is the long-term recognition Eastern gets.” He turned to me. “I want you to get as much press coverage out of this event as you can, Steve. Forget about maudlin sentimentality. Joe Dagorian would have wanted his death to serve Eastern as much as he did in life. Use it as a hook, if you have to. Promise interviews, pictures, whatever you have to do to get those newspapers and magazines here. I’d like to see this in Time, Newsweek, The Wall Street Journal , for Christ’s sake.”
    I was officially creeped out at that point. It seemed like neither of them cared that a man had died the night before—a man we all knew and worked with. But I wasn’t in any position to criticize either of them. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
    â€œAnd get me a report by the end of the week-- analyze the costs of the party and the positive and negative publicity you can see materializing.” He stood up and stretched. “I saw that police detective in your office, and the yellow tape out in the garden. Have they discovered anything else?”
    My English teacher background kicked in, and I considered how to phrase what I wanted to say, opting for the passive voice. “It looks like the