The Dogfather (2 page)

The passenger-side front door of the limo flew open to disgorge a man so vertically and horizontally gigantic that he almost blocked the sidewalk ahead of us. His mountainous proportions alone would’ve startled me. As to his features, you know that anthropological debate about whether modern homo sapiens is part Neanderthal? A glance at this guy’s brow ridge and prognathic jaw settled the question in my mind, although that wasn’t, of course, the question of immediate concern to me at the time, and for obvious reasons, I didn’t try to settle the academic one by asking the brute whether his immediate ancestors had worn loin cloths and fashioned primitive tools out of stone. The creature blocking our path had, I might mention, exceptionally pale skin and dark hair, and wore twenty-first-century men’s pants and a zippered jacket that looked as if it should’ve had a candlepin logo on the breast and the name of a bowling league embroidered across the back.

The dogs and I came to a halt. Only then did I notice that the limo had pulled over under a street light and that Alley Oop was taking advantage of the illumination to peer at Rowdy, Kimi, and me through narrowed and depthlessly stupid eyes. These are show dogs, so they’re used to being scrutinized. They love it. And even if I didn’t show my dogs, they’d still get stared at because they’re big, wolflike, and show-offy, so our neighborhood strolls are punctuated by dog-admiration pauses. But I
do
show my dogs. I’d be a fool not to. They’re gorgeous. Anyway, Rowdy and Kimi have been trained to gait beautifully and to pose handsomely before American Kennel Club judges, which was more or less what they were doing right now, free-stacking rather than wiggling all over, hurling themselves onto the ground, and rolling onto their backs in the hope of tummy rubs, the way they did in sidewalk mode. The dogs showed not a trace of their rare and subtle response to a perceived threat to their beloved biped companion, which in Kimi’s case consisted of sitting vigilantly at my side and in Rowdy’s, of transforming himself into a furry brick wall by stationing himself between me and the potential aggressor. Indeed, the only participant in the encounter who demonstrated unusual behavior was the colossal man: His gaze took in both my dogs and me.

Having evidently reached some decision about the three of us, the hulk turned back toward the limo door, which had remained ajar, and uttered an affirmative grunt. As I was trying to remember whether Neanderthals were believed capable of language, the limo’s rear door opened, and out stepped a second man. He was shorter than the first and strikingly narrow, with sloping shoulders, a stretched out neck, an ax-shaped head, dark hair, and a prominent widow’s peak.

He jabbed a hand in my direction, then pointed an extraordinarily elongated index finger toward the interior of the limousine. Leaving no question about the language capacity of vampires, he said, “The boss wants to see you.” His voice was adenoidal and squeaky, but unlike movie mobsters, he pronounced
the
and
to
in ordinary fashion instead of reducing the words to
duh.

“The boss,” I echoed. Pointing a normal-size index finger at my big dogs, I said, “Around here,
the boss
means me.” Then I stalled for time. Concord Avenue is not only a busy street, but my street, and in this academic community of sensible vehicles, the limo stood out like a raven among house sparrows. With luck, my next-door neighbor Kevin Dennehy would drive by. If he did, he’d notice the limo, the dogs, and me. Kevin is a Cambridge police lieutenant. He notices everything, wonders what’s up, and always finds out. “But I take it that you mean someone other than me,” I prattled. “My father might possibly see himself as someone’s boss, but probably not mine. He knows me better than that. We go back a few years. Then there’s my editor, Bonnie, but we communicate by phone and e-mail, and if
Dog’s Life
magazine is springing for a limo, it’s a first. So I guess you must be talking about
your
boss. Is that right?”

I ran my eyes up and down Concord Avenue. Kevin Dennehy was nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, while I was scanning the street, Kimi took advantage of my meandering gaze to apply her own coplike observational skills. Worse, in Kevin-like fashion, my observant Kimi acted, which is to say that one second she was standing politely on a loose lead, and the very next second, she was practically tearing my arm out of its socket by lunging through the open rear door of the limousine and into its dimly lit interior. In an apparent effort to disjoint my other arm, Rowdy hurled himself after her. Dutifully maintaining my grip on the dogs’ leashes, I flew through the air, whacked my shins, smashed my head, and tumbled into the limo and thus into a roaring dog fight. The dogs had taken over the rear seat, and I landed ignomin-iously on the floor. At the edge of my vision and consciousness, I was aware that Count Dracula and the caveman now occupied the rear-facing seat, and that the limo was moving. Still, I felt oddly buoyed by the need to deal with an immediate problem that I knew how to resolve. Sure, we’d been shanghaied, but so what? I knew how to break up the fight and could probably restore peace without getting bitten.

Rowdy, my male, and the larger of the two dogs, had leaped right on top of Kimi and now had her pinned. Kimi’s head was tucked down in what I felt sure was an effort to protect whatever edible treasure had impelled her to jump into the limo in the first place. How did I know it was edible? Because I know my Kimi. Her determination to maintain possession of her booty impeded her ability to rid herself of Rowdy, whose jaws were locked on the skin at the back of her neck. Both dogs issued deep, throaty growls. In the rare battles that occur between Rowdy and Kimi, hideous rumbling and yelping are actually a good sign. With luck, the dogs pierce the air instead of rending each other’s flesh.

I sprang to the rear seat, kneeled, and bellowed orders. “Rowdy, enough! Leave it!” Wrapping my left hand around his rolled-leather collar, I shoved the fingers of my right hand into that spot between the molars and the temporomandibular joint. “Let go!” Switching to a happy tone of voice, I caroled, “Rowdy, watch me right now!”

Ten zillion hours of obedience training, and I’m always stunned when the dog obeys. I could feel Rowdy’s head turn slightly. As his jaws loosened their grip, I yanked him off Kimi and then dragged him across the luxurious carpet and up onto the opposite seat, where I planted him between the surprised Neanderthal and the amazed vampire. Rowdy weighed only a bit over eighty-five pounds, but his thick double coat combined with his weighty manner created the illusion of tremendous size. Even so, had the rear-facing seat been one of those flimsy folddown affairs, it would’ve collapsed under Rowdy and the two men. Fortunately, it was a full bench seat. Not that getting abducted in any limousine is exactly fortunate, but better in a luxury limo than in some cut-rate job, I guess.

Addressing the vampire, I said,
“You!
Grab the dog’s collar and hang on to it. His name is Rowdy. He’s a good dog. He won’t bite you. Grab his collar!”

Rowdy really is a good dog. He’s anything but a sore loser, and he loves meeting new people. Finding himself ensconced between our captors, Rowdy was bright-eyed and waggle-tailed. The men, in contrast, looked stupefied. The damned vampire still hadn’t obeyed my order.

“Take his collar,” I repeated. As a dog trainer, I believe in giving a command only once, but what choice did I have?

This time, he complied.

Ever mindful of the power of positive reinforcement, I said, “Good! Very good. Now just hang on to him.”

Then I turned my attention to Kimi, who still lay outstretched on the rear seat. As I’d suspected, she was gnawing on something. Grasped between her massive front paws was a damp and flattened white carton, the kind used for take-out food. Although Kimi will eat absolutely anything, she shares my fondness for Italian food, especially pizza. The leather seat was smeared with creamy glop that could’ve been mozzarella, but it was also dusted with white powder. Pizza is harmless. But white powder? Heroin? Cocaine?

“What is my dog eating?” I demanded. “What is this damned powder?”

The men opposite me exchanged glances over Rowdy’s bulk.

“Joey,” said the vampire, “you left ’em there? Moron.”

Instead of waiting the millennia it might’ve taken this remnant of the Ice Age to evolve toward articulate speech, I rummaged in my pockets and found a morsel of homemade liver brownie. “Kimi, trade!” I said brightly. Snatching the soggy carton from her mouth, I kept my part of the bargain by popping in the treat. “Good girl.”

Revealed in the soft lights of the limo, Kimi’s slimy loot proved to be more or less what I’d surmised, a medium-size piece of thin cardboard, gray on one side, white on the other. Squished and chewed, it was nonetheless recognizable as a pastry box. The white powder, then, thank
dog
spelled backward, was nothing more harmful than confectioner’s sugar.

“Doughnuts?” I asked.

Stupid me.

To my amazement, it was the Neanderthal, Joey, who replied. “Cannoli.”

“Cheese cannoli,” I said.

He nodded.

Ricotta cream piped into delectable pasty shells. Well, no wonder Kimi’d leaped. As I’ve mentioned, she loves Italian food.

Idly smoothing out the dog-moist box, I noticed that the white side bore a name hand-printed in broad felt-tipped black marker. Reading the name, I understood everything.

The name was
Guarini.

Struggling to believe that Kimi had really done what she’d just done, I said, one ghastly word at a time, “My. Dog. Ate. Enzio. Guarini’s. Cannoli.” And then as fast as the words could fly out of my mouth, I said, “OhshitsheateGuarini’scannoli.”

Roused to Kimi’s defense and my own, I sat suddenly upright and pointed at our kidnappers. “The
boss
wants to see me. I get it now. Mr. Guarini wants to see me. And what did the two of you do? You let my dog eat Guarini’s cannoli.
You
let it happen. I wasn’t doing anything but walking my dogs.”

Guarini
was
the boss, you see.

Boss.
That’s English for capo.

CHAPTER 2

Before I say another word about the Neanderthal and the Transylvanian, and before I introduce Zap the Driver, and especially before I present the boss himself, Enzio Guarini, I want to emphasize that never once in my entire association with the underworld did I see the slightest evidence of anything even remotely like a mobster liberation movement. On the contrary, from Guarini himself all the way down to his lowliest wise guy, the Italian mobsters positively went out of their way to conform to, or even to exceed, the stereotypes in such matters as Town Cars, oversize pinky rings, cannoli consumption, broken noses, the facial expressions of George Raft, and other symbols of racketeer oppression. One exception: They didn’t speak with New Jersey accents, but only for reasons of geography, not political consciousness. Boston is Boston. The letter
r
is often silent.
Door
has two syllables:
dough-uh.
That’s how they talked. Anyway, in the absence of a Eugene V. Debs type organizer, let me say that the Mafia has nothing to lose but its sinister vehicles, ghastly male jewelry, and gross overreliance on a sexually explicit expletive that begins with
f
. And the world to gain, of course. MOBSTERS OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!

Or preferably, disperse! But that’s my biased opinion of what ought to happen, whereas my descriptions of the vehicular, culinary, and personal adornment preferences of Guarini and his underlings are utterly objective and dead accurate, and if you’re offended, blame Guarini, not me.

As to the limousine in which Rowdy, Kimi, and I were now incarcerated, I have to admit that far from blaming Guarini for adhering to the stereotype of Mafia transport, I was marveling at the contrast between the splendid, if ill-gotten, conveyance and my battered, if hard-earned, Bronco. To the best of my recollection, the Bronco had once had a suspension system, but the years had unsprung the springs. Rust was eating its body. Belts kept breaking. Dog hair had embedded itself throughout the interior and had, I suspected, migrated forward to clog the engine. Not content with being unreliable and uncomfortable, the Bronco went on to embarrass me by backfiring in public places. The vents blew hot air in the summer and cold in the winter. In these pothole days of spring, the Bronco smashed down into the pits, and when it did, the dogs lurched in their crates, and I got jolted. In brief, I wished that the damned car would vaporize.

The limo, although dated in style, was as silent and smooth as a cat. Its cushioned ride made the roads feel newly paved. The seats were upholstered in real leather. The temperature was neither too hot nor too cold. I’d’ve bet anything that the turn signals didn’t activate the windshield wipers. Geez, maybe the radio even worked. Mine had quit a month ago.

“I take it that we’re going to Mr. Guarini’s house,” I said to his henchmen. "As I recall, his office is in the North End, or at least it used to be, and since we’re now in Medford Square, I assume that we’re not heading for Hanover Street.”