The Dogfather (21 page)

Entering through the front door, I first checked on Rowdy and Kimi. Deitz’s threat had made me hypervigilant about their safety during my absence. Before leaving for dinner with Kevin, I’d crated them in the guest room, padlocked the crates, locked the door to the room, and double-locked the doors to the house; Deitz had specified Rowdy and Kimi, and the crates and locks would have made it hard for him to get to them. Emerging from their crates, the dogs bounded around. Even more than usual, their vigor and beauty felt like undeserved blessings.

Assured of the dogs’ safety, I found comfort in the sameness of my ordinary rooms. The horror of the shooting and my fear for Kevin’s life had left me disoriented, and the too-bright, windowless hospital rooms had had a casino-like atmosphere of existing apart from time. The clock on the stove read 9:30. The message light on my answering machine was blinking. I pressed the play button.

“Holly, Steve,” said the deep voice. “My mother died. I’ve got a flight to Minneapolis first thing in the morning. Lady and India are all set here, but I wondered if Sammy could stay with you. Sorry to impose. If it’s a problem, let me know.”

His mother had just died, and he was apologizing? Her death was a total surprise. Steve’s mother was in her early sixties, not all that old, and had always seemed robustly healthy. I called him immediately, extended my sympathy, learned that she’d died of a heart attack, and said that I’d be delighted to keep Sammy for as long as he wanted. During the brief conversation, I had to keep reminding myself that sudden, fatal heart attacks really did occur, hence Guarini’s liking for them, I supposed.

“Do you want me to get Sammy now?” I asked. “I can probably borrow Rita’s car. Or you could drop him off here. Now or in the morning. Whatever’s best for you.” The invariable result of asking Steve any question at all was waiting while he thought over his answer. The one impulsive act of his life had been marrying Anita. Having learned from that disaster, he was now even more pensive and deliberate than he’d been before.

“I’m not real clear about anything right now,” he finally said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Your mother just died. You’re entitled to let people help.”

“My plane’s real early.” He paused. “Don’t bother about Rita’s car. I’ll run Sammy over now if that’s okay.”

“I’m crazy about Sammy. Besides, I’m glad to help. I remember so well when
my
mother died. I know what it’s like. I’ll do anything you want.”

“I feel so sad,” Steve said. “Just so sad. That’s all. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

I hung up without having told Steve about Kevin. The omission was deliberate. If Steve knew that I was worried, he d feel compelled to make other arrangements for Sammy. I didn’t want him to have to go to the trouble.

In preparation for Sammy’s stay with us, I dragged a puppy crate into the bedroom and then, on impulse, moved two big crates there, too. Having done so, I realized that I’d been acting on the principle that no one should have to sleep alone.

CHAPTER 25

Fifty percent of so-called dog training consists of starting with the right dog. Another forty-nine percent consists of not ruining what you started with. Now that Sammy was about to become a houseguest instead of a visitor, I took pains to avoid spoiling my dogs’ potentially friendly attitude toward him. In this instance, the wrong dog would’ve been the same-sex dog, Rowdy. I crated him and then took care to protect Kimi from the sense that she was being displaced by an adorable rival. According to the Declaration of Canine Independence, all dogs are created unequal and are entitled to unequal treatment under benevolent human law. I intended to assure Kimi that she was still Miss Alpha in our little pack and that Sammy occupied a rank so far beneath the lowliest omega that the Greek alphabet was incapable of expressing how unthreatening and insignificant he was.

In preparation for his arrival, I put Kimi on leash and took her outside, in part so that she’d get to march back into the house ahead of the little guy. As we waited for Steve’s van to drive up, I fed her liver treats and bounced around with her in the driveway, on the sidewalk along Appleton Street, and around the corner to Concord Avenue and the front of the house. This property is my principal investment and a good one; as the neighborhood has become gentrified, real estate values have ascended. The basket of flowers that I’d kicked into a corner of the porch was setting an untony tone. I retrieved it and was carrying it to the trash barrels under the back steps when Steve’s van approached on Appleton Street and pulled into the driveway. Instead of depositing the demolished flower arrangement out of sight in one of the barrels, I dropped it next to the trash containers. Steve, I thought, shouldn’t have to wait for condolences while I fussed with refuse.

When Steve got out of his van, I moved into his arms in a way I hadn’t done for ages. Possibly by accident, Kimi didn’t step between us. Steve rested his head on mine and breathed into my hair. He held me so tightly that I felt surrounded by his strength. He had the same clean smell I’d always loved. Men’s cologne was something he’d never used. Now that his mother was dead, no one would give him any ever again. All her ill-chosen presents would stop: the hideous sweaters he donated unworn to charity, the incompetently embroidered wall hangings depicting dogs and cats suffering from what Steve always maintained were easily diagnosable afflictions. He’d miss the unintended amusement her gifts had provided. He might even miss her cooking: the lime gelatine salads with fake mayonnaise, the canned-soup casseroles, and the other specialties of the house that I’d slipped to her dog whenever I’d visited. Could the true cause of her death have been that dreadful food?

“She was really a good mother,” I said. “She loved you a lot. She adored you.” Consequently, she must have hated everything about Steve’s marriage to the rotten, if beautiful, Anita, but I didn’t say so.

“She always liked you, Holly.”

“I liked her, too. Steve, I am so sorry.” Unaccountably, Kimi had refrained from barging in on the tenderest moment Steve and I had shared since he’d married the human fiend. Even now, observing an exchange that didn’t include her, Kimi continued to sit on the asphalt, but broke her silence by emitting one loud, musical, and highly expressive syllable:
Whoooooooo.
Her breath control is stupendous; she should give voice lessons. Steve recognized this particular monosyllabic outpouring as a vocalization that Kimi reserved for special people and special occasions. When he laughed in reply, it was with Kimi and not at her.

Beautiful.

Except that Steve also turned to look in Kimi’s direction and thus saw the demolished floral arrangement I’d dropped next to the trash barrels. With regard to divine punishment in the form of bad luck, let me say that although I’d recently been guilty of moral compromises in my dealings with Enzio Guarini, I had always tried to be a good person—hardworking, kind to animals, and except in the lamentable cases of Mary Wood and Harry Howland, loyal to human friends. For whatever reason, Heaven did not reward me at this crucial moment by celestially burning out the flood lights mounted over the back door of my house. On the contrary, the floods lived up to their name by washing light all over the ruined flowers and all over Steve’s face. When I’d kicked that basket, I hadn’t merely tapped it with my foot; I’d smashed it to pieces. The basket lay on its side. Crushed blossoms and broken stems protruded from rips in the plastic wrapping. I might just as well have driven my foot into Steve’s solar plexus and deposited him in the garbage. His face didn’t fall; it plummeted. Then all expression left it.

“You have every reason to feel bitter,” he said as calmly and slowly as usual. “I don’t blame you. You know, I ordered those this morning, and with everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten. It was a stupid thing to do. I should’ve known better.”

“Steve—”

“Don’t.” He opened the door to the rear of the van, climbed in, and emerged with Sammy in his arms. Handing the puppy to me, he said, “Holly, don’t. You had every reason. If you want, Sammy can stay with—”

“Of course not.”

“I’m leaving my van here for you. There’s no point in having it sit at the airport. I’ll take a cab.”

“I’ll drive you to Logan.”

He shook his head.

Let me at least drive you home.”

But he just handed me his keys and walked away.

CHAPTER 26

All that malarkey about love and warm puppies makes me want to throw up. Adult dogs give and receive love just as warmly as puppies do. The love I shared with Rowdy and Kimi was intense and profound. Right now, the last thing I needed was the emotional equivalent of a deep-muscle massage inflicted on painful bruises. Sammy tickled my injuries. He did his puppy-cute best to brush them lightly away.

By now, I’d examined and opened the florist’s envelope that had accompanied the flowers. The basket had come from a Cambridge florist, not from Carla Cortiniglia’s shop. The message inside the card had consisted of one word, the sender’s name: Steve. A shaking chill had run through me. I’d turned on the oil burner and set the thermometer to seventy degrees. Then I’d made hot cocoa, wrapped myself in a blanket, and, after crating Rowdy and Kimi, let Sammy loose in the kitchen, where he skittered over to the running shoes I’d left by the bedroom door. He grabbed one, shook it hard, and paraded around with it dangling from his mouth. I know better than to confuse a puppy by letting him think that any shoe is a toy; shoes should be off limits. Now, instead of substituting a dog toy for the shoes, I let myself wallow in the healing here-and-now of Sammy’s delight. Zen Buddhism is hot in Cambridge. It’s half religion and half competitive sport.
I meditate for two hours a day
loses to
Well, I meditate for three hours a day and sometimes four.
The Buddhistically ambitious spend entire weekends at retreat centers in the Berkshires where they rack up scores of eight, ten, or twelve hours a day and return to Cambridge to lord it over the lazy Buddhists who wasted Saturday and Sunday sleeping late and mowing the lawn. If I’m ever hauled up before the Harvard Square Court of Meditation Enforcement and charged with failing to own one of those zillion-dollar meditation cushions, I’m sure to get off because I practice my own Zen. Now I no longer
was
—but was lost in Sammy’s rapture with that old shoe.

Nirvana, even puppy-induced nirvana, is impermanent. Before bed, I checked the locks on all the windows, and double-locked and bolted the doors. Paradoxically, the small acts of precaution raised my fears for Rowdy and Kimi. Nonetheless, I remained in Sammy’s thrall and slept deeply. In the morning, even before my first cup of coffee, I called Mrs. Dennehy. Kevin had done well in surgery and survived the night. His condition, she reported, had been upgraded from grave to serious. “I’m praying for Kevin, and I hope you are, too,” she said severely.

It was the guilt-inducing tone of her voice that sent me to the worldwide web that morning. Specifically, I went to the FBI site, from which I captured three photos of Blackie Lanigan.
Capture,
as you probably know and as I’d explained to Kevin, refers to downloading images from web sites and has nothing to do with capturing criminals, except in this case, obviously. Once having captured Blackie in that limited sense, I printed all three portraits on glossy paper. Mrs. Dennehy had informed me that Kevin was in Intensive Care and not allowed visitors. When the ban was lifted, I’d have presents ready for him.
If
it was lifted? If he lived to have it... I didn’t want to think about that.

Another intolerable thought was that by now Guarini must’ve heard and interpreted Zap’s account of dropping me off yesterday: the men lounging by the anonymous-iooking car, my panicked response. I considered the possibility of concocting a story for Guarini, but decided that it was more dangerous to lie to him than it was to tell the truth. Frey was due to arrive for a training session at any moment. What if his owner delivered the little elk-hound in person? If he did, I’d let Guarini take the initiative. If he asked about the men, I’d tell him who they were and what they’d wanted. If Guarini believed me, I might even plead for protection for my dogs.

Guarini himself didn’t bring Frey to me, but the puppy’s arrival broke the usual pattern. Instead of being chauffeured in the Zap-driven limousine, Frey was escorted by Favuzza as well as by Zap in the silver Suburban that had served as Joey Cortiniglia’s first hearse. I’d seen the big car off and on since then and had assumed that it belonged to Guarini or to one of his enterprises and was a company car. Yes, as in “bad company.” I was taking out the trash when the Suburban drove up with Zap at the wheel and Al Favuzza in the passenger seat. The exterior of the car was clean, but the dashboard was littered with fast-food wrappers, and the backseat was piled with debris. On top of a jacket I recognized as Al Favuzza’s, a tabloid newspaper proclaimed that Hitler’s nose had been cloned and had sprouted a moustache. In his crate in the rear, Frey was barking loudly.

Zap, who must’ve noticed that my eyes were on the junk in the car, said, “All this shit’s Al’s.”

Favuzza told him to shut up. To me, Favuzza said, “I heard you had visitors.”

“Unwelcome visitors,” I said.

“Mr. G. says if they give you a hard time, you let him know.”