The Dogfather

have with him. Zap the Driver had parked the limo between my decrepit Bronco and a shiny new silver Chevy Suburban. Lounging near the Texas Cadillac were Joey “The Neanderthal” Cortiniglia, as I thought of him, and Al “The Count” Favuzza, as the Boston papers and maybe even his friends referred to him. Everyone except Guarini wore what I came to think of as the Mob uniform: a zip-front nylon or cotton warm-up jacket in a solid, neutral color, trousers rather than jeans, and running shoes or loafers. The surprising and invariant feature of the uniform was that with the exception of an occasional pair of running shoes, every single piece of clothing worn by everyone but Guarini looked cheap.
    In retrospect, it seems to me that Joey Cortiniglia acted nervous. I can’t be sure. He and Favuzza kept looking around, but so did Zap and the bodyguards. Maybe all of them were just doing their job, which was, at the moment, to protect Guarini. Still, I have the vivid impression that Joey fidgeted and that his face was damp.
    I greeted Guarini, Zap, Joey, and Favuzza just as if they were normal human beings instead of organized-crime figures. Rowdy and Kimi outdid me by wagging their beautiful tails and sounding peals of woo-woo-woo, but they directed their salutation exclusively to the alpha figure, Guarini, and disregarded the lesser-ranking members of his pack. The only ones I ignored were the bodyguards.
    “Where’s Frey?" I asked.
    Zap jabbed a thumb at the limo.
    “Let me just crate Rowdy and Kimi,” I said to Guarini, “and then we’ll get to work.”
    As I was opening the Bronco’s door, however, Joey offered to take care of the dogs so they wouldn’t have to be, as he phrased it, “locked up.” As he went on to explain, “Them dogs didn’t do nothing wrong.”
    Mindful that Guarini had recently been released from a federal pen and that the topic of incarceration was doubtless a sensitive one for Joey, too, I was inclined to accept his offer. After exchanging glances with Guarini and getting his nod of approval, I said to Joey, “Okay, but no matter what happens, hang on to their leashes. Don’t let go! And you’d better keep them away from other dogs. They’re usually all right, but if someone’s five-pound lap dog decides to tackle them, they won’t back down, so if you see another dog, walk in the opposite direction. Or put them in the car. I’ll leave it unlocked.”
    A glimmer of something weirdly reminiscent of intelligence crossed Joey’s face. “My wife’s got a little tiny dog,” he said.
    “They’re often very bright,” I remarked truthfully. “Very trainable.”
    “Not this one,” Joey said. “Not Anthony.”
    Favuzza snorted. Or maybe he intended to laugh. The sound was throaty and repulsive.
    “Be that as it may,” I said breezily, “don’t let my dogs get loose. We won’t be long. Frey is just a puppy, so we’re only going to do a short session. We’ll be in front of Loaves and Fishes or right around the corner at the end of the mall, so if you need any help with my dogs, just holler for me.” To Rowdy and Kimi, I delivered my usual farewell. “Be good dogs. I’ll be right back.”
    After I finished giving my orders, it was Guarini’s turn. Joey—and by implication, Rowdy and Kimi—were to stay right near where all of us were now. Favuzza was to patrol on foot; Guarini made an arc with his arm. Having finally retrieved Frey from the limo, Guarini told Zap to get in and drive around. These instructions struck me as vague, but the men seemed to understand. The bodyguards required no instructions; they were apparently on permanent orders to cover Guarini.
    As to Frey, let me quote one of the most oft-quoted statements ever made about the virtues of dogs, namely, “The more I get to know men, the more I find myself loving dogs.” Those words are Charles de Gaulle’s, but he was quoting someone else. Anyway, in contrast to the vampirish Favuzza, the barely hominid Joey, the jaded Zap, the robotic bodyguards, and the deadly, although charming, Guarini, the elkhound puppy was a beautiful little gray fur ball of lovable, exuberant innocence. Imagine a wind-up toy in the form of a gray bear. Around Frey’s neck was a little red puppy collar. Attached to it was a six-foot red cotton leash that at the moment served as the target of Frey’s considerable energy. With a naughty glance at Guarini, the puppy grabbed the leash in his teeth, growled softly, and shook