The Dogfather Page 2

  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.”

  The North End, which is actually east of downtown Boston, is our local Little Italy. Let me hasten to say that I’d been there to eat in Italian restaurants, shop for Italian food, and savor the Old World atmosphere, not to pop in on Enzio Guarini at the notorious “social club,” as the newspapers called it, that served as Guarini’s headquarters. Medford is north of Boston. Beyond it, near Melrose and Malden, is Munford, where Guarini lived. I wasn’t in the habit of dropping in on him there, either. I knew he lived there, because the Boston papers had made a big deal of his recent release from the federal pen and his return to Munford.

  “We’re heading for Munford, aren’t we?” I continued. “I want to know because that’s pretty close, and I don’t like having my dogs loose in a car. It’s not safe. They belong in crates—like the ones you see at the airport. If we have an accident, the dogs could be thrown against the windshield. Or,” I added maliciously, “their heads could collide with yours.”

  As I was about to elaborate, the limo glided into a left turn.

  “Munford,” I said. “Right?”

  The man with the widow’s peak nodded. True to stereotype, his nose was a little crooked. His weirdly long fingers were encrusted with heavy rings.

  “Thank you.” And I smiled, too.

  As if fate were responding to the power of positive reinforcement, the limo obediently turned into a driveway. I peered through the tinted glass at a brick colonial that was admittedly big, but otherwise disappointing by comparison with the baronial abodes of Mafia pooh-bahs in movies and on TV. The house had only two noteworthy features. One was the startling absence of the usual suburban rhododendrons or, indeed, any other foundation shrubbery, flower beds, or anything else; the lawn ran right up to the front wall of the house. You know how someone who always wears eyeglasses looks denuded and disoriented without them? That was how Guarini’s house looked: naked and confused, as if it were groping around and muttering, “Where on earth did I leave my rhodies?” The second distinctive feature was the blinding illumination cast by industrial floods mounted on the roof and sides of the house and the adjoining two-car garage. Homesick for his former residence, Guarini had nostalgically turned his home into a little prison away from prison. Or maybe he was paranoid. Or smart.

  When the engine stopped, I reached over and grabbed Rowdy’s leash while tightening my grip on Kimi’s. I knew enough about Guarini to feel confident that the dogs would be welcome. The favor Guarini thought I’d done for him had consisted of helping to close a wholesale dog brokerage operated by his son-in-law, a piece of scum whom Guarini senselessly blamed for the cancer death of Guarini’s daughter and justifiably loathed for villainously trafficking in dogs. Although I’d had nothing to do with the death of Guarini’s son-in-law, Guarini had nonetheless credited me with it. He’d also applauded my small, if genuine, contribution to animal welfare. So, Guarini loved dogs: If I crossed him, he’d kill me or have me killed, but he’d never hurt Rowdy or Kimi. Just in case I’d somehow offended Guarini, I intended to barricade myself behind my dogs. So what else is new?

  Although the limo had stopped, the goons waited for the driver to open the door for them before they clambered out. The dogs and I followed. I guess I could’ve tried to escape, but I liked my heart the way it was. Beating.

  Joey must’ve noticed that I was a bit goggle-eyed at the overilluminated barrenness of the place. “So’s no one can’t hide nowhere,” he told me.

  Before I’d finished sorting out the negatives, the driver distracted me by commenting on Rowdy and Kimi, albeit in an obnoxious way. “Tough,” he said with approval. The driver himself looked anything but tough: He was scrawny and pasty faced, with a dissipated air that made his age hard to estimate. I settled on a guess of twenty-two, but an aged twenty-two. His short brown hair was barbered, as opposed to styled, and perhaps in imitation of old-time-movie thugs, he wore a trench coat belted tightly around his skinny middle. Pointing a stubby finger at Kimi, he said, “How much you want for him?”

  “Her. She’s not for sale.”

  The attraction was understandable. Kimi’s facial markings make her look tough. Her “full mask,” as it’s called, the combination of a black cap, eye goggles, and a bar down the nose, creates a banditlike appearance. In contrast, Rowdy’s all-white countenance, an “open face,” suggests candidness and honesty. Both dogs, however, have soft, dark eyes and warm, gentle expressions, and neither Rowdy nor Kimi is in the least bit deceitful, by which I m
ean that instead of sneaking around waiting until your back is turned, these dogs will snatch food off your plate and otherwise brazenly do what they’re going to do right before your very eyes.

  As the driver was beginning to make an offer on Rowdy, the vampire cut him off by saying, “Zap, shut up.”

  “Hey, Al, I was only asking,” Zap whined.

  “Don’t ask, you moron. Just shut up.” Al blew his nose.

  Al and Joey headed across the lawn toward the front door. As soon as their backs were turned, Zap muttered, “Shut up yourself, ya friggin’ vampire.” I later learned that the Boston newspapers referred to Al Favuzza in the same way: Alphonse “The Count" Favuzza, typically preceded by a phrase such as alleged Mob associate.

  Let me not linger over Mob monikers because I’m dying... well, poor choice of expression. Let’s start over. I’m eager to introduce you to Enzio Guarini. A few minutes after Zap the Driver had tried to buy Kimi, and a minute or two after an elephantine man had admitted us to the house, the dogs and I, accompanied by Al and Joey, were waiting for Enzio Guarini in what had obviously been his late wife’s living room. True to stereotype, the room had numerous table lamps in the form of half-naked Greco-Roman goddesses. The rug, in shades of red and blue, depicted fully togaed people loitering in front of a pillared temple. The walls were thick with large oil paintings devoted to two contrasting subjects, first, Italy—canals, gondolas, ruins—and, second, Norway, but only as it pertained to Norwegian elkhounds—a forest scene with a pack of dogs staring at a moose, a sentimental portrait of a rustic cabin near the door of which stood two elkhounds and a man in serious need of a shampoo.

  On the otherwise empty surface of a mile-long desk lay a copy of the latest issue of Dog’s Life magazine folded open to an article I’d written about pet mummification. The illustration caught Al “The Count” Favuzza’s eye just as I’d hoped it would catch every reader’s eye when I’d done it on my computer. It showed a human-shaped Egyptian mummy, wrappings and all, but I’d tinkered with the portrait panel by replacing the drawing of a man’s face with a close-up of Rowdy’s head. Favuzza stared at the illustration, then studied Rowdy, then said, “Hey, that looks just like him.”

  “It is,” I said. “I wrote the article. And I put that picture together on my computer.”

  “Trick photography,” Favuzza said. “This some kind of a joke?”

  “The picture? Yeah, sort of.”

  “Turning your dog into a mummy.”

  “People do it,” I said. “That’s what the article’s about. It’s expensive. But some people can’t stand the idea of burial. Or cremation. So they have their dogs mummified. Or their cats. Or for that matter, themselves. The same company does human mummies. Or it’s going to. The people who’ve signed up are all still alive.”

  “Does it work?”

  “I think so. I mean, the mummies from ancient Egypt are in pretty good shape, and they’re thousands of years old. So if you want your body preserved, or your dog's or your cat’s, then yes, it works. The process is pretty complicated. Preservatives, chemicals, all kinds of stuff. Maybe you should read my article. It’s mostly about dogs, but the principle is exactly the same.”

  As Favuzza and I were holding this grisly discussion, Rowdy and Kimi snuffled around within the limits of their six-foot leashes. Then a door burst open, and in strode Enzio Guarini. For a moment, I mistook the aura he radiated for mere vitality. My wise dogs weren’t fooled. Recognizing raw power for what it was, they fell to the floor at Guarini’s feet. Even now, I must remind myself that if Guarini’s body had been animated by a spirit milder than his, the physical Guarini, so to speak, would’ve been unremarkable: a man of seventy, neither short nor tall, with gray hair and brown eyes, an ordinary man who carried an ebony cane. Considering who Guarini was, it should, I suppose, have been crooked. In fact, it was a straight walking stick with a brass grip.

  Part of Guarini’s considerable charm lay in the warmth of his smile. He beamed at me. Then, with the aid of the cane, he bent to greet Rowdy and Kimi, to whose exposed underbellies he delivered thumps and scratches. As Guarini began to rise, Joey leaned toward him without actually stepping to his aid, probably because Guarini had arrived with yet two more men. These two, a matched pair, were at least six three, with broad shoulders, bullet-shaped heads, and small, dead eyes. The bodyguards, as they obviously were, wore white shirts and mud-colored sport coats. Dog person that he was, Guarini had on a gray sweatshirt embellished with the head of a Norwegian elk-hound, a breed to which I am partial. The elkhound is a moose-hunting breed, not a sled dog. Nonetheless, elk-hounds look quite a bit like small gray malamutes with curly tails.

  Having won me over big by welcoming Rowdy and Kimi, Guarini, now standing upright, extended his right hand and, still smiling that killer smile, said, “Miss Holly Winter. I am delighted. Thank you for accepting the invitation of a loyal fan.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” I said. The boss’s handshake was strong. Mine was stronger. I’ve spent my whole life with big dogs. I groom Rowdy and Kimi myself. I’ve got wrists of dog-tempered steel.

  “You’ve met my associates,” Guarini said. “Al Favuzza.” He gestured to the Count. “And Joey Cortiniglia.” The Neanderthal.

  My kidnappers nodded. Neither smiled. As I somehow expected, Guarini didn’t go on to introduce the bodyguards; then and afterward, he treated them simply as mobile defense systems.

  In that sense, he was no hypocrite.

  Turning to Favuzza and Joey, Guarini said, to my alarm, “Me and Miss Winter got private business here.” This ain’t personal. It’s business. I’d heard that line in a hundred Mafia movies. It’s what the hit man says just before he pulls the trigger. To my amazement, however, no one shot me. All that happened was that Al Favuzza and Joey Cortiniglia left the room. The bodyguards stayed. At Guarini’s invitation, I took a seat in a big armchair slipcovered in a boldly flowered fabric. He remained standing.

  “I have a problem,” he began.

  Despite his overt friendliness, my heart pounded. “With a dog,” he continued. “A puppy.”

  My sigh of relief must have been audible.

  “I’ve been away,” he said.

  I kept a straight face.

  “On my return, I bought the puppy.”

  “An elkhound.” Years ago, he’d owned two champions. “My breed.” He lifted his right hand briefly to his heart, thus patting the dog depicted on his sweatshirt. “I bought him from Irene Izakson.”

  I nodded. “If I were looking for an elkhound myself, she’s the first person I’d call.” True. Like everyone else who’s anyone in dogs—everyone over a certain age, that is—Irene was a friend of that legendary grande dame of the Dog Fancy, Marissa Winter, my late mother. “How old is the puppy?”

  “Four months. A male. Frey.”

  Norse god of peace and prosperity. It’s a popular malamute name, too. In fact, it’s a popular dog name.

  I looked straight into Guarini’s eyes and smiled knowingly. “But a little less peaceful than you counted on.” Guarini slowly shook his head back and forth. With a self-deprecating smile, he raised a hand and knocked himself lightly on the head.

  “It happens all the time,” I assured him “Puppy energy. People forget what it’s like. Everyone does. We love our old dogs. They die. What we remember are our old dogs.” I paused. “Let me guess. Frey jumps on you. And on other people. He doesn’t come when he’s called. He’s noisy? The more you tell him not to bark, the more he does. He chews furniture.” I wasn’t guessing. The legs of the mile-long desk bore fresh tooth marks. My next observation wasn’t a guess, either; the hideous rug camouflaged the stains, but it didn’t entirely hide them. “He has accidents in the house.”

  Guarini reached into the right pocket of his pants. I naturally assumed that he was going to pull out a gun and shoot me for insulting his dog. In fact, he produced a bright blue cotton leash, or what had recently been one, anyway. Looking chagrined, he held it
up to display the fine job that Frey had done of reducing it to macrame. “Very artistic,” I said.

  Guarini laughed. Then he licked his lips, hunched one shoulder, looked at the ceiling, and finally rested his gaze on Rowdy and Kimi, who were politely lying on the rug enjoying the interesting scent.

  “I see,” I said. “He’s growling at you. Irene’s lines have good temperaments. Outstanding temperaments. If he’s growling when you get near his food bowl, he can learn not to do it. If he growls when you try to take his toys, he can learn to give them to you.” Motivated by fear, professional pride, and, I admit, curiosity, I went on. “I can fix all of it. I can teach Frey to walk nicely on leash. To stop jumping. I can help you teach him to be a good dog.”

  “That’s why I invited you here,” said Guarini.

  Thus began my new career: Holly Winter, dog trainer to the Mob.

  CHAPTER 3

  Over the next two weeks, I repeatedly informed Enzio Guarini that violence begets violence. “With this puppy,” I kept saying, “we’re using gentle modern methods.” Indeed, I fervently preached the gospel of positive reinforcement to a Mob boss who was reputed to have murdered so many people that he himself had probably lost count long ago.

  I translated my faith into works by training Guarini’s charming elkhound puppy, Frey, sometimes at Guarini’s house, sometimes at mine. When Frey was delivered to me in Cambridge, Zap drove him in the limousine, and when I went to Munford, Zap chauffeured me there. During those first two weeks, I continued to feel the fear, curiosity, and professional pride that had made me practically volunteer to help Guarini with Frey. A few times when I was sitting at home in my cozy kitchen in the company of no one but my dogs, I admitted to myself that I also felt titillated to play a small and blameless role in the life of so notorious a figure as Enzio Guarini. I was flattered by Guarini’s esteem for me; in an unpardonably callous way, I was starstruck.