The Dogfather

say. In fact, I’ve already asked all the people who’ve relayed Faith’s messages, and I’ve had no luck at all.
    As we head across the blacktop toward the trade center that serves as the show site, Mary is quietly taking me to task for expressing a discouraging attitude to Leah and Kimi, and somewhat less quietly is asking me whether I really throw up or faint in the ring. I’m feeling guilty about my negative attitude and change the topic by grumbling loudly about the hole in the floor of my car and my desire to have the wreck vaporize, when all of a sudden I’m startled by a lugubrious, adenoidal male voice that says, “You want some help?”
    To my embarrassment, the speaker is the mafioso Dracula himself, Al Favuzza, and with him are scrawny, greasy little Zap the Driver and the hulking monster-twin corpse movers. Committed as I am to the abhorrent policy of making nice to the Mob until I can sever my connection, I resist the urge to tell Favuzza to climb back into his coffin. As I’m trying to dream up an alternative greeting, I nod to Al, Zap, and the twins, and Mary, who’s noticed my nod of recognition, says, “Thanks. We’d love some help.” As I’ve said, that’s Mary: friendly. Also, intelligent. Why should we haul all this gear when we can get someone else to do it? She goes on to introduce herself. “I’m Mary Wood.” She smiles. So does Leah, who says, “I’m Leah Whitcomb, Holly’s cousin.”
    To my horror, Favuzza’s eyes are fixed on Leah: the masses of curls, the voluptuousness that accentuates the baby-perfection of her fair skin. I struggle to collect myself. For all that Mary and Leah know, the mobsters are purebred dogsters of an admittedly thuggish sort. After a glance at the young, old, fat, skinny, garish, conservative, noisy, and silent exhibitors making their way toward the trade center with their giant, toy, hairy, hairless, brawny, bony, yappy, and barkless dogs, I see that what marks the members of the dog fancy as such is nothing more complicated than animation: Our eyes are alive. By comparison, Guarini’s henchmen are the living dead.
    A benign explanation for the mobsters’ presence finally occurs to me: Guarini’s underlings are an advance force charged with the job of checking out the show before the boss arrives. Specifically, they’re on the lookout for another dog lover, namely, Blackie Lanigan.
    “Is Mr. Guarini coming?” I ask brightly.
    Favuzza’s eyes move from Leah to me and back again. If you looked in the seafood case at a market and saw a fish with eyes like that, you wouldn’t buy it. “No,” he says.
    As we enter the trade center, I’m hoping that the hoodlums will be told that this entrance is for exhibitors only and that spectators are required to use a different entrance, preferably one located ten thousand miles away. As it is, Mary, Leah, and I show our entry forms, the gangsters pay to enter, and all of us get the backs of our hands stamped in purple ink. Zap humiliates me by refusing to hold out his grubby hands for the rubber stamp, but the gargantuan twins surround him, and Favuzza says, “So’s you can go out and go back in without paying, you moron.”
    Although we’ve arrived early, the exhibition hall gives off the rich mix of odors that define a dog show, the fragrances of grooming spray, liver treats, cedar shavings, women’s perfume, men’s cologne, nervous human sweat, premium dog food, soggy sandwiches, stale doughnuts, burned coffee, and hot competition. The grooming area is conveniently near the entrance. It’s already lined with rows of crates, coolers, folding chairs, and grooming tables. Underfoot are heavy-duty extension cords. Here and there, patterned area rugs add a homey touch. Trailed by our mobster helpers, Mary, Leah, and I find space to set up. As one of the monstrous twins effortlessly lifts my heavy grooming table, I can’t help thinking of the millions of times my muscles have screamed under the weight of the damned thing. My conscience may object to racketeer assistance, but my body is grateful. Still, now that Al, Zap, and the big-lug twins have finished providing the help they offered, I’m hoping they’ll depart, but out of nowhere, Leah turns to Favuzza and says, “I know where I met you! At the Museum of Fine Arts.”
    I think, but don’t say, “Oh, sure. Or was it at Symphony Hall?”
    Leah adds, “You asked me for directions. I knew I’d met you before.”
    Favuzza makes a