The Dogfather

“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