The Dogfather

surroundings, she alternately chomped at her Fancy Feast and glanced fearfully left and right.
    I kept talking, not because poor Tracker actually liked my voice, but because I couldn’t believe that any creature was impervious to my soothing tones. I said, “As to decoding the message, the problem, you see, is that I can’t tell what effect the explosion was supposed to have on me. Most people are about as delighted to have their cars blown up as they are to be shot at. I, as you know, am an exception. As I did not inform the insurance company when I called this morning, I am immensely happy to be rid of that damned rattletrap. Furthermore, I’d’ve had to pay a dealer to take it as a trade-in, whereas now, the insurance company is going to pay me for my supposed loss.”
    To hold my audience, I sprinkled Tracker’s food with Kitty Kaviar.
    “Ah, but not everyone knows that I’m the exception. Agents Deitz and Mazolla, for example. The Boston office of the FBI, my dear Tracker, has an impure record. Shocking! The corruption there consisted primarily of recruiting the notorious Blackie Lanigan as an informant. The quarry then was Enzio Guarini. The quarry now is Enzio Guarini. Asking me to spy on him didn’t work. Blowing up my car was, I remind you, a professional job. And FBI agents are professionals.”
    Having gulped down all the Fancy Feast and Kitty Kaviar, Tracker bolted for my study. I closed the door behind her. It would’ve been kinder, really, to let her enjoy the treats in solitude in that one little room. People newly sprung from prison are popularly believed to suffer from anxiety and disorientation induced by unaccustomed freedom. In the TV footage I’d seen of Enzio Guarini’s arrival home after his release, he’d looked relaxed and cheerful, probably because he’d already put down a deposit on an elkhound puppy.
    After letting in the dogs, I called Guarini, not to inquire about the power of puppy purchase to cure post-prison stress syndrome, but to cancel today’s puppy kindergarten. Before placing the call, I’d debated about how to phrase the tidings of my Bronco’s demise. The news wouldn’t necessarily be news to Guarini, but I in- j tended to present it as such. Unlike Deitz and Mazolla, Guarini knew all about my wreck of a car. So did his men. At Saturday’s show, in front of Zap, Favuzza, and the monster twins, I’d complained about discovering the rusted-out hole in the floor.
    Guarini was grateful to me. The steaks. The wine. The Bronco?
    I settled on saying, “My car’s out of commission. Per- < manently. It’s been towed off. I’m sorry to cancel, but I’m sure there’s a mess out on the street from it that I’ll have to clean up, and I have to figure out what I’m going to do.”
    Guarini was a model of paternal solicitude. “Rowdy and Kimi, they’re safe. You’re safe. That’s what matters.”
    As I’ve said, Guarini was a real dog person. His concern for my dogs and me, in that order, may have explained his failure to inquire about the cause of the car’s demise.
    He went on to update me on Frey and to thank me for helping Carla with the horrible little Anthony. Horrible is my word, not Guarini’s. Guarini had nothing bad to say about Anthony, and on the subject of Carla, he was practically effusive. “Carla’s a nice girl,” he said. He repeated the phrase. “A nice girl. A beautiful girl. Too young to be a widow. It’s a shame.”
    I was tempted to utter a platitude about the heartbreak of heart attacks, thereby demonstrating my acceptance of the boss’s declaration that Joey’s murder hadn’t happened. But Guarini wouldn’t want mere compliance; he’d want obedience. Consequently, I said nothing about Joey’s death. In that respect, this conversation was typical of every interchange I ever had with Enzio Guarini: Except when we talked about dogs, everything important always went unsaid. In that sense, my relationship with the Dogfather bore an unsettling resemblance to my relationship with Steve Delaney. And just what would Rita have to say about that observation?
    “Anthony is a challenge.” I said. “Retraining him is going to be slow. I hope Carla understands that.”
    “Carla’s got a big heart,” he said. “She’s just got to learn to say no.”
    “That’s hard with a cute little dog.”
    It’s hard with a notorious crime boss, too. As I didn’t add, but wanted to: “No, don’t send food! No, don’t send wine! And