The Dogfather

live with your parents?”
    “My mother. My sister and her husband and their kids are upstairs.” As if he needed to apologize for living at home, he said, “Saves on rent.” Instead of letting the explanation stand, he added, “But don’t get me wrong. I got prospects. It might look to you like I’m an errand boy, but, hey, you gotta start somewhere, right? What are you buying that stuff for?” Zap pointed at the mesclun mix I was putting in a plastic bag.
    “For salad,” I said.
    “You know, that stuff, those little leaves, all that is, is just what they’re trying to get rid of. You ought to get yourself a head of lettuce and not let these people take advantage of you.”
    “I like this stuff. It might not look like much to you, but let’s say that it’s got prospects, okay?”
    My pleasantry didn’t go over big with Zap. His scrawny body stiffened, and he glared at me.
    “Hey, I was just joking,” I said. “This is fancy gourmet lettuce, and I’m sure that right now you’re serving a sort of apprenticeship. Before long you’ll be on your way up.”
    We were now at the meat counter, appropriately so, I thought, since the butchered steaks, roasts, and pieces of stew meat probably provided a vivid foreshadowing of Zap’s vocational future.
    “Take Joey,” he said.
    “What?”
    “Joey started out like me, you know, low level. And look where he ended up.”
    Unable to contain myself, I said, “Underground?”
    “Before that.”
    “Before that, Joey—” I gestured toward the rear of the store, beyond which lay the parking lot where Joey Cortiniglia had been killed.
    “Forget about that.”
    Impulsively, I said, “Mr. Guarini was not happy about it.” I came close to adding that Guarini had ordered his men to get him the name of Joey’s killer. Zap would know whether Guarini now had the name he’d sought. I stopped myself. For all I knew, the explosion that had destroyed my car was a reminder to keep my mouth shut about Joey’s death. For all I knew, my message, if it was one, had come from the same gangster who’d shot Joey.
    Having lost my taste for meat, I moved to the seafood department. If you’ve seen The Godfather , you’ll realize that the sight of the fish counter didn’t exactly rouse my appetite, mainly because the items arranged amidst the crushed ice and parsley included two whole salmon, which is to say, two whole fish, in other words, fishes, as in what Luca Brasi sleeps with.
    “Bean curd,” I said. Bean curd is flavorless and slimy. Ordinarily, I hated it. Now, I felt a sudden, sharp craving for it. To the best of my knowledge, tofu had never carried a Sicilian message.
     

CHAPTER 21
     
    Zap, of course, limoed me home from Loaves and Fishes. Fishes! The damned Sicilian messages were everywhere. If we’d passed an establishment called the Horse’s Head, I’d’ve died of fright. We didn’t. But what awaited us at my house was worse than the imaginary, if ubiquitous, intrusion of sinister symbolism. It was real. It was the FBI.
    Parked in my driveway was a beige sedan so neutral and ordinary that its only distinguishing feature was its absolute blandness. Agent Deitz was standing next to it. Mazolla was with him. As Zap began to turn the limo into the driveway, I said, “Stop! Here is fine.”
    “In the street?”
    “Yes. Right here. Don’t get out. I’ll get the groceries.” Zap’s prospects for advancement in Guarini’s organization, or for that matter, any other, were looking worse every second. Deitz and Mazolla didn’t have FBI spelled out in big letters across their jackets, but an ambitious Mob apprentice should’ve been able to spots Feds without having them labeled as such. Or so it seemed to me. For their part, Deitz and Mazolla wouldn’t have any comparable difficulty in guessing Zap’s occupation; they wouldn’t even need to see him. They’d already seen quite enough. Guarini’s limo might as well have had Boston Mob professionally painted on both sides complete with Enzio Guarini’s phone number and a suitable logo, such as a pair of cement shoes or a horse’s head.
    “You don’t want to meet my company. Stay in the car" I told Zap. That’s stay as in “Sit. Stay.” When I speak to people as if they’re dogs, it’s sometimes a mark of respect. But not now. “The second I get the bags out, drive off.”
    My five brown paper Loaves and Fishes bags were on the floor in the rear of the limo. It took me about two seconds