The Dogfather

to get myself and my groceries out. As soon as I shut the rear door, Zap obediently took off, leaving me there at the curb. Instead of graciously rushing to carry my bags, the agents stayed by their car.
    “Mr. Deitz,” I said. “Mr. Mazolla. How kind of you to go out of your way to help me with my groceries. I’m deeply moved. It’s always so gratifying to make new friends.”
    “You’ve got a lot of friends,” Deitz said.
    “Be nice to people, and people will be nice to you,” I said. “I learned that training dogs—the power of positive reinforcement.” To give myself something to do, I shifted the bags to the sidewalk. I thought about carrying them indoors, but I didn’t want Deitz and Mazolla inside my house.
    “Too bad about your car,” Deitz said.
    “A heartfelt loss.”
    “Could’ve been worse. A lot worse.”
    “I’m told it was a professional job. Come to think of it, you’re a professional yourself, aren’t you?”
    “So’s your friend Guarini.”
    “So is Blackie Lanigan,” I said.
    “Is Blackie among your acquaintances, too?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone in Boston knows that Blackie Lanigan’s best friends were in your office. And maybe still are. A lot of people assume that’s why he’s never been caught. And if I had the vaguest idea where Blackie is, I’d be the first person to speak up. For one thing, he belongs in jail. For another, I could use a million dollars. But you aren’t eligible for the reward, are you? Catching Blackie is supposed to be a routine part of your job.”
    “All in a day’s work,” Deitz said. “Catching bad guys. This job would be a lot easier with a little cooperation.”
    “If I knew where Blackie Lanigan was, I’d tell you and everyone else. Or do you mean Mr. Mazolla? Has he been having problems with cooperation lately?”
    “I’m talking about Enzio Guarini.”
    “You know where he is. That’s no mystery.”
    “All I’m asking for is a little cooperation in putting him back where he belongs.”
    “Repeat! I am Mr. Guarini’s dog trainer. I’m happy to tell you anything you want to know about his puppy. Name: Frey. Breed: Norwegian elkhound. Progress: excellent. Knows sit, down, stay. Lovely puppy. Recall is remarkably reliable for his age. He heels decently for me, not so well for his owner. No longer jumps on people. Owner is grateful to me. Therefore, when he heard about my car, he sent someone to take me out for groceries. So there you have the case against him: coming to the aid of a carless dog trainer. You better go grab him and charge him and lock him up before he gets away.”
    “We can offer you protection.”
    “I am a dog trainer and a dog writer. I don’t see how that makes me a candidate for the Witness Protection Program.”
    “You ride in Guarini’s limo. You frequent his house.”
    “I don’t frequent it. I’ve gone there to train his dog." “Bad things happen to Guarini’s friends, Miss Winter. And to his employees. Take Joey Cortiniglia.”
    “I attended Joey Cortiniglia’s funeral so there’d be a dog trainer handy in case there was a problem with his wife’s dog. There was a problem. I solved it.”
    “Some problems aren’t all that easy to solve. Your car situation, for instance.”
    “I’ll get another one. In the meantime, I can walk. I like to walk. I walk my dogs all the time.”
    “So far.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Like I said, bad things happen. To people. To cars. What happened to that Bronco of yours could’ve been a whole lot worse.” He paused. “Think about cooperating.”
    “I am cooperating.”
    “Your dogs could’ve been in that car.”
    “Leave my dogs out of this.”
    “Rowdy and Kimi.”
    “They are none of your business.”
    “Let’s keep it that way,” Deitz said.
     

CHAPTER 22
     
    “That corrupt son of a bitch threatened my dogs,” I said to Kevin Dennehy, who was impaling an artichoke heart on his fork. We were sharing a serves-six antipasto platter at a small Italian restaurant that had just opened. The proprietor was a cousin of Kevin’s girlfriend, Jennifer Pasquarelli. The place was in Watertown, just over the line from Cambridge, and occupied a storefront between an Armenian bakery and an Armenian greengrocery. The restaurant was called the Bella Vista. Our table by the window gave a view of the shops across the street and some light traffic. The vista was thus not precisely bella , but the food was great. Once