The Dogfather

Kevin’s name, and I made no effort to move my legs, which were pinned beneath Kevin’s bulk. Rather, in what felt even then like a show of pseudo-competence, I managed to sit up, rip off the cotton cardigan I was wearing, and press it hard against the wound in Kevin’s side. By that time, by which I mean almost no time, the wails and flashing lights of cruisers and ambulances spilled through the broken plate glass window and into the restaurant. The proprietor, Jennifer Pasquarelli’s cousin, had had the presence of mind to inform the 911 operator that the shooting victim was a Cambridge police lieutenant. The brand-new eatery, which had been almost empty of customers, was now filled with cops and EMTs.
    Three hulking men lifted Kevin off my legs, which were numb. Finding me covered with blood and semiparalyzed, two medics descended on me in search of bullet wounds. They found none. As sensation returned, my legs prickled and hurt. Kevin had collided with my left shoulder and arm, which throbbed. I felt certain that Kevin had deliberately spared my head. About six months earlier, I’d had a concussion. With Kevin and with other friends, I’d kidded around about the main piece of medical advice I’d received, which was, incredibly, to avoid another head trauma. As if on my own I’d have gone out looking for one! Kevin had remembered. With no time to think, he’d instinctively aimed himself at my shoulder and upper arm, which were padded with dog trainer’s muscles, and he’d managed to avoid causing a new concussion. Stupidly, I blurted out my concussion history to the EMTs and thus ended up in an ambulance on my way to Mount Auburn Hospital. By then, I’d gleaned the information that Kevin was already at the hospital.
    “He’s breathing,” a cop said, “but his condition’s what they call ‘grave.’ Bad joke.”
    Once at the hospital, I spent a lot of time sitting on paper-covered exam tables in the bowels of the building. White-coated people poked, peered, and tapped. They asked questions about me. I asked questions about Kevin and learned only that he was in surgery and that his mother was at the hospital. My own braised condition was all too familiar, as it would’ve been to anyone else who’d lived with strong, rough dogs. Over the years, I’d been knocked down, run through, and slammed into by what felt like jet-propelled brick walls. Kevin was heavier than my two dogs combined, but he’d tried to push me to safety, and he hadn’t had a running start.
    After the hospital staff correctly decided that I needed no treatment, I spent a few extra minutes in an exam room with a Cambridge cop named Jimmy O’Flaherty, who was a protégé of Kevin’s and had a hard time questioning me about the shooting because he kept choking up. O’Flaherty had Kevin’s coloring, the same fair skin, freckles, and red hair, but his build was slight, and he looked about fifteen years old.
    “I’d give anything to be able to help,” I said, “but I wasn’t looking out the window. I was looking at Kevin. We were talking. Kevin must’ve seen something, though. He moved. Then I heard the shots. One second I was talking to Kevin, and the next second he knocked me to the floor, and I heard the shots. I thought he was dead.”
    “You hear anything then?”
    “I’ll tell you what I didn’t hear. I didn’t hear a car racing off. If it was a drive-by shooting, wouldn’t you expect that?”
    O’Flaherty didn’t answer the question. “Did the lieutenant say anything about expecting trouble?”
    “No. And when we were shown to that table by the window, he didn’t seem to mind. But Kevin always expects trouble. He’s a cop. He’s always on high alert. He thinks everyone should be. You know that. Was he carrying a gun?”
    O’Flaherty struggled to sound professional. “The lieutenant was armed. And he was the target. They can tell by how the window broke. If he hadn’t’ve moved, he’d be dead.”
    “Do you pray?”
    The kid looked stunned.
    “Do you pray?” I repeated.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Then please do.” I believe in delegating essential tasks for which I have no aptitude. Besides, the only sensible response I could expect to my own prayers for Kevin’s survival would be the reminder that Kevin’s life was in danger because of me. If I’d told Kevin everything about Joey Cortiniglia’s killing as soon as it happened, Kevin wouldn’t have had to go nosing around asking questions. If