The Dogfather

broken stems protruded from rips in the plastic wrapping. I might just as well have driven my foot into Steve’s solar plexus and deposited him in the garbage. His face didn’t fall; it plummeted. Then all expression left it.
    “You have every reason to feel bitter,” he said as calmly and slowly as usual. “I don’t blame you. You know, I ordered those this morning, and with everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten. It was a stupid thing to do. I should’ve known better.”
    “Steve—”
    “Don’t.” He opened the door to the rear of the van, climbed in, and emerged with Sammy in his arms. Handing the puppy to me, he said, “Holly, don’t. You had every reason. If you want, Sammy can stay with—”
    “Of course not.”
    “I’m leaving my van here for you. There’s no point in having it sit at the airport. I’ll take a cab.”
    “I’ll drive you to Logan.”
    He shook his head.
    Let me at least drive you home.”
    But he just handed me his keys and walked away.
     

CHAPTER 26
     
    All that malarkey about love and warm puppies makes me want to throw up. Adult dogs give and receive love just as warmly as puppies do. The love I shared with Rowdy and Kimi was intense and profound. Right now, the last thing I needed was the emotional equivalent of a deep-muscle massage inflicted on painful bruises. Sammy tickled my injuries. He did his puppy-cute best to brush them lightly away.
    By now, I’d examined and opened the florist’s envelope that had accompanied the flowers. The basket had come from a Cambridge florist, not from Carla Cortiniglia’s shop. The message inside the card had consisted of one word, the sender’s name: Steve. A shaking chill had run through me. I’d turned on the oil burner and set the thermometer to seventy degrees. Then I’d made hot cocoa, wrapped myself in a blanket, and, after crating Rowdy and Kimi, let Sammy loose in the kitchen, where he skittered over to the running shoes I’d left by the bedroom door. He grabbed one, shook it hard, and paraded around with it dangling from his mouth. I know better than to confuse a puppy by letting him think that any shoe is a toy; shoes should be off limits. Now, instead of substituting a dog toy for the shoes, I let myself wallow in the healing here-and-now of Sammy’s delight. Zen Buddhism is hot in Cambridge. It’s half religion and half competitive sport. I meditate for two hours a day loses to Well, I meditate for three hours a day and sometimes four. The Buddhistically ambitious spend entire weekends at retreat centers in the Berkshires where they rack up scores of eight, ten, or twelve hours a day and return to Cambridge to lord it over the lazy Buddhists who wasted Saturday and Sunday sleeping late and mowing the lawn. If I’m ever hauled up before the Harvard Square Court of Meditation Enforcement and charged with failing to own one of those zillion-dollar meditation cushions, I’m sure to get off because I practice my own Zen. Now I no longer was —but was lost in Sammy’s rapture with that old shoe.
    Nirvana, even puppy-induced nirvana, is impermanent. Before bed, I checked the locks on all the windows, and double-locked and bolted the doors. Paradoxically, the small acts of precaution raised my fears for Rowdy and Kimi. Nonetheless, I remained in Sammy’s thrall and slept deeply. In the morning, even before my first cup of coffee, I called Mrs. Dennehy. Kevin had done well in surgery and survived the night. His condition, she reported, had been upgraded from grave to serious. “I’m praying for Kevin, and I hope you are, too,” she said severely.
    It was the guilt-inducing tone of her voice that sent me to the worldwide web that morning. Specifically, I went to the FBI site, from which I captured three photos of Blackie Lanigan. Capture, as you probably know and as I’d explained to Kevin, refers to downloading images from web sites and has nothing to do with capturing criminals, except in this case, obviously. Once having captured Blackie in that limited sense, I printed all three portraits on glossy paper. Mrs. Dennehy had informed me that Kevin was in Intensive Care and not allowed visitors. When the ban was lifted, I’d have presents ready for him. If it was lifted? If he lived to have it... I didn’t want to think about that.
    Another intolerable thought was that by now Guarini must’ve heard and interpreted Zap’s account of dropping me off yesterday: the men lounging by the