The Dogfather

Because of Deitz’s threat, I felt apprehensive about taking the dogs out, but also because of Deitz, I felt apprehensive at home, too, and the dogs needed the kind of sustained exercise they didn’t get from short dashes in my small yard. I reminded myself that the sun hadn’t set; Deitz and Mazolla wouldn’t try to grab or injure my dogs on city streets in the remains of daylight.
    Little Sammy simply had to stay home; I couldn’t safely manage Rowdy, Kimi, and the puppy. I expected to feel guilty about deserting him, but when I leashed the big dogs and peered into Sammy’s crate in the kitchen, he was curled up asleep with his head resting on Rowdy’s chewman. To avoid awakening him, I led Rowdy and Kimi out, and gently pulled the door shut.
    The spring day lingered. I wore a short-sleeved T-shirt and enjoyed the sensation of mild air on my bare arms. To malamutes, ideal weather is five below with a fierce wind. In winter, Rowdy and Kimi will pause during our walks to savor the icy gusts. That night, we headed briskly down Appleton Street, crossed Huron Avenue, and continued uphill. Moving at a fast, confident pace somehow gave me confidence about the dogs’ safety. When we reached the fancy part of Appleton Street, the gigantic houses with their manicured yards seemed to radiate the sense that nothing terrible could happen amidst such beauty and opulence. Glancing around, I kept telling myself that I was admiring my surroundings and not scanning for the approach of clean-cut men in innocent-looking cars. I eventually realized that I’d unconsciously headed in the direction of Mount Auburn Hospital. Kevin was allowed visits only from close family members, and no matter how human Rowdy and Kimi were in my eyes, they’d never fool the ICU staff into mistaking them for a Dennehy brother and sister. Although it felt comforting and secure to walk in Kevin’s direction, I made the dogs turn around as twilight began to change to night, and I set a fast pace toward home.
    When we got there, Sammy was gone.
     

CHAPTER 27
     
    The door of Sammy’s empty crate stood open. On the off chance that I’d failed to fasten it properly or that Sammy had somehow managed to open the door, I called to him and, with increasing urgency, searched the house. Sammy was a jaunty extrovert, not the kind of puppy who’d hole up in some hiding spot, especially once he heard my voice. He wasn’t behind the headboard of my bed, a favorite place of Kimi’s when she made off with greasy pizza cartons and other booty. I looked not only for the living Sammy but for his body. Puppies can stick their heads in small spaces, panic, writhe, and strangle. There was no sign of Sammy at all, not a puddle on the floor, not a puppy-destroyed object. Also missing was the toy I’d left in Sammy’s crate, the fleece chewman that was a favorite of Rowdy’s. In daring to take Rowdy and Kimi for a walk, I’d focused my fears on the wrong dogs in the wrong place; while Rowdy and Kimi had been out with me, Sammy had been stolen from my house.
    Deitz had threatened Rowdy and Kimi, not Sammy. The person who’d had his eye on the puppy was Zap. I remembered the expressionless mask of Zap’s face when I’d delivered my diatribe about his efforts to buy people’s dogs. I’d imagined that once he was out of my hearing, he’d snarl and curse. Zap’s reaction, I now thought, hadn’t consisted of violent retorts. Zap wasn’t exactly a man of words. I’d dissed him. In retaliation, he’d stolen Sammy.
    Adrenaline made my heart pound and my brain zing. Five minutes on-line told me that Zappardino was, indeed, an unusual name. The web site showed one Zappardino in East Boston and one—aha!—at 57 George Street in Munford. In seconds, I had the address and a printed map of the neighborhood together with driving directions. Zap was stupid, but not stupid enough to let Guarini know he’d stolen a puppy that could easily be traced to me. On our recent shopping trip, Zap had told me that he lived with his mother. I was betting that he’d taken Sammy home to dear old avocado-less Mom.
    Preparing to steal the puppy back, I dressed like a cat burglar. Cat, indeed! Absurd! Anyway, I replaced my T-shirt with a black turtleneck and added an old black denim jacket with oversized pockets. My equipment consisted of a leash, a mini flashlight, a small hammer, and the most non-Cambridge of objects, a handgun. I grew up in rural Maine, where firearms were