The Dogfather

ordinary, almost ubiquitous, household possessions, like eggbeaters and screwdrivers; the question wasn’t why you’d own such a thing but why you wouldn’t. My Smith & Wesson Ladysmith had been a gift from my father. I know how to use it. I store it safely. But please do not tell my neighbors about it. I’m enough of a misfit here already.
    Steve’s van needed no preparation. I put Rowdy and Kimi into Lady’s and India’s crates. Typically, despite his mother’s death, Steve had left me a full tank of gas. To reach Munford, I didn’t have to consult the driving directions, and although night had fallen, I had no trouble finding George Street, home of someone listed as L. Zap-pardino, who was, I hoped, Zap’s mother. Closely spaced multifamily houses lined the narrow one-way street. Some houses had driveways, but off-street parking was limited, and cars were parked along both sides. A few residents had followed the practice of reserving the spots in front of their houses with traffic cones, trash barrels, or lawn chairs. In winter, lots of people throughout Greater Boston lay claim in this fashion to spaces they’ve shoveled, but you occasionally see parking turf staked out year round. The custom was popular on George Street. In front of number 57, a tattered aluminum chaise longue occupied an otherwise empty spot on the right-hand side of the street. A block ahead, also on the right-hand side, I found a space big enough for the van. I parked, shut off the engine, stowed my equipment in the capacious pockets of my jacket, carefully locked the van, and set off on foot toward what I thought must be Zap’s house. When I’d gone no more than twenty or thirty feet, headlights appeared down George Street, and a big car approached. I stopped. So did the car. The driver’s door opened. A figure stepped out into the street, ran around the car, moved the chaise longue to the sidewalk, returned to the car, and parked it—directly in front of number 57. Immediately, the driver got out, went up the front walk, and ascended a short flight of stairs to a small porch with a light mounted over two doors. Resisting the urge to dash forward, I settled for long, rapid strides. In seconds, I was close enough to have a clear view of the big car and its driver. The car was the familiar silver Suburban. Plainly visible under the porch light was Zap, who turned a key in the lock of the left-hand door and vanished into the house. Sammy wasn’t with him.
    With no hesitation, I cut between two parked cars and ran down the street to the Suburban. Speed was all I had going for me, speed and the bit of luck that consisted of the Zappardino family’s evident habit of keeping every blind and curtain in the house tightly shut. The porch light at the Zappardinos’ house seemed to brighten and almost to shine right at me as I approached the Suburban, but that same light let me see that neither Al Favuzza nor anyone else occupied the passenger seat of the Suburban. I didn’t waste time creeping around the big car and peering into the back. When I reached the driver’s side door, I already had a grip on the hammer I’d brought and was about to raise it and smash the window when Zap’s behavior registered on me: He’d been in a big hurry. I tried the car door. It was unlocked. But when I’d opened it only an inch or two, I heard what sounded like the banging of a storm door from a nearby house. Just how nearby? Ducking down, I peered through the Suburban’s windows. The Zappardinos’ porch was just as it had been; no one was there, and both front doors were closed. But the false alarm scared me. If Zap had left the car door unlocked, he intended to be right back. I had no time.
    I opened the car door and slipped in. Although Frey’s crate was visible at the back of the Suburban, Sammy was loose in the backseat of the car. The mess I’d noticed earlier hadn’t been cleaned up, and little Sammy was having a grand time. Even in the dim light, I could see that Al Favuzza’s jacket was ripped, and when I grabbed the wiggling little malamute, he kept his jaws locked on some treasure that he had no intention of leaving behind or surrendering to me. Without bothering to search for Rowdy’s purloined chewman, I got Sammy out of the Suburban, closed its door, clamped the puppy against me with both arms, and bolted down George Street.
    Once inside Steve’s van, Sammy let his booty fall from his mouth. I’d had the vague impression