The Dogfather

that it was a magazine, but what dropped to the floor seemed to be loose sheets of paper. I didn’t bother to examine them, but tossed Sammy into his crate, started the engine, and drove off. All the way home, I kept checking the side mirrors in fear that someone was following me. No one was. On the contrary, someone was waiting for me at home. That someone was Enzio Guarini.
     

CHAPTER 28
     
    Enzio Guarini’s Mobmobile occupied the parking spot on Appleton Street just beyond my driveway: the precise space where my Bronco had blown up. Pardon me. Had been blown up. Guarini’s limo was intact. In the parlance of dog people, intact is a loaded word. I’m using it accurately. Like everything else about Guarini, the limousine had the unneutered air of possessing the full complement of male equipment. But I digress. The limo’s headlights and taillights were off, and no interior illumination showed through the tinted glass windows.
    Just as if the limo weren’t there, I pulled Steve’s van into the driveway, flipped on the inside lights, and examined Sammy and his crate for signs that he’d swallowed any sort of foreign object. Loose in the debris-packed Suburban, he might have eaten almost anything. Little Sammy shared none of my anxiety. He wiggled in my arms, licked my face, tugged at my shoelaces, stuck his nose in his father’s crate, and got a soft rumble in reply. The puppy crate was clean; Sammy had brought nothing up.
    Still kneeling by the crate, I noticed the treasure that Sammy had carried in his mouth from the Suburban and dropped on the floor of the van. Now that the interior lights were on, I could see that the papers I’d glimpsed in the dark consisted of a glossy brochure and a letter printed on expensive business stationery. After a glance at the brochure, I knew exactly what it was and what it said, but I took a moment to read the letter in its entirety. The night was mild, the van was warm, and I was still wearing the denim jacket. Even so, a chill ran through me, not down my spine, either, but right down my throat to the pit of my stomach. The cause of the sensation was neither the contents of the letter nor the presence of Guarini’s limo. Rather, it was what I tried to convince myself was the meaningless coincidence of the two: Guarini’s car was not here because of the letter I’d just read. Yes, Enzio Guarini had the power to tap sources of information, but he was not clairvoyant. Until a few seconds ago, no one but little Sammy had known what he’d puppy-snatched from the Suburban, and he certainly didn’t understand its significance. I did. I knew who’d killed Joey Cortiniglia. And I knew why.
    When I unlocked and opened my back door, I found Enzio Guarini seated at my kitchen table. By now, it probably goes without saying that his bodyguards were there, too. His trademark hat and walking stick lay on the table. Rowdy and Kimi were still in the van. Sammy was in my arms. I lowered him to the floor and watched him run to Guarini, who bent to give the puppy a gentle rubbing and then welcomed me home as graciously as if the house were his and I were an eagerly awaited guest.
    “Miss Winter,” Guarini said, “it is always a pleasure.” His eyes crackled with life.
    “Mr. Guarini. Good evening. Could I ask a favor?”
    “I can hardly refuse. I’m here to ask one myself.”
    “Could you hang on to Sammy for a minute? I need to get Rowdy and Kimi, and I don’t want Sammy shoving himself in Rowdy’s face.”
    The presence of Guarini’s limo felt like protection against Deitz’s threat against Rowdy and Kimi, but when it comes to dogs, I hate to take chances. In that regard, it’s interesting to note that I had no hesitation about entrusting Sammy to Guarini. At the same time, it never occurred to me to report Zap’s theft of Sammy to his boss. Neither in that way nor in any other did I intend to enlist Enzio Guarini as my hit man.
    As I made the brief trip to the van and especially as I passed through the kitchen with Rowdy and Kimi, I was hideously aware of Sammy’s paper treasure, which was still in my pocket and, indeed, seemed to burn a hole there, as money is said to do. When I reached my bedroom, where I intended to leave Rowdy and Kimi, I stowed the Smith & Wesson on a high shelf in the closet, but I left the papers in my pocket and kept the jacket on.
    I returned to the kitchen to find Sammy on the floor at Guarini’s feet, where he was entertaining himself