The Dogfather

now standing upright, extended his right hand and, still smiling that killer smile, said, “Miss Holly Winter. I am delighted. Thank you for accepting the invitation of a loyal fan.”
    “The pleasure is mine,” I said. The boss’s handshake was strong. Mine was stronger. I’ve spent my whole life with big dogs. I groom Rowdy and Kimi myself. I’ve got wrists of dog-tempered steel.
    “You’ve met my associates,” Guarini said. “Al Favuzza.” He gestured to the Count. “And Joey Cortiniglia.” The Neanderthal.
    My kidnappers nodded. Neither smiled. As I somehow expected, Guarini didn’t go on to introduce the bodyguards; then and afterward, he treated them simply as mobile defense systems.
    In that sense, he was no hypocrite.
    Turning to Favuzza and Joey, Guarini said, to my alarm, “Me and Miss Winter got private business here.” This ain’t personal. It’s business. I’d heard that line in a hundred Mafia movies. It’s what the hit man says just before he pulls the trigger. To my amazement, however, no one shot me. All that happened was that Al Favuzza and Joey Cortiniglia left the room. The bodyguards stayed. At Guarini’s invitation, I took a seat in a big armchair slipcovered in a boldly flowered fabric. He remained standing.
    “I have a problem,” he began.
    Despite his overt friendliness, my heart pounded. “With a dog,” he continued. “A puppy.”
    My sigh of relief must have been audible.
    “I’ve been away,” he said.
    I kept a straight face.
    “On my return, I bought the puppy.”
    “An elkhound.” Years ago, he’d owned two champions. “My breed.” He lifted his right hand briefly to his heart, thus patting the dog depicted on his sweatshirt. “I bought him from Irene Izakson.”
    I nodded. “If I were looking for an elkhound myself, she’s the first person I’d call.” True. Like everyone else who’s anyone in dogs—everyone over a certain age, that is—Irene was a friend of that legendary grande dame of the Dog Fancy, Marissa Winter, my late mother. “How old is the puppy?”
    “Four months. A male. Frey.”
    Norse god of peace and prosperity. It’s a popular malamute name, too. In fact, it’s a popular dog name.
    I looked straight into Guarini’s eyes and smiled knowingly. “But a little less peaceful than you counted on.” Guarini slowly shook his head back and forth. With a self-deprecating smile, he raised a hand and knocked himself lightly on the head.
    “It happens all the time,” I assured him “Puppy energy. People forget what it’s like. Everyone does. We love our old dogs. They die. What we remember are our old dogs.” I paused. “Let me guess. Frey jumps on you. And on other people. He doesn’t come when he’s called. He’s noisy? The more you tell him not to bark, the more he does. He chews furniture.” I wasn’t guessing. The legs of the mile-long desk bore fresh tooth marks. My next observation wasn’t a guess, either; the hideous rug camouflaged the stains, but it didn’t entirely hide them. “He has accidents in the house.”
    Guarini reached into the right pocket of his pants. I naturally assumed that he was going to pull out a gun and shoot me for insulting his dog. In fact, he produced a bright blue cotton leash, or what had recently been one, anyway. Looking chagrined, he held it up to display the fine job that Frey had done of reducing it to macrame. “Very artistic,” I said.
    Guarini laughed. Then he licked his lips, hunched one shoulder, looked at the ceiling, and finally rested his gaze on Rowdy and Kimi, who were politely lying on the rug enjoying the interesting scent.
    “I see,” I said. “He’s growling at you. Irene’s lines have good temperaments. Outstanding temperaments. If he’s growling when you get near his food bowl, he can learn not to do it. If he growls when you try to take his toys, he can learn to give them to you.” Motivated by fear, professional pride, and, I admit, curiosity, I went on. “I can fix all of it. I can teach Frey to walk nicely on leash. To stop jumping. I can help you teach him to be a good dog.”
    “That’s why I invited you here,” said Guarini.
    Thus began my new career: Holly Winter, dog trainer to the Mob.
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    Over the next two weeks, I repeatedly informed Enzio Guarini that violence begets violence. “With this puppy,” I kept saying, “we’re using gentle modern methods.” Indeed, I fervently preached the gospel of positive reinforcement