The Dogfather

if so, she should’ve stopped to share her enthusiasm with me instead of pedaling off. In my obliviousness to her, I was like Mary Wood with the heron that had killed her koi. Like the heron, Blackie Lanigan had been there all along. Like Mary, I just didn’t know it.
    Three days after Blackie Lanigan killed Al Favuzza, I was finally allowed to visit Kevin Dennehy. The bullets removed from Kevin’s chest matched a gun found in Fa-vuzza’s apartment. “I knew it was that goddamned vampire, pardon my French,” Kevin croaked. “I told you I was nosing around. The stink was coming from Favuzza’s direction. They just wouldn’t take the tubes out of my throat so’s I could talk.”
    Kevin was out of Intensive Care, but IVs and monitors were strung around him like weird bird feeders around a pale, sickly nestling. On his bedside table was a framed photo of Blackie Lanigan. It was early evening, and we were watching a local TV special called “Here’s Blackie.”
    “In a way,” I told Kevin during a commercial, “Blackie succeeded in doing what Deitz tried and failed to do. Deitz’s mistake was that he tried to enlist me as an informant. Also, he threatened my dogs. Blackie was smarter than that. He knew all about Guarini and dogs, he knew about Frey, and he kept an eye on Guarini. Once I was in the picture, Blackie planted himself in my vicinity. Kevin, you really have to admit that he picked the perfect disguise. And Guarini, for his part, set the whole thing up. He knew Blackie was out to get him. That wasn’t just media hype. Guarini knew that Blackie was around somewhere, somewhere right nearby. He planted that whole army of his men in those parked cars. If my dogs had picked out Zap, or Timmy or Tommy Bellano, Guarini would’ve sent one of them across that parking lot instead. Guarini used Blackie to kill Joey’s killer, and at the same time, he set things up so that when Blackie killed Joey’s killer, Guarini would get Blackie.”
    “And Blackie fell for it.”
    “He’d been waiting for an opportunity. Guarini gave it to him. Guarini counted on Blackie to seize it. Blackie did.”
    The show resumed with footage of Enzio Guarini, who said that his true satisfaction came from bringing a notorious criminal to justice. The interviewer asked Guarini how he planned to spend the FBI’s million-dollar reward for the capture of Blackie Lanigan. Guarini said that he was going to buy a second Norwegian elkhound. He also announced, right there on television, his engagement to Carla Cortiniglia. I didn’t hear any more because Kevin’s monitors went berserk, and a nurse rushed in and made me leave. Kevin’s heart rate and blood pressure had abruptly risen. They dropped as soon as the nurse took my parting advice and turned off the television. I should never have let Kevin watch that special about Blackie in the first place. His body was still too weak to manage the stress.
    Less than a week after my first hospital visit to Kevin, Steve returned from his mother’s funeral. I explained why I’d thrown out the flowers. Then I went on to tell him everything.
    “And this guy Favuzza’s really gotten himself turned into a mummy?” Steve asked.
    “He won’t be a completed mummy for a while yet,” I said. “It’s long, complicated process. But yes. He paid to be mummified, so mummified he’ll be. The mummification company must be delighted. They’ve done dogs and cats before, but Favuzza is their first human being. It’s fitting, really, that he’s the first. He honestly did have a horror of decomposition. Kevin told me that Favuzza’s specialty was dirty work, but he didn’t say exactly what kind. It turns out that it was moving buried bodies.”
    A few last things.
    Guarini and I have never discussed Sammy’s kidnapping, but I am sure that the boss found out about it because Rowdy got his chewman back, and it was returned not by Zap, but by Guarini himself.
    I thought I’d never find out who blew up my car, and it’s true that I’ll never be absolutely certain, but a short segment on the local evening news told me all I needed to know. It showed a pretty white colonial house in the suburb of Lexington. In the driveway sat the wreckage of a Ford station wagon that had been blown up. It belonged to a woman named Ellen Deitz. Her husband, Victor, worked for the FBI. It was a good bet that Deitz hadn’t destroyed his wife’s car. The television announcer suggested that the explosion might