Free The Dogfather by Susan Conant

She accepted Sammy right away.”
    “Does there exist a way for me to find out how Steve is?”
    “His dogs are fine. There’s your answer. If they’re fine, he’s fine. He’s crazy about the puppy. Therefore, he’s more than fine.”
    “Steve’s dogs were fine last summer. And last fall. He wasn’t.”
    “The core of his being was. He’d just been temporarily led astray by bad companions. Or one bad companion.”
    “Whom he married.”
    “I said he was led astray. He was led far astray.”
    “I don’t want to force you to talk about things you’re uncomfortable talking about. I just hope you’re dealing with them in your own way. When is his divorce going to be final?”
    “I don’t know. And my own way of dealing with things is via dogs, and that’s Steve’s way, too.”
    Rita rolled her eyes.
    “Look, Rita, I know I sound defensive.”
    She waved her hands in the air in a gesture of brushing my words aside. “Not at all.”
    “Spare me the sarcasm. Look, if I’d listened to you, none of it would’ve happened. You told me over and over that I was taking Steve for granted. You told me that the consistent message I gave him was that my dogs came first and that he got whatever time and energy were left over. You quoted the song: ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find!”’
    “A good man is hard to find,” Rita said.
    “I know that. Now.”
    “And?”
    “And how things are with Steve and me is fragile. Delicate. We are heartbreakingly considerate of each other. We are afraid of intruding. All the old comfort is gone, except that we still know each other so well. Also, weirdly enough, we have fun together. At least we did at Logan when we picked up Sammy. And I know you’re going to say that anyone can have fun, but—”
    “Not so! Fun is a good sign. Laughter is good for you.”
    “Didn’t Nietzsche say something about laughter and the death of the soul?”
    “Nietzsche,” said Rita, “was crazy. That’s my professional opinion. Besides, Nietzsche is dead.”
    So, of course, was Joey Cortiniglia, as reported in a short paragraph buried (sorry) in the middle of that day’s newspaper, which I skimmed after Rita returned to the miserable task of sitting in her office listening to people whine. Here’s what the paper said:
     
REPUTED MOB ASSOCIATE DIES
 
Joseph “Little Joey” Cortiniglia (36) died of a heart attack on Tuesday. Cortiniglia was rumored to have ties to recently released alleged organized crime boss Enzio Guarini. Cortiniglia had been convicted only once, for running a dice game. Guarini refused comment on Cortiniglia’s death except to say that Cortiniglia was a respectable citizen and businessman. Cortiniglia headed a pest control company in Munford.
     
    So there you have it: the official story of Joey’s death from what I knew damn well to be a reported, reputed, rumored, alleged, thoroughly fictitious, fabricated, and imaginary heart attack. In a peculiar way, Guarini had once again gotten away with murder.
     

CHAPTER 9
     
    That night, I dreamed that my beat-up old Bronco was parked in the middle of a vast stretch of otherwise empty blacktop. Rowdy and Kimi were hitched to its undercarriage. Just as in real life, they were gnawing on big beef bones. Prone on the asphalt, I raised what felt like a heavy hand to my head. My fingers encountered a big, wet bullet hole. Both dogs stopped chewing and stared at me, their eyes brimming with trust. I awoke with the realization that the head with the bullet hole could have been mine instead of Joey’s. I absolutely had to rid myself of the Mob. The sooner I transformed Frey into the perfect canine companion, the sooner I’d be free of Guarini.
    The boss had been right to be wary of public places. Furthermore, what had felt like his senseless prohibition on puppy kindergarten now seemed sensible. Somehow, I’d have to socialize and train Frey without becoming a Sicilian message to Enzio Guarini. As I finished my second cup of