Doggone For Good

“It was the hottest day of the year.” He said.

I jab the shovel into the ground so that it stands, and dab a Versace sleeve at my brow. “What do you mean, was?” I said.

“What do yous mean?”

Breath heavy, I sit at the edge of the grave. “Was, Gibbs, you said it was the hottest day of the year. You do know it’s still today? We've got a lot more summer to go.”

Gibbs scratches at an armpit, then resumes a position of leisure. He lies on the hood of the car, hands behind his head, sunglasses stuck to his sweat-sopped face. His circus-colored suit clashes with the glossy black finish of the Lincoln Continental. “I'm just saying. On the news. They was saying it was the hottest day of the year.”

“And how do they know that tomorrow won't be hotter?”

“That's what they says, Carmine, I don’t care if yous doesn’t like it.”

“You mean, I don't care if you don't like it.” I slip off my jacket, cautious not to smudge dirt on the light cream button-up underneath, and fold it gently so as not to add wrinkles. “Come, grab this for me, lay it on the backseat, will you?”

“It’s hard on my bones to roll off the hood. Why can’t yous do it?”

What did I expect? Gibbs was the laziest rat weasel that ever was. Why did Mr. Cabrini pair me with this sack of silk-clad brain-dead nothing?

“Dammit!” I toss the jacket on the ground away from the mounting dirt pile. “Gibbs, get your flaccid carcass down here and help me dig.”

“I'm sorry, Carmine, I don't wants to wrinkle my suit. I gots a hot date later.”

“I've seen the girls you carouse with Gibbs. She's not hotter than the date you got right now. Get over here and do a little tango with that shovel.”

“That ain't nice, Carmine, it's Antonella, Mr. Ganza's oldest.”

Yikes, I stand corrected. “Are you sure you should be messing with one of Mr. Ganza's girls?”

Mr. Ganza was the right-hand man to Mr. Cabrini. I was the right-hand man to the right-hand man, and even I dared not test his patience.

“He's who set us up.”

Well, ain't that the dirty end of a dog, he set you up alright. Last time he did that, Mackey, I think his name was, ended up at the bottom of Lake Johnson. A straitjacket and ninety pounds of chains wrapped around for good measure. No one's good enough, and all. Well, great, maybe I won't have to suffer this baboon-faced burnout much longer. The thought motivates me to grab the shovel and keep digging.

“Don't yous forget, Carmine, Mr. Cabrini wants the hole eight feet deep.”

“Yeah, I know, you idiot.” I wish Mr. Cabrini had ordered the hit on poor old Joe Ash when it wasn’t so darn hot. I pause, shake my head, and try to dislodge the memory of earlier.

It wasn’t so much the execution of Joe. You don't lose a hundred grand of the most powerful man in the city, and live to regret it. Not that Joe lost it to thin air, more like to his bank account. But why did Mr. Cabrini order us to shoot his dogs? All those dogs, like Joe, were running a kennel or something? Try as I may, I couldn't shake the way the one looked at me, that one with a splash of white hair on his brown face. You know that head tilt dogs do when they're trying their darndest to understand something? It was as if he were looking inside me and understood what was there better than I did. After the first shot, came the scream, not a yelp, a scream, before the second had silenced him. I shake my head harder.

“Why do you s’pose Mr. Cabrini wants the hole exactly eight feet deep fer?” Riggs said.

“Because he warned his bagmen that if they double-cross him, he'd bury them eight feet in the ground. Now would you shut up and let me work?” I drive my foot onto the spade, so it bites deep into the dirt.

“But why, Carmine? Why not six feet under, like the old saying?”

Resting to wipe more sweat, I let out a long and weary sigh. “Because, Riggs, six feet means dead, eight feet means deader than dead. He wants to send a message.”

“But how's anybody supposed to know how deep the grave was exactly?”

“I.” The words die in my throat. He's got a point there. “If you're not going to help, then zip your yapping and let me work.” Sweat pours from my face, my shirt turns dark brown, and sticks to my back. After more digging, a sound catches in my ear, a jingle like ice cubes hitting glass. Gibbs' rear end sticks out from the back seat of the Lincoln Continental. When the door slams, he's holding a glass of ice from the cooler he packed in one hand, a thermos in the other, and pours himself what looks like lemonade.

My brow furrows as if of its own accord.

“What?” He has the nerve to ask. “I dehydrate easily.”

Shaking my head, I look out at an expanse of ruined landscape and filth and breathe in the stench while gulls, thousands of them, fly overhead. The municipal dump. Where else would you expect the mob to toss its garbage?

“Since you're up, could you throw in some tunes?” I needed a distraction.

“Good idea, a little Mickey Blue eyes coming your way.”

Jeese, what is it with these mobsters and Micky freaking Blue Eyes, or the Rat Pack? It's all they ever listen to. I prefer something more modern, like this new band, Metallica, which is pretty good, but the boss hates it, so I never listen to it. The things I sacrifice for the job. No pun intended.

Aside from the sun, my head burns with a question, and I wait for Gibbs to return. Sinatra sings about doing things his way in the background. “Let me ask you, Gibbs, do you feel bad for what we done?”

“What do yous mean, fer Joe?”

“No, the other.”

He takes a long sip at the glass and shakes his head. “I just do what I do when I’m told to do it. Same as yous. ‘sides, I’m more of a cat person myself.”

After digging deeper, I glance down only to eye a layer of dirt on my shoes. Mr. Ganza gave me these shoes as a lavish gift and a sign of trust. Enough to walk in his shoes, or at least those made by the same cobbler, direct, from the mother country. They're beginning to lose their luster. Like the job? Whatever.

I stoop to brush them off when my mother's pendant slips out of my shirt, and catch it as if it weren't attached to my neck. Crouching in the grave up to my head, I turn it over, studying it.

The engraving is that of St. Roch. A dog flanks him on one side, an angel on the other, and he points a staff at a plague sore on his leg. It’s supposed to symbolize some healing power or something. My mother was a devout woman, and the pendant was her only prized possession. She loved animals, which explains her connection to St. Roch. She gave it to me, hoping it would influence me somehow. It didn’t. I'm rather glad she wasn’t alive to see me like this. Like earlier. Or did she see that?

I'm sure her sacred book has something to say about murder, as in thou shalt not commit. But Joe was a low-life crook like the rest of us, so maybe it evens out in the end? Perhaps the more pressing question is: What does the good book say about killing the innocent, like a dog, or dogs as it were? I try not to think about it and stuff the pendant back into my shirt.

Gibbs hollers something unintelligible, nothing new there, but it has a panicked quality to it, so I pop my head up to take a peek. We're surrounded. A whole pack of them. Dogs. I knew they liked to scavenge the dump, but I've never seen this many, or this close.

“I sees 'em coming, but I thought they'd pass on by,” Riggs said.

“What in the?” They were twelve, all sitting in a half circle around us, about fifteen feet away, watching. Didn’t Joe have twelve dogs? Then, I notice one of them in particular, brown with a splash of white fur on his face, and my blood freezes.

“Hey, let’s get the body out of the trunk, cover it, and get the hell out of here,” I said.

With the dogs watching in unnerving silence, Riggs and I carry Joe from the trunk, lay him on the ground, and roll him into the hole.

"Don't mind us, just a couple of Jabronis burying a body. Be good little dogies," I said.

What’s creepier was they didn’t pant, not even a little, even I was tempted to hang my tongue out of my mouth if I thought it would help on account of this heat. There was something strange about these dogs; they didn’t appear to act like dogs at all.

“Ok, let's us finish and go,” Riggs said. He picks up a shovel.

“It’s about time. Just wait a sec, I'll be quick.” I jump into the hole and straighten Joe so he lies flat on his back. During the gun fight earlier, his shirt came unbuttoned, revealing ink. And of course, it’s the image of a dog.

Who tattoos the face of a dog on his chest? I love dogs as much as the next guy, but enough to ink my body for one? Not that I'm into tattoos, but I'd rather the face of a woman than that of a dog. I stop and ponder my past relationships; it doesn’t take very long. On second thought, maybe a dog. Loyalty and all. My fingers quiver as I button his shirt and cross his arms. The least I could do for old Joe.

A ruckus of growling and barking erupts, and I can hear Riggs shout in a panic.

“Get outer here yous mutts!”

Two dogs attack Riggs, one mauls his thigh while the other clamps onto his ankle.

With his pistol drawn, he shoots one in the leg, and they both back down. The injured dog didn't yelp, not at all, but continues growling along with the others.

The one with a splash of white advances slowly, and the others follow. Then they split, half towards Riggs, and the others, led by Splashy, came my way.

I pull my piece as the group leaps and piles onto Riggs, who drops his pistol, flails, and screams in pain.

“Shoot ‘em Carmine. Shoot. Aaargh!”

I raise my gun, finger tight against the trigger, and squeeze it at the ground, a warning shot. Thunder echoes through the dump, and yet they still slink toward me. “I can’t, I just can't do it again!” I toss the pistol and await my fate.

“I’m sorry, God. For all of it, my whole life. Please tell my mother that I’m sorry. Tell her that it wasn’t her fault. She did her best.”

Splashy lunges and takes hold of my leg. Searing, white hot pain surges from the bite. He shakes with fury, and I struggle at first, out of pure instinct, but then relent.

“Finish it!” I shout.

Splashy relents, too, releases my leg, and backs away. He looks at me, head cocked, like he can see something I can’t. The others also retreat. Splashy barks, and the pack, tearing into Riggs, cease and leave a wide circle around him.

My hands in the air, I limp my way to Riggs, a trail of blood behind me, but it’s too late. Riggs lies on the ground and clutches his throat as a crimson flow leaks between his fingers. He attempts to say something, but can only gurgle. There's nothing I can do; he’s a dead man. In this line of work, it was bound to happen. I've seen it too many times; I could be a prophet. Hands still raised, I crouch to pick up Riggs’ pistol and aim the muzzle down. He looks up at me through wide circles of terror.

“Look at us, Riggs. You know we deserve this, don't you?”

He nods.

“I'm sorry.”

I take the mercy shot, eyes back on the dogs, and lower the gun to the ground. With raised hands, I back my way, as best I can with a torn leg, to the car.

She starts right up. Sitting for a moment, I watch the dogs, their focus still on me. I look at Riggs and mutter what I think amounts to a prayer.

Needing to thank someone, I rummage through my shirt for the pendant, and it’s not around my neck. “No, no, no.” I lift myself from the seat to look, maybe I lost it during the attack, but I don’t see it around the grave or Riggs’ body. I hear a metal clunk. It fell to the floor from the folds of my shirt. I lift it to the sky before kissing it, and wrap it around the rearview mirror.

With the gas floored and the car rocketing back, I crank the wheel and spin her around. My leg pulses with blood and pain. I ignore it as best I can, eject Riggs’s tape, and crank the AC. Aah, that feels good. It's so stinking hot.

When I near the main road, there it is, that blessed street sign. The one that tells me the way to Philly is left. I stomp the brakes to a stop, and the engine growls in idle. Rummaging through a pile of tapes, mainly comprised of Sinatra, I find the one Metallica album, and shove it into the tape deck.

In the rearview mirror, the dogs still sit there, and Riggs, where I left him. What the hell happened back there? What was that?

I'll tell you what it was—a second chance. With the gas floored, the car lurches forward. I make a hard right, my life behind, eyes focused on what lies ahead, and I'm gone for good. St. Roch, known as the patron saint of dogs, sways from the rearview mirror.

I’ll never forget, it was the hottest day of the year.

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