TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) Read Free Page B

like a sink garbage disposal and his purr, when he deigns to purr, mimics a lawn mower.
    For all that, I cherish Scar, although the fact that he seems to prefer me over my neighbors is probably something my psychiatrist would have a field day with, if I had a psychiatrist. My pal, Wayne Miller, used to stop by and feed and water Scar when I was away for any length of time. For short jaunts, there was no problem, in any season. Scar would grub off the neighbors or make do with local puddles and unwary birds and squirrels. Wayne, an actor and director now working off-Broadway, has begged off of late. I now use Freddie Schultz, one of my neighbor’s kids and the first person everyone on the block would blame in case of vandalism or teen-age mayhem. Needless to say, he gets along great with Scar. Birds of a feather, and all that.        
    Gunner, my dog, is more of a problem. I took him along on my last sojourn south, and got him shot. It didn’t seem to bother him all that much, but my last-minute rental house on Bald Head specified “no pets”. I could have opted for a pet-friendly mansion at three times the cost, but since my trip was meant to combine my wedding duties with a romantic getaway, I decided to leave Gunner home. Freddie was an option. Both he, and Scar, get along famously with Gunner. But fate intervened when I mentioned my quandary to Maks Kalugin.
    “I’ll take him,” Maks said. “Zhukov will enjoy the company.”
    Zhukov is Gunner’s brother. He is named after the famous Red Army Marshall who was Stalin’s favorite general, the conqueror of Berlin. Gunner is named after John “Gunner” Panetta, a Medal of Honor winner from Vietnam, whose murder I solved a while back. Both dogs are Byelorussian Ovcharkas, a breed that is a mix of East Siberian Laikas and German Shepherds. “Charkas” are known for their toughness, loyalty and superior intelligence, which came in handy when serving with the Red Army on the Eastern Front during World War II.
    Gunner was a gift to me from Marat Rahm, the patriarch of the Russian family that is the most powerful of the Staten Island mobs, and one of the most powerful in New York City. My relationship with the Rahms is complicated. I’ve known Arman Rahm, Marat’s son, since we played basketball together as teen-agers. He now runs the family with a cold shrewdness that belies his movie-star looks. Maks Kalugin is the family enforcer. He doesn’t look like a movie star. He looks like a fire plug, but tougher. At one time, all three considered having me sleep with the sturgeons and only kept me alive because Marat’s daughter, Eleni, intervened. Since then, we have traded favors when necessary and they’ve always kept their word. Maks has even saved my life occasionally, at first reluctantly, but lately because he is very fond of Alice Watts, the woman I love. She thinks he is adorable, which puts her in a majority of one. I doubt if Kalugin’s mother thought he was adorable.  
    When I dropped Gunner off at the gabled-and-turreted Rahm mansion on Todt Hill, Marat Rahm insisted I join him for a drink out by his pool, where he was taking the sun. Arman was at a table working on a laptop. He smiled at me and pointed to the computer screen.
    “Facebook,” he said. “You can’t believe what people put on here. I’ve actually found some idiots I was looking for because they really think someone is interested in what they are cooking or how cute their grandchildren are.”
    “I don’t want to hear what happened to them,” I said.
    Arman gave me a frosty smile.
    “No, you don’t.”
    Gunner and Zhukov began to frolic on the huge lawn. Frolic was a relative term; both were now large enough to pull a sled in a Russian proverb. Maks poured our vodkas and Marat asked what I was up to. I told them. When I finished, even Kalugin laughed.
    “You are giving away in marriage the woman we used to entrap you in the Capriati matter,” Marat said. “Are you sure