I have been writing the Bragalone Stories for twenty-five years.
They span the years from the thirteenth century to the present day.
This one, for the time being, stands at the very end of that timeline.

Tony Tolomei Goes to the Circus

Strictly speaking, Tony Tolomei had never worked anywhere except for the Company.

Well, of course he had started in the family firm, but after the merger he became a shareholder and a member of the Company’s Board of Directors.

Tony and Mike.

People called him Loyal Tony.

In all those decades he had never once voted with the minority, nor had he ever opposed a proposal put forward by the Board at a shareholders’ meeting.

Today was his last day at work.

For the last time as a member of the Board, he approached the great headquarters of glass and steel. His office had occupied the north-west corner of the building for nineteen years.

As he arrived, Tony craned his neck to look up at the Company’s tower. His own windows on the twenty-ninth floor could not be seen from here, but the rising sun gilded the Chief Executive’s windows on the opposite corner.

Walking across the park toward the building, he passed a man walking a dog, and found himself thinking of Mike.

His father used to say:

“If you want to sell to men, put a woman in the picture. If you want to sell to women, put a child in the picture. But if you want to sell to everyone, put a dog in the picture.”

His father had always kept a dog, and in every official photograph there was at least a picture of one somewhere in the background. From the time he was a little boy, Tony Tolomei had been expected to help the staff look after them.

When the last Leo—every one of them had been named Leo—had finally been put down, Tony told Michael Bloomberg about his father’s dogs.

Bloomberg gave him Mike.

That had been twelve years ago.

⸻

On Sunday, at his farm, Tony had taken Mike for one last walk.

They followed the boundaries of the property. The old dog’s pace had grown slow. Every now and then he stopped and looked up at his master for a long moment.

At the westernmost corner of the estate, where one could see the Hudson beyond the vineyard through the branches of an ancient oak, Tony told the dog to step into a shallow pit.

Mike obeyed.

He glanced once at his master, then settled himself with his head resting quietly between his paws.

Tony stepped over him.

From the pocket of his coat he drew his father’s Beretta—a gift from the Italian Ambassador—placed the muzzle behind the dog’s head, and squeezed the trigger.

He remained standing over the grave for a while, staring toward the Hudson.

Then he climbed out, took up the shovel, and filled the pit.

His father used to say that some things had to be done by one’s own hand.

Tony Tolomei realized he had spent more than sixty years shooting and burying dogs.

According to his father, business always demanded sacrifices.

⸻

Back at the house, Tony left his coat in the entrance hall and walked into the great salon.

Beneath its massive timber beams lay an enormous silk carpet—a gift from the Shah’s ambassador—larger than the entire backyard of his childhood home.

There, in the centre of its blue-and-gold medallion, awaited one final surprise.

A pool of dark red diarrhoea.

Mike’s last farewell.

The white-haired man wiped away a tear as he called the cleaners.