Bloodlines

fortune and don’t work.” I took another big breath of fetid air. “Why don’t they work? Because, Miss, uh, Simms,” I said, glancing at the mailbox, “fleas are not an easy problem.”
    “Me and Walter—”
    “You and Walter have tried your best, just like everyone else,” I declared, “but now and then, fleas have gotten the best of you. But you’re not alone. Many other top show kennels have had the same unhappy experience. And, of course, to compound the problem, most of these so-called easy solutions to the flea problem are dangerous chemicals that pose a threat to you and your animals.” Inside the house, dogs were yipping and barking. A raindrop worked its way under the neck of my slicker. My merry tone was making me queasy. I swallowed and said, “But now, Miss Simms, you can join the thousands of happy breeders who’ve already discovered that Flee-B-Gon’s unique three-step program is the safe, easy cure that really, really works.” I was talking very fast. I didn’t stop. “Step One? Treat the environment, because only about ten percent of fleas are on your dogs, you know. The other ninety percent are all around us.” I swept my arm dramatically. “In our yards and kennels, in our animals’ bedding, and even in our own carpets and furniture!” Perfectly true, by the way. “Step Two? Treat the animal. Step Three? Prevent reinfestation.”
    “Me and Walter don’t want none,” she said stubbornly, but her tone had changed from shrill to whiny, and her eyes were on me.
    “No cost and no obligation,” I said, opening the briefcase. A gust of wind sprayed me and it with rain. “In fact,” I added with sudden inspiration, “I’m here today, Miss Simms, to deliver the good news that you and Walter have been selected to participate in our special Flee-B-Gon Selected Breeders Program.” I swear, you could hear the capitals in my voice. There is nothing, but nothing, I won’t do for dogs. “Miss Simms,” I said. “This is Miss Simms I’m talking to?”
    “Yeah, Cheryl,” she admitted.
    “Well, Miss Simms, all you do is accept these samples of Flee-B-Gon products.” I held up the half-open briefcase. “Give them a try. And in a month or so, let us know just how thrilled you are with them.” I wiped the smile off my face and confided, rather loudly, because of the distance, “And you can use these fine products with the full assurance that Flee-B-Gon contains no harmful chemicals. Everything we manufacture is one hundred percent natural and organic. Why, you could drink a bottle of this kennel and yard spray, and it wouldn’t do you a bit of harm. You have my personal guarantee on that.”
    My smile crept back. Cheryl was halfway down the muddy drive. As she approached, I tried to listen hard to the dogs. The high-pitched yipping certainly came from the house. The stench came from everywhere, including, it seemed to me as Cheryl Simms drew near, from the young woman herself. Her pale hair was thin and matted, and she had the blotched skin of someone who lives mainly on potato chips and diet soda. The hot-pink nylon protected her body from the rain, but her Reebok imitations sank into the mud. She didn’t seem to notice her wet feet or ruined shoes. If it hadn’t been for the dogs, I’d have felt guilty about luring her out with the offer of something for nothing.
    Then the screen door banged hard. Walter Simms appeared on the sagging porch. His complexion, darker and better than his sister’s, would have stood up to her hot pink, but he wore a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt over tight jeans and high-topped sneakers. At his side, a handsome, sleek young male Rottweiler trembled with excitement. “Cheryl, what the hell are you doing?” Walter shouted at her. “Get back here!”
    Cheryl cringed and headed toward the house. Then Walter Simms turned his furious face toward me. “What the shit do you want? Can’t you read the fucking sign? It says to keep the fuck out of here.”
    His sister was already cowering on the porch. “Walter, she’s givin’ stuff away,” Cheryl said pitifully-“She’s givin’ it for free.”
    Walter looked exasperated. “For Christ’s sake, Cheryl.”
    “It’s for free,” Cheryl pleaded. “For fleas. Walter, please?”
    Walter turned toward me, stabbed a finger toward my briefcase, and demanded, “What the fuck’s in that?”
    “Flea powder. Spray. It’s a line of flea control products.”
    “Me and Cheryl don’t need none. Get the