Bloodlines

Kevin said. “You catch her on TV?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “I don’t know what Rita’d call it, but, in my opinion, she hasn’t got all her marbles. Christ, poor kid, no wonder.”
    “Poor kid? Kevin, they seized sixty-eight dogs from that disgusting place. Walter wasn’t the only one responsible for that. Just because she’s simpleminded or whatever she is, it doesn’t excuse that. You don’t have to be exactly brilliant to understand that animals are suffering. So don’t tell me—”
    But Kevin interrupted. He’d interviewed Cheryl Simms after the TV segment had been taped. He had some news that hadn’t made the five o’clock report I’d watched. Kevin is a good cop. Smart. He asked Cheryl about Joe Rinehart, and she said, predictably enough, “Me and Walter don’t know nothing.” Then Kevin asked her about Diane Sweet, and, of course, she said the same thing. Finally, Kevin thought about the background information he’d been given on the Simms family, and he asked Cheryl what had happened to her father. Her reply? “Me and Walter don’t know nothing.” The excavation of the dirt floor of the same shed that had held Rinehart’s body revealed the largely decomposed remains of Cheryl and Walter’s father, who had died of gunshot wounds about two years earlier.
    When Walter Simms was informed that Cheryl could be charged in the death of their father, he confessed to the shooting and claimed that he’d been protecting his sister. Kevin believes him. The pedigree? I told you to look, didn’t I? Yeah, the father-daughter breeding. Kevin was right, of course. When people know, they mind a lot.
     

32
     

     
    Dog’s Life published my article on Sally Brand, who was so pleased and flattered that she offered me a free tattooed portrait of the dog of my choice anywhere on my body. I had to decline, though. I finally realized that every dog I’ve ever loved is already written all over me, plainly visible to the canine eye. Who knows what smiling face or wagging tail Sally might inadvertently cover up?
    I’m the tattooed lady, and I’m not unique. In fact, if you’ve ever loved a dog, check out your arms, your legs, your torso, even the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet. Look into a mirror and stare into the depths of your eyes. The retina’s a tender place for a tattoo, of course, but you know that already, don’t you? When you lost that dog, you nearly died of pain.
    We are the irezumi, the tattooed ones, engraved, emblazoned, permanently decorated with elaborate patterns of rich design, and together we form a kind of benevolent, joyful Yakuza, too, the legal, happy Mafia of dog fancy, neither secret nor exclusive, but open to absolutely anyone who’s ever bragged about a dog. Mafia ? The literal meaning? Boldness, bluster, swagger. Dog lovers, and proud of it. And we’re everywhere, of course. We’re the guy pumping gas at your local garage,
    the pharmacist who filled your last prescription, the UPS driver who delivers your orders from Cherrybrook, and the homeless woman in Harvard Square who feeds herself on garbage, but begs change to buy food for her dog. We’re Barbara Bush and Cleveland Amory, and I sure hope we’re Robin Williams. We’re Doris Day, Brigitte Bardot, and Dan Quayle. We’re the queen of England.
    And damned if we aren’t Enzio Guarini, too, who despite his involuntary residence in Rhode Island, has never visited Sally Brand’s studio, but who bears on his heart the portraits of two beloved Norwegian elk-hounds. When the news broke, Guarini made a large donation to the Eleanor J. Colley Society in memory of his late daughter, Maria, and also arranged to have a quick-setting concrete boot hand-fitted to the foot of Rinehart Pet Mart. Rinehart Motor Mart is still in business, but the associated animal brokerage firm sank so fast that no one even saw the bubbles. So you see? We’re everywhere.
    Jane M. Appleyard confided to me that the tipster who provided probable cause for the warrant and was thus responsible for the raid on Cheryl and Waiter Simms’s puppy mill was, in fact, Bill Coakley. I should have guessed. A friend of the family? I mean, who else could have ignored or endured the stench? According to Mrs. Appleyard, Bill Coakley was trying to buy her off; he informed on Walter Simms, and, in return, she was supposed to leave Coakley alone. She hasn’t, of course. She hasn’t got him yet, but I have faith in her, and I have faith in you,