Here’s an excerpt from the book that’s supposed to entice you to buy it:

The newspaper from which I would someday learn that Peter John Darbin had a heart - - The Sun, one of Baltimore’s daily papers - - was the very same newspaper that I had delivered to neighbors as a teenager, waking in darkness at five o’clock in the morning to the beeping of an alarm clock (beep-beep-beep), folding the papers into thirds and stuffing them into a burlap shoulder bag, wheeling my bicycle up and down the streets, tossing papers on the stoops of row house after row house, then returning home for a quick breakfast before school. Most mornings, though, it was cold cereal with milk or, if we ran out of milk, water.

Sundays were different. I still rose at the same dark hour - - five o’clock (beep-beep-beep) - - but, like most Sunday newspapers, the Sunday Sun was much larger than the weekday editions. More sections, more advertising inserts (“Luskins Appliances Big Spring Sale!”), more everything. The Sunday Sun was too heavy and too thick to fold, or to carry in a burlap bag, or to distribute by bicycle. Instead, I would load the Sunday papers onto the same red wagon that I had played with as a younger boy, then pull the wagon behind me on the sidewalks as I walked the streets, a process that took several times longer to complete than the weekday routine but, hopefully, would lead to generous tips from customers who peered out their living room windows and saw me struggling.

It was on one of those Sunday mornings in June, the beginning of the summer between my junior and senior years at Theodore Roosevelt, while returning home with my empty red wagon, that a stray black dog the size of a pickle barrel appeared between me and our row house.

I did not think much of it until, as I approached, I realized that it not only was not retreating, but it was baring its horrible, yellow teeth, the same sickly color one might associate with a colicky baby. When I stopped, the dog knew I was afraid; dogs, like lawyers, can sense fear, or so I have been informed about both. When I took a small step in retreat, confirming what the dog already knew, it was upon me in a snap, its beast’s teeth digging into my bare left calf like my leg was a ribeye steak (I was wearing shorts in the early summer morning).

Just then, I heard the shriek of a frightened little girl nearby. It was chilling, like something you would hear in a horror movie before someone in a mask buried an ax into some girl trying to escape a haunted house. Was the girl behind me? She shrieked again. Where was she? Only then did I realize that the shrieks were coming from my very own throat; my voice had not changed yet and would not deepen until I had made my way to New York University. The beast’s sharp, wet teeth twisted into my leg, producing another shriek, then a sneeze (aaaah-chooo, the dog allergy). I twisted but could not break free. I could not imagine an end to the attack, or the shrieks, or, now, the sneezing (aaaah-chooo, aaaah-chooo, aaaah-chooo!).

But suddenly there was a dull thump, the sound of a bag of sand landing on solid ground. My leg was free, and the dog was scurrying away. It might have been whimpering; let us say it was. Someone had kicked it solidly in its pickle barrel ribs, and that someone now had a hand on my shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it was a dog,” I said, rubbing first the tip of my nose, then bending to touch my tender, bloody leg. I sneezed.

“I know it was a dog. I’ve seen dogs before.”

“I was delivering the papers,” I said, gesturing toward my wagon, “and then there was a dog.” Again, I sneezed.

“Nice wagon.”

“It’s just for delivering newspapers,” I said.

“I don’t see any newspapers.”

“That’s because I was done delivering them and I was headed home.”

“Whatever you say.”

“It’s true. I deliver papers in the wagon on Sundays.”

“Do you always sneeze when a dog is biting you?”

“I’m allergic to dogs,” I said, then needlessly volunteered, “and cats and penicillin.”

“That is such an interesting thing to share with a stranger. Which one is your house? I’ll walk you home.”

I pointed to our row house in the middle of the block and said, “Number 1336.”

“That’s funny. I’m living in number 1334 for the summer with my uncle.”

“That’s next door,” I said.

“I know that’s next door. That’s why I said it. Jesus.”

“Your uncle is Rob?” I said, suddenly recalling the name of the current tenant. He was an exceedingly thin, fragile-looking, black-haired man who worked as a teller at the bank (Maryland National Savings and Loan). He was always well-dressed. Suit. Bowties. Pockets squares. He was, I was sure, a homosexual; I could hear him and his lover through the walls of our row house late, late at night (“Yes!” “Yes!” “Now!” “I’m close!”).

“Yes, Uncle Rob.”

“He seems like a nice guy.”

“He’s a jackass.”

“Sorry.”

“Is it your fault he’s a jackass?”

“No.”

“Then there’s no reason for you to be sorry.”

“He’s a homosexual,” I said.

“That’s what I hear, too.”

“It doesn’t bother you that he’s homosexual?”

“Not as much as it bothers me that you’re allergic to cats.”

We were in front of our houses now - - 1334 and 1336.

“I’m Jimmy Nail,” I said, extending a hand far too formally. “Thanks for your help

with the dog.”

“Just doing my job keeping the neighborhood safe from dogs and homosexuals,” my savior said. “I’m Poppy Fowler.”

You’re a smart one. You knew it was Poppy Fowler all along.

She extended her left hand first, then withdrew it and put her right hand in mine. I must have given her a strange look because she said, “What, you’ve never met a left-handed girl before?”

She squeezed my hand more firmly then I had expected, then released it. “You really need to work on your scream. You sound like a little girl. Try to scream like a man.” Suddenly she lowered her voice, mimicking that of a man, and patted her flat stomach. “A scream should come from here. From the diaphragm,” she said gruffly. Then she screamed, loudly, from her diaphragm: “Jimmy Nail is allergic to cats!”

“Stop it”, I pleaded, looking up and down the sidewalk, seeing no one.

“Fine,” she said, before screaming, “Jimmy Nail is a homosexual!” from her diaphragm.

I thought I saw some curtains rustling in one of the row houses when she said that, maybe some eyes peering through a little crack in the curtains.

“Go get cleaned up,” she instructed me. “I’ll see you later, Jimmy Nail.”