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old Super 8 projector he’d set up on the coffee table and stacked the reels scattered about. It had been many, many years since he’d watched those movies. The images on the old celluloid seemed to be from someone else’s life. He could barely even recognize himself—lean and tanned, a confident smile under a full head of blond hair, his sexy second wife next to him—god, what a piece of tail she’d been! And his sons, Marty and Jimmy, throwing the football, opening presents at Christmas, hamming it up for the camera. Christ, had he really lived that life? Had he been happy then? He looked happy, but he couldn’t remember how it felt.
    He took another swig off the bottle and stared into the darkness. So much he once had, and so much he’d lost. Looking back over his fifty years, it seemed unreal that after all he’d been through, he’d end up with nothing. He once had money and a young, gorgeous wife, and he smiled at the stirring in his groin as he thought of her. But his smile faded quickly, because no woman would have him now—a fat, aging man without a pot to piss in.
    And his kids—his two boys, Marty and Jimmy. Poor, innocent Marty, not a hurtful bone in his body. Not real smart, but such a sweet kid. Marty the pleaser, always did his chores without being asked, never a problem in school, just a kid who wanted to make his parents happy. But now he was dead, no-luck Marty, one of the few American casualties in the Gulf War. He’d been a little too anxious to please his commanding officer, and he died by a sniper’s bullet in Kuwait. No one else in his battalion was even wounded.
    But Jimmy wasn’t like that; he was almost the polar opposite of Marty. Smart but lazy, Jimmy always found a way to shirk his responsibilities, never wanted to work, just wanted everything handed to him. Nothing was ever his fault, no, and when the going got tough, Jimmy would be the first to fade. And he had a mean, jealous streak—he was a me-first, screw-everyone-else person. John Homestead shook his head, trying to come to terms with his turmoil of emotions, because he had once been the same way. And now he was alone, in poor health, and nearly destitute. Perhaps it was all his fault. If so, he accepted it. But he couldn’t find a rationale to justify the behavior of his son, who had won a $43 million lottery and hadn’t called his father.
    Finally John turned on a light and went to his bedroom closet. Without fully knowing why, he reached to the high shelf and found the hard plastic case that held his pistol.

6
    A little before noon, Tony Sanzini walked out of his mother’s house to get the mail. Among the bulk ads and a few bills (all his mother’s, since she paid the utilities) was a plain white envelope addressed to him in chicken-scrawl penmanship. There was no return address, but he recognized the handwriting of his old buddy, Peco Gomez, who was serving a ten-year jolt in Soledad. Sanzini sat down at his mother’s kitchen table and opened the letter.
    Hey Sanzini,
    Remember that douchebag Jimmy Homestead who ripped off your stake? I just read in the paper he won a $43 million lotto. Couldn’t have happened to a bigger asshole, huh? Anyway, just thought I’d give you a heads up. Might be a good time to go collect that two grand he took you for.
    Good luck, amigo.
    Sanzini read the letter three times. Then he smashed his fist through the wall. The old sheetrock collapsed in a cloud of dust, leaving a jagged hole.
    “Where is he?” Sanzini said. He had a habit of talking out loud when no one was around. Sometimes he engaged in long, animated conversations with himself. He considered this habit indicative of higher intelligence. Occasionally he would try to use a vocabulary word he picked up from a daytime television show. His latest word was “inevitable.” He was still a little vague on the meaning, but he thought it was an impressive word. He pronounced it “enviable.”
    The situation clearly called for