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land like a cat. . . .
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    Flat on his back, he felt the wind huff from him, felt an odd tremor, wondered if he was having a kidney spasm. Not so. As Louie’s bad luck would have it, a train was coming. He got up, started running, like a limping deer, west down the track. A horn-siren blared behind him, getting closer; air brakes were whooshing and screaming. Louie jumped onto the chain-link fence that kept kids off the tracks, crawled upward, clinging, letting the train thunder past. He could feel its power, its hydraulic wind ripping at his baggy jeans. His left hand was growing numb, falling asleep from clinging so hard to the fence.
    From the rooftop, Banazak watched, gathering his breath. When the train passed, Louie Mo was gone. Not a sign of him.
    â€œWho is that motherfucker?” the brother with the gun said, laughing. If he didn’t laugh, he’d feel bested.
    â€œDead,” Banazak said, hands on his knees, sucking air. “A dead motherfucker.”

8
    THE DOGS OF ENTROPY
    Troy was doing his barefoot run up the beach, earbuds in, trying to outpace his worries. It wasn’t working. He’d been half-joking when he told his boys that they were hostages at Avi’s beach house, but now the description felt all too apt. Maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he was making a Faustian deal with the B-movie producer, blinded by the allure of a Go pic, a six-figure budget, and sweet digs in Malibu.
    He picked up his speed, lengthened his stride. Dude, what were you thinking? he huffed to himself. As always, though, he knew the answer, knew damn well what he’d been thinking: His student heist film had shown great promise and got some national press, but it was still a student film. Slash was going to get real distribution, Avi promised. Probably play for a solid week at the multiplexes, including back home in Fairfield County, Connecticut. He had rationalized the commitment as a stepping-stone toward making bigger and better movies, but he knew in his gut what was really behind it.
    Success is the best revenge.
    Some guys just fade away from the hometown that has mocked their ambitions; others fold and become a part of the local walking dead, join the naysayers in crushing those who dare to dream. Troy wanted to show them—the relatives, the classmates, the old girlfriends—that they were wrong not to bet on him. Wanted to show them that faith and hard work could move mountains, make movies. But it was all backfiring on him. The movie was a train wreck, his time was running out, and he already used a portion of the budget to make late payments on his Mini-Cooper. Now a displaced Hong Kong stuntman shows up at Dog House and threatens to break his legs?
    Could it get any worse? Or, as Troy kept asking the boys, could it get any better ? Troy had talked of little else since the strange encounter; “ Fucking Louie Mo ,” he’d kept ranting, running down the list of Golden Harvest movies the guy had a hand in. How bizarre was it that he’d walked out into the sun-drenched living room to find the dude standing there, eleven in the morning—and then the guy had put him up against the wall. The Dogs didn’t find it all that strange; Avi’s house drew all kinds.
    Durbin had said something else then too. Having come out of the USC screenwriting program, the young writer had something of an unhealthy obsession with the Hero’s Journey structure. “Have you ever considered,” he told Troy, “that this dude who showed up at the house is like some fucked-up version of the Supernatural Aide? Like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Or Gandalf.”
    â€œMaybe,” said T-Rich. “But he could just as easily be the Evil Guardian of the Threshold. He did threaten you with violence.”
    Avi must have hired him through his big-money connections, Troy reasoned. The behind-the-scenes engine they