In one was a high-tech compass for his nephew, Eric, while the other held two bottles of gourmet steak sauce. Ringing the doorbell, he noticed the white wood trim around the door needed repainting. His shoulders sagged under the weight of another disappointment. He’d bought the house for his brother, so Eric wouldn’t have to stay even one night in the ratty apartment where Jimmy had been living after his wife threw him out. Evidently, it was too much to ask that Jimmy keep the place up. The door swung open. “Hey, big brother,” Jimmy said. Dressed in a stained apron bearing the slogan “May the forks be with you,” he held a spatula in one hand and tongs in the other. His bright-blue eyes were bloodshot, and sweat beaded on his forehead and darkened his blond-streaked hair. “You’re right on time.” As Paul stepped into the foyer, a haze of smoke made him cough. “Where’s my man Eric?” he said, looking past his brother with the expectation of seeing his nephew hurtling toward him.
