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all the money from
Firebug
?” Tamra said indignantly. “You couldn’t have spent all that. You didn’t have time.”
    “I had plenty of time,” said Walsh. “Took about three months, but then I only retained two percent of the
Firebug
net profits. I had to sell the rest to get the money to finish the movie. I didn’t care. When you want something, you do whatever you have to.”
    The twins looked at Walsh, then the trailer, then flipped out their cell phones in tandem.
    Walsh watched them stroll back toward the van, chattering into their phones. “Easy come, easy go, story of my life,” he said to Jimmy. “No big deal. I’ve got free room and board, fresh air, and an ocean view”—he gobbed a wad of spit toward the koi pond—“and all I have to do is take care of the goddamned fish.”
    “You looked like you were taking care of them when we drove up,” said Jimmy.
    Walsh grinned at Jimmy. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out, and Zippoed it with a practiced flourish, snapping the lighter shut with a distinctive snick.
    “I’d really like to borrow one of your Oscars, Mr. Walsh,” hurried Rollo.
    Walsh watched the twins get back into the van, smoke trickling from his nostrils. “Women used to find me charming.”
    “Tonya and Tamra—they’re high maintenance,” said Rollo.
    “They’re
all
high maintenance, kid,” said Walsh.
    “Let’s take off, Rollo,” said Jimmy. “The philosopher king here is a train wreck.”
    “Nice to be a winner, isn’t it, tough guy?” said Walsh. “Nice to have all the answers and not care who knows it. You never slip, never stumble. Well, enjoy it while it lasts.” He peered at Jimmy, and there was no anger in him anymore, just a vast weariness. “The moment you stepped out of the van, shoulders thrown back, cocky smile—I didn’t know your name, but I knew that look. Scared me too. There’s not much difference between a winner and killer, not as much as you’d think.”
    “I just need to borrow one of your Oscars for a few hours,” said Rollo.
    “I can’t wait to see what you sound like when it all turns to shit,” Walsh said to Jimmy. “And trust me, sooner or later it
always
turns to shit.”
    “Are you going to loan us the Oscar or not?” said Jimmy. “It’s late, and I’m bored.”
    “Try living with morons for seven years—you’ll find out what boredom is,” said Walsh, the cigarette bobbing. “Seven years, and I never once met one of those criminal masterminds you see in the movies.” He opened wide the door to the trailer. “Come on in. I could use a little intelligent conversation.”
    “No, thanks.”
    Walsh blew a stream of smoke past Jimmy’s face. “You think you’re better than me?”
    “I think a liver fluke is better than you.”
    Walsh smiled.
    “Let’s go inside,” Rollo said to Jimmy. “Come on, what’s it going to hurt?”
    The trailer was cramped and cluttered, the sink strewn with empty cans of Dinty Moore beef stew and mandarin oranges, the couch sagging, the open windows streaked with grime. It stank of cigarettes and stale beer. “
Mi
casa es su casa,
” Walsh said with a flourish. In the glare of the overhead light, he looked even more dissipated, his eyes bloodshot and watery. He slipped behind a paisley-print sheet strung across the rear of the trailer and walked out a few moments later, pumping the Academy Award over his head.
    Eight or nine years ago, Jimmy had watched Walsh make the exact same move, standing in the spotlight at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, already drunk, looking lost and impossibly young as he waved his second Academy Award to the crowd. Jimmy remembered turning up the sound on the television as Walsh launched into a rambling acceptance speech, thanking no one, acknowledging no one but himself. Walsh was no longer the golden boy, but his eyes were still lit by the same arrogance as that night at the Academy Awards so long ago. The same fear too,