He was always angry. His every involved a fight or wind up winning by kicking someone's ass. Either in his mind or in reality or his brothers he constantly fought. His brothers drove him crazy--because all six fought in the war and he hadn't, because none of them gave him the respect he deserved. Dee, with his Bronze Star he got fighting in the Pacific. Dee, with his Lincoln Continental and the wad of bills he carried in his front pocket, pulling it out any chance he got, peeling a bill off the top of the thick circle. Dee especially. But the others too: Robert, Sal, Jimmy, Bruno, Paul. None of them gave him the respect he deserved as the oldest brother. They slighted him. They slighted him because he didn't have a pot to piss in and they all knew it. And if it wasn't one of his brothers, it was his wife--the way she was always and he was always without him to make the money they'd be out in the street begging but they didn't trying to get for shoes, for clothes, for school and him holding it back, and if he gave them they'd all be lousy kids. But they didn't see that. She knew it but she always pressed for more anyway--for groceries, for furniture, for the kids­­like he was stashing it away, like they had one miserable red cent in the bank.