Constantine is a drifter, a man with a lot of miles behind him, a lot more ahead, and a number of jobs in between that never showed up on anyones books. He hitches a ride on a bright spring morning with a little man named Polk. Heading down a country road in Polks hopped-up muscle-car, the two men share a few cigarettes. This is how it starts. Later, when Constantine walks toward the big brick house, the Beat in his head, the grip of the .45 warm in his hand, the siren wailing in the night at his back, he thinks that the whole thing started on that road, with the car stopping for his upturned thumb. He thinks that the things that happen to a man are put in motion by something just that small, that random. He thinks about that, and he laughs. But he keeps walking.
