I knew, as soon as I crossed the threshold, that I was still on Derek’s demolition list. He had nodded suspiciously, his eyes asquint, unsure but somehow unsurprised by my sudden materialization in the city, and sat stiffly on a war-surplus mattress in the farthest corner, putting as much distance between us as possible. Despite the void of space and the dim lighting, despite the upturned collar of the vast expanse of trenchcoat thrown over his shoulders, I could see that he had changed. There were lines in his face, crisscrosses of dry, chalky furrows that could have used three days of rain. The skin lacked resilience. He was still a plastic effigy of a young man, but a curious one in that at times, while that old surliness remained, the mouth quivered, and while he postured, that splendid torso, once so sculptured in spotless tennis shorts, took on the boneless slump of an exhausted workhorse.

Abdul, on the other hand, looked in fine fettle. He had bounced to his feet when I came in, greeting me warmly, bowing like a Chinatown merchant. And certainly I was glad to see his calm, handsome face.

“It is so good to see you,” he had shouted, because a stereo shooting steel splinters of punk rock made the decibel level of a normal voice inaudible. He took my hand in both of his, like a sandwich, and led me to the only couch in that futile living room. “What have you been up to?” he asked, and I told him about my work and my newfound affluence. We talked, he, Valerie, and I, but it was Derek’s sullenness that dominated. We were unpleasantly conscious of the aura he gave off, casting his usual blight, as sharp and lacerating as a predator’s spoor. It demanded attention. Val killed the stereo and turned to him.

“Did you get the job?” she asked.

“No,” Derek said. “I had a thick day of it.”

She lowered the corners of her pretty mouth and clucked her tongue in sympathy. “You would have been so good as Jonathan.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I would have been great. I like those biblical things—Ten Commandments, Samson and Delilah, Prince Valiant…”

“Know who got the job?” Abdul asked.

“That asshole Bernie.”

“Nepotism,” Abdul said, and turning to me, “Bernie’s Ernie the producer’s twin brother.”

“I thought I could trust Ernie,” Derek said bitterly. “I thought he was a nice guy, not like some of those assholes always quoting the classics and all that shit.”

“I thought he said you had the job,” Valerie said. “I mean…”

“He did,” Derek said. “He said, ‘You got the job unless you do something terrible like set my brother’s ass on fire.’ Those were his exact words.” His face was ashen, a somatic response to outrage. “I’d like to set his ass on fire,” he added.