Finally, the glass doors opened and Abel Atwater came out into the afternoon swelter. His former quarterback body had become emaciated—insubstantial under a blousy shirt. The top was faded stripes of orange and green, the weave of the fabric loose and speckled with moth holes. His jeans were frayed at the knees, and on his right foot was a rubbed-out suede Hush Puppy. The left pants leg, Decker knew, housed a Teflon prosthesis. His eyes were more deepset than Decker had remembered, almost sunken. His nose was longer and thinner. Limping along with surprising grace, he twirled his cane, Charlie Chaplin style. The loose-fitting shirt, the rhinestone-studded walking stick, the white bandage around his head, and the dark beard gave him the look of an Arab emir about to hold court.

He saw Decker and broke into a wide smile.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, hobbling over, his arms spread out like two parentheses. “Yo, Doc. How goes it?”

Decker rebuffed the embrace and looked at him.

“We need to talk, Abel.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves.

“Hey, Doc, why the long face? C’mon, what they’re sayin’ is shit.” He got down on his knee—his good one—and imitated Al Jolson. “Don’t you know me? I’m yo’ baby.” He laughed. “You remember me. Ole Honest Abe Atwater with the ten-inch prick.”

“Your prick got you into big trouble, Abel.”

Abel rose. “Lighten up, Pete. You don’t think I really raped her, do you?”

“She was full of your semen.”

Abel drawled out, “I didn’t say I didn’t fuck her. I said I didn’t rape her.”

Decker grabbed Abel’s shirt and pulled the thin face close to his.

“She’s got a five-inch cut running down her cheek with twenty stitches in it, three broken ribs, and a collapsed lung from a stab wound.” He tightened his grip. “And your jism was inside of her. Now I’m going to ask you a question, Honest Abe, and I want the truth! Understand me well, I mean the truth! Did you rape her?”

“No.”

“Did you cut her?” Decker screamed.

“NO!”

“You’d better not be shucking me, buddy, because if you are, you’re gonna look back on our days crapped out in Da Nang as fond memories…catch my drift?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Pete. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. I didn’t rape her!”

Decker let go of him and stared at the broken face.

“You’re in big trouble, buddy,” he said.

“I know,” Abel said weakly. “I know I am.”

“You can’t pretend that nothing happened, Abe.”

“I know.”

Decker placed his hand on Abe’s shoulder and led him over to the bench.

“Let’s sit down and talk about it.”