Frank woke the next morning in wet clothes and a wet bed. He had sweated through the night. Consequently, he had not slept well. And one thought occupied his mind: whiskey. He craved a drink. Just one.
But he fought the urge.
He went to the bathroom, changed into dry clothes, drank some water, put his sunglasses on, and walked outside. He ran. Almost a mile before throwing up. He was still bent over with his hands on his knees when Rusty barked. He had noticed something down the beach. Frank stood straight and focused on the object in the distance.
"What the …?"
A horse ridden by a woman galloped toward them. Frank tried to shake the image from his head. Hallucinations were one of many possible alcohol withdrawal symptoms. Hell, he had suffered the shakes and the sweats, why not hallucinations? The horse and the woman came closer. She appeared to be naked. Well, at least he had interesting hallucinations. He and Rusty stood frozen as the horse and woman galloped past them. She was in fact naked.
"Morning," she said.
Frank grunted. At least he wasn't hallucinating.
He bathed, drank his protein shake, napped, counseled a lawyer, napped again, and worked out. Fifteen pushups, ten pull-ups, twenty sit-ups, and thirty jumping jacks. He ate another protein bar. And he thought about his son's blood. And Dee Dee Dunston.
"How's the detox coming?"
Billie Jean called that afternoon.
"I'm fighting it."
"Any ideas on the blood?"
"No. But I can't think clearly right now."
"It'll get better once you've cleansed your brain of the alcohol."
"I hope so."
She fell silent. But she had something to say.
"What?"
"Frank, if William can't remember meeting Dee Dee that night—and he did, her number's on his phone—what else about that night can't he remember?"
"He can't remember because of the concussion, but the concussion didn't make him violent."
"I was just thinking out loud. You don't have to be grumpy."
She hung up. Frank turned the TV on to watch the UT game. He did feel kind of grumpy. But hell, he was a drunk trying to sober up. That'd make anyone grumpy.
"Adams takes the snap … looking for a receiver … throws across the middle … intercepted!"
"Shit!" William said.
In exchange for his autograph on a jersey, the fat-ass guard had loaned William his small radio so he could listen to the Texas-Kansas State game. Third quarter and the Longhorns were losing thirty-five to nothing. There goes the national championship … unless he could get out this week and play Saturday. They could still go 11-1. That might be good enough for a shot at the title, if Alabama loses to Auburn. There was still a chance for the championship. And the Heisman.
On the radio: "He breaks open … touchdown!"
Forty-two to nothing. UT's backup quarterback had thrown more completions to the K-State D-backs than to the Longhorn receivers. He was only a freshman, and this was his first game action. With William at quarterback, the team couldn't recruit top quarterback prospects—they knew they'd sit the bench until he graduated. No one expected him to be sitting in jail.
"Man, they jumping his throws 'cause he's staring at his receivers. He need to look 'em off."
The gangbanger next door. As if he played.
"You ever play?"
"Hell, yeah, I play."
"What position?"
"Q-B."
"Really? Where?"
"Houston Yates."
"They're good."
"Damn straight we was. I was. Run a four-four forty, throwed six touchdown passes in one game. I had skills."
"You get any offers?"
"From colleges?"
"Yeah."
"Nah."
"Bad transcript?"
"Bad rap sheet."
"In high school?"
"Man, I been in the life since I was born. Time I got to high school, they knowed me real good down at the po-lice station. Never got that diploma. I'd like to have that now, tape it to my cell wall, look at it. Know I done something make my mama proud."