THE LONG BEACH station’s depot had a red-clay-tiled roof and white walls with brown accents at the corners, making it look more like a Mediterranean bungalow than the last stop on the Long Island Rail Road. It was even more incongruous in midwinter when cold winds from Reynolds Channel to the north and the Atlantic Ocean to the south made the building shiver.

“That’s our guy?” Patrice asked.

In the parking lot, William Wheeler stood in front of a green 2003 Subaru Outback. His arms were crossed, and he watched the asphalt as if reading tea leaves. For a moment, Patrice and Apollo stood inside the station and watched him. Wheeler uncrossed his arms and walked around the Subaru. He opened the driver’s side door and pulled out a plastic supermarket bag. It was tied at the top, and William untied it with urgency.

The waiting area of the Long Beach station was soundtracked by a low fuzzy buzz; the ticket agent left his microphone on while he stepped away from his chair at the booth. The room practically throbbed as Wheeler reached into the plastic bag. He pulled out a sixty-four-ounce bottle of soda.

Tab.

“It’s 2015,” Patrice said quietly. “Who the fuck still drinks Tab?”

A forty-ounce of beer would’ve been problematic, a liter of gin downright troubling, but a sixty-four-ounce bottle of Tab? Ridiculous. The bottle’s pink wrapper had faded to the color of fiberglass insulation. Wheeler walked back to the front of the Subaru and rested against the hood. He lifted the jug to his mouth and chugged.

“You know what that is?” Patrice said. “That’s your future.”

Apollo was mesmerized by the sight of Wheeler’s Adam’s apple rising and falling, rising and falling, his belly expanding and contracting as he gorged himself on Tab. Patrice pulled Apollo by the shoulder.

“That’s a man who’s lived without a woman for a long time,” Patrice explained. He placed an arm around Apollo and squeezed to make his point. “Not months but years. Decades. A man who lives alone for that long forgets what it’s like to be civilized. He starts walking around his house in nothing but ratty underwear. Then one day he steps out to get the mail in that underwear and doesn’t even notice. Then he’s out on his porch in some saggy-ass boxer shorts and no T-shirt and is surprised when people think he looks like a troll.”

Wheeler lowered the bottle, took a breath through his nose, and raised it again. He drank with such gusto, a little seeped from his mouth and ran down his neck. His throat expanded like a snake swallowing a mouse.

“Living without a woman in your life is how you see these fat dudes wearing ‘interesting’ facial hair and posting angry videos about how everyone else in the world is stupid for not appreciating them. ‘Women only like jerks.’ That’s the mantra of dudes who have made themselves undateable but aren’t willing to take the blame. These motherfuckers are so backed up sexually, it creeps into their brains and rots out the skull. That’s how you end up being a grown man publicly guzzling a bottle of goddamn Tab in a parking lot on Long Island.”

Apollo nodded, but the only thing he felt right then was pity for William Wheeler. He’d invited Apollo and Patrice out here and offered to pick them up, all so he could have the privilege of writing them a five-figure check. And for this generosity, Patrice paid him back with scorn.

As he and his partner walked out of the station, Wheeler waved to them with his free hand. He set the bottle of Tab on the car hood. He took two steps, and the bottle teetered forward, went flat on the hood, and rolled right off the car and onto the ground. Brown fizz streaked the hood. Wheeler spun around and crouched, plucking up the soda as if it was a fallen child. His slacks hugged him too tightly, and his jacket rode up, exposing the fleshy waist.

“I’m starting to think this dude has never been with a woman,” Patrice said.

Apollo didn’t feel compelled to bring up the two daughters Wheeler mentioned. What for? Besides, the wind rushing across the parking lot felt good to Apollo. Maybe it was also seeing Wheeler again. Even a moment this embarrassing reminded Apollo of that evening in the Dunkin’ Donuts, and Apollo understood—as he couldn’t consciously then—that Wheeler had helped, in some small way, to save Apollo’s life. Walking out of that church, after that woman’s words, well, maybe Apollo had been close to cracking up. Then this middle-aged guy wanted to sit, have coffee, and do some business, and weirdly, that was enough to keep Apollo’s mind intact.

“I know one more thing this guy hasn’t done,” Apollo said, turning to Patrice. “As much as you make fun of him, I know he’s never joined a fucking Tribute to Baby Brian Facebook page.”

Patrice actually stopped walking, stopped blinking, stopped breathing. It was as if his whole central nervous system had gone on the fritz. Meanwhile Apollo moved on. He waved at Wheeler and, when he got close, shook the man’s hand.

The inside of the Subaru smelled surprisingly sweet. The cause became clear quickly—two car fresheners hanging from the rearview. Strawberries. From the backseat, Patrice leaned forward and tapped at them with one long finger.

“Those are from my daughters,” Wheeler said. He looked more sheepish about the fresheners than he had been about the Tab.

“Daughters,” Patrice repeated.

“And one wife,” Wheeler added as he started the car.

Apollo didn’t look back at Patrice to grin or gloat. In fact, he avoided eye contact with the big man for the rest of the drive.

As Wheeler drove out of the parking lot, he said, “I used to call each one a little strawberry. When they get mad, their faces all go so red.” He smiled at the memory as he merged onto East Park Avenue. “I thought we’d go out and talk on the water,” he said, continuing east. “Does that sound like a good time for you two?”

“Like on a ferry or something, Mr. Wheeler?” Patrice asked. He looked a bit thrown off. His usual manner of leaning into, leaning over, every conversation had been forgotten. Now he sat back and spoke softly, still chastened from what Apollo had said.

“Not a ferry,” Wheeler said, enjoying holding on to the mystery.

At the light, he made a left on Long Beach Boulevard, then drove on a small bridge over Wreck Lead Channel. Finally they reached a single-lane drive. Wheeler parked in front of a two-story colonial home with a shingle hanging over the front door that read ISLAND PARK YACHT CLUB. He pointed toward a series of docks where five small boats were in the water.

“ ‘You ever been in a cockpit before, Joey?’ ” Wheeler asked.

Apollo knew the quote but couldn’t bring himself to laugh, or even grin politely. In the backseat Patrice had taken out his phone and tapped at the screen.

Wheeler flicked at the two strawberry air fresheners, making them bump and swing. “I’m old,” he said and laughed. “Just ignore me. But can I ask you guys a favor? Can you please call me William?”

He guided Apollo and Patrice to a forty-one-foot Hunter sloop. It bobbled faintly in the water, brushing two inches closer to the dock, then two inches away. William stepped onto the boat easily, but it took Apollo and Patrice a fair bit longer. Baby steps for them.

Meanwhile William opened a doorway and went below. The gray-green waters of Wreck Lead Channel slapped against the hull. The boat had been christened Child’s Play.

“Come down,” William shouted. “I’ve got beer.”

“Let’s make some money,” Patrice said to Apollo, trying to sound upbeat.

Apollo didn’t answer as he went first below deck.