Only the topmost seats of the AT&T Center were lit now. The shadows on the court blue and soft. From the distance came the sound of men shouting to one another. Tim Duncan turned his head to the shouts.

Boban said, “Timmy.”

“Yeah.”

“Ain’t ya gonna give me hell?”

“Give ya hell?”

“Sure, like you always done before. Like, If I di’n’t have you, I’d have ten more minutes a game—”

“Jesus Christ, Boban. You barely speak English but you can remember ever’ word I say.”

“You gonna say it, Timmy?”

“Say what?”

“Tell me about us. Tell me about the Spurs,” Boban said in his heavy accent.

“Guys like us useta got no fans. We useta just be a small market team. No one had no stake in us. Ain’t nobody in the worl’ that gave a hoot in hell about us.”

“But now!” Boban cried happily. “Tell about us now.”

“Now we got five championships. Because—”

“Because—”

“Because I got you an’—”

“An’ I got you. We got each other, that’s what, that gives a hoot in hell about us,” Boban cried in triumph.

A little evening breeze blew over the scorer’s table and the box scores rustled and blew about the empty arena. On the wind, the sound of men shouting could be heard.

Boban said, “Tell me how it’s gonna be.”

Duncan had been listening to the distant sounds. For a moment, he was business-like. “Look across the court, Boban, an’ I’ll tell you so you can almost see it.”

Boban turned his head, sat in a courtside seat, and looked off across the massive spur painted at center court. “We gonna get the two seed, home court til the conf’rence finals,” Duncan began. He reached into his shorts and pulled out Popovich’s Luger; the same luger Pop keeps in his breast pocket during every post game interview. He snapped off the safety, and laid the gun on the seat behind Boban’s back. He looked at the back of Boban’s large head, at the place where the spine and skull joined.

A man’s voice called from the 200 level seats, and another man answered.

“Go on, “ said Boban.

Duncan raised the gun and his hand shook, and he dropped his hand to the seat beside him.

“Go on,” said Boban. “How’s it gonna be? We gonna get second place in the West?”

“We’ll get the Jazz or the Rockets first. The Rockets don’ play a lick o’ defense and the Jazz’s best player looks like he’s their IT guy. Their third best player is Rodney Hood. Ain’t no one ever heard of no Rodney Hood.”

Boban let out a small chuckle, “An’ I can dunk on ‘em and block ‘em and hug ‘em real tight.”

“Then we get the Thunder.”

Boban laughed again, “Oh, I’m gonna hug dat funny dressin boy so hard. And after the Thunda?”

Duncan continued, “Then we get the Western Conference finals—”

“For the Warriors,” Boban shouted.

“For the Warriors,” Duncan repeated.

“An’ I get to foul the Warriors?”

“An’ you get to foul and dunk and block the Warriors.”

Boban let out a deep baritone giggle. “An’ then we get anotha championship.”

“Yes.”

“Go on, Timmy. When we gonna do it?”

“We gonna do it soon.”

“Me an’ you.”

“You…. an’ me. Ever’body gonna cheer for you. Ain’t gonna be no more foul trouble. Nobody gonna hack you or steal the ball from you.”

Boban said, “I thought you was mad at me, Timmy.”

“No,” said Duncan. “No, Boban. I ain’t mad. I never been mad, an’ I ain’t now. That’s a thing I want ya to know.”

The voices came close now. Tim raised the gun and listened to Popovich barking orders at the rest of the Spurs.

Boban begged, “Le’s do it now. Le’s get to the playoffs now.”

“Sure, right now. I gotta. We gotta.”

And Duncan raised the gun and steadied it, and he brought the muzzle of it very close to the back of Boban’s head. The hand shook violently, but his face was set. Duncan was known for always making point blank shots. He pulled the trigger. The crash of the shot rolled up the arena seats and rolled down again.

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Tim Duncan is listed as day-to-day. Boban Marjanovic and Patty Mills are out for the season.