Floyd had taken a turn for the worse. His skin had faded, the whites of his eyes had a distinct yellow tint, and there was a fractional delay between his mouth working and the words coming out. For the first time since his diagnosis seven months prior, he was showing the advanced signs of his sickness.

“Some days are harder than others,” Luke replied, tilting the bottle to his lips. The beer was cold and good. “Felt like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Tsk-tsk.”

“I’d been up half the night, looking at old photos. Then I watched the first ten minutes of Without Sin. Huge fucking mistake.” Without Sin was the big-budget Netflix original Luke had been signed to star in, only to be fired after the shitstorm hit. They gave his part to Walton Goggins. “It was all downhill from there.”

“You said it.”

Three p.m. on a Thursday afternoon. They were in the back corner of the Melody Bar & Grill, a cool, soulful establishment a stone’s throw from LAX. Luke considered it his local, even though he lived twenty miles away—never a quick drive in the Los Angeles traffic. It was worth every minute of the journey, though. Floyd Tallent was his best friend, perhaps his only friend. They’d been meeting at this joint every month for the past eleven years. Floyd had stood by Luke through all the trouble.

“I can see you ain’t exactly on cloud nine,” Floyd said, pointing at the ceiling with one wavering forefinger. “But all things considered . . . you doing better?”

“For now.” Luke shrugged and drank from his bottle. “Maybe cloud three.”

“Well, shit, nobody ever wrote a song about cloud three,” Floyd said, and a dusty chuckle broke from his chest. “It ain’t so bad, though, and it’s sure as hell better than the morgue.”

“I guess you’re right—”

“You know I am. And someone cared enough to save your ass, so there’s that.”

“Kitty,” Luke mumbled, and finished his beer. One bottle. That was all he’d allow himself. The cops in this city couldn’t slap a murder charge on him. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of a DUI. That single beer had gone down smoothly, though, and the company was good. The atmosphere was good, too. There was a feeling of neighborliness at the Melody Bar & Grill. The air buzzed with conversation and laughter. Soul classics pumped steadily from the sound system, appealing to the clientele, which, at this hour, was mostly older African Americans. Luke—forty-two and white—looked both out of place and entirely at home. It was a unique and heartening vibe.

He pushed his empty across the table and motioned to Vernon, the bartender, who brought over an ice-cold glass of water, because Vernon knew.