Jimmy Ruffin came on. “Gonna Give Her All the Love I’ve Got.” Luke sipped from his glass and gestured at the music.

“You play on this?”

“This is Motown,” Floyd replied, smiling and frowning simultaneously. “I was on the Atlantic side. You know . . . Aretha, Otis, Wilson Pickett. Shit, man, I told you that—”

“Right, right—”

“I knew some of those Motown cats, though. Benny Benjamin, Pistol Allen, Bongo Brown . . . most of the Funk Brothers. This”—Floyd touched his ear, indicating the music in a more intimate way—“is Jimmy Ruffin. I kicked around some with his little brother, David, and yeah, I played with him on one occasion; I happened to be in town when the Temptations were down a guitarist, so I grabbed my Gibson and stood in.”

“Wait,” Luke said. A smile touched his face. “You were a Temptation?”

“You should’ve seen me back in ’65, with my conk hairstyle and sequin jacket.” Floyd dropped a wink and looked, for one second, like his old self. “Man, I was always a temptation.”

It didn’t last, though. Floyd got to coughing and tears trickled down his cheeks. Luke rubbed between his shoulder blades, which helped, but not as much as the booze. Floyd downed the remainder of his bourbon and wheezed for a time, then breathed easier. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and blinked his jaundiced eyes.

“Well, shit.”

“You okay, Floyd? You want water or something?” Luke proffered his glass.

“Shit, no.”

The doctors had been forthright with Floyd about the likelihood of chemotherapy being successful, and Floyd had been forthright in return. To hell with the chemo, he’d said to them. He’d lived longer than he had any right to, given his habits and transgressions, and considered himself blessed. He would live out his days not in a prison of drugs, but in the freedom of friends and music. Even so, Luke was about to ask if he needed to go home and rest when Floyd, with a single word, deflected the attention elsewhere.

“Kitty.”

“What?”

“That’s her name, huh?” Floyd’s chin quivered as he spoke. “The girl who saved your ass.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Luke nodded, scratching the back of his head. “Kitty. Right. My neighbor.”

Another soul classic fluttered from the speakers.

“I played on this,” Floyd remarked, touching his ear again. “Now tell me about her.”

Luke did. He thought it would take all of thirty seconds, but he kept finding more to say. “She’s been living across from me for . . . Jesus, I don’t know . . . for weeks, I guess.” He’d never noticed her, which surprised him, because she was easy to notice. “Young. Mid-twenties, I’d say. Beautiful. Kindhearted. I mean, she recognized me—everyone’s favorite wife-killer since O.J.—but wouldn’t leave my side until she knew I was okay. She even helped me pack my shit back into the garage.”