A hot pink neon flamingo clock lit up the space directly over the bar, its faint buzz constant and reassuring in an odd way. Kit, the long haired bartender, looked out of place in this retro 40s dive – the Café Noir. The bar lived on the east end of the Sunset Strip in L.A., the not so good end.

"Didja hear about that guy killed his wife on the news?" Mickey, a regular, said.

"I don't know how someone can live with himself after something like that," said Jerome, another on-the-way-home-from-work regular. "Hey Kit, what do you think?"

Kit didn't want to say anything. They pestered him until he had no choice. "You can learn to live with anything," he said. At the far end of the bar Larry Darrell, an LAPD detective, tapped his finger on his glass, indicating he needed a refill. "Comin' up," Kit said, glad that he could extricate himself from the present conversation.

 On his way over he saw himself in the mirror behind the bar, the long hair, the unshaven face, the faded clothes. He didn't look long.

The Café Noir was a refuge for Kit. A place where the glare of the sun never entered. Where the cockroaches could be at home in the perpetual night.

Somebody put a quarter in the jukebox – yeah, this place still had a juke. Burning Hell by John Lee Hooker. Obviously someone else in the bar felt like Kit did. Of course Kit was stocking the juke box these days.

Kit topped off Larry's glass. Larry nodded. There was a rumor going 'round that Detective Darrell had helped a defense lawyer frame a client she had gotten off and later learned was guilty of murder. It might just have been one of those urban legends. But both he and the defense lawyer used to come into the Noir; now he came alone.

 "I couldn't help overhearing. You learning to live with something bad, Kit?" Larry looked Kit in the eye. He had hard eyes, cop eyes. "I know about your brother and your mother."

Sometimes life is a like a David Goodis novel, Kit thought. And sometimes it's like a down and dirty blues rag. He used to listen to the blues. Now he knew what it was to live them.

Kit stared up at the neon flamingo clock, his eyes honing in on it until they lost focus. Images raced across his mind like a hyper fast movie montage of his life.

***

Kit sat nursing his sandwich the way some people nursed their drinks in a bar. It tasted like plywood with mustard. He washed it down with a lite beer, the only alcohol he ever drank. This wasn't one of those chi-chi places in the Beverly Hills-adjacent neighborhood, but a place for the working stiffs. He sold stocks for a major suit and tie firm. He liked it. It was steady, paid reasonably well and suited his personality. He had a lot of show biz clientele. He called them Mr. or Miz So-and-So. They called him Kit.

An expensively tailored woman walked by the window. Kit stared out at her. She held an armload of packages from one of the trendy boutiques under her arm, paying no attention to the little sandwich shop or the man in the window. Kit left his half-eaten sandwich on the table, swigged a gulp of beer and headed outside into the blinding sun.

He walked behind the woman, just another denizen of the Strip. She approached her hunter green Jaguar XJ, fumbled for her keys. The packages started to fall. Kit quick-stepped to catch them before they hit the ground.

"Thank you," the woman said.

Kit stood up, the blood rushing to his head, but not from the sudden movement. He held the packages while she unlocked the trunk. "No problem."

She turned to take the packages from him, but he set them in the trunk for her. She closed it and looked at him. Their eyes caught for a nanosecond. And he knew. It was clear she didn't.

"Are you okay?" she said, as he regained his balance.

"I guess I just swung up too fast," he lied.

She handed him a five dollar bill as if he were a valet or doorman and walked around to the driver's side of her car. He stood there as she pulled into traffic. Then he ripped the bill in pieces and tossed it to the wind.

He watched the red taillights of the car recede into a sea of red taillights, so many bloodshot Angelino eyes.

***

The breeze gently blew the gauzy curtains over the kitchen window as Kit stood dicing and slicing at the drainboard of the Hollywood Hills home he shared with his wife Lori and their two kids, Jason, eight, and Jennifer, five. The smell of night blooming jasmine tickled his nose, mingling with Lemon Joy dish soap – the smell of home. His kids were the light of his life. Bubbly. Smart. Both with blonde curls, which they got from their mother. Lori's face reminded Kit of Jean Arthur in Shane, which he'd watched on the Turner Classic Movies channel. Solid Midwestern stock. A hundred years ago she might have taken a wagon train West. Hell, she might have led it.

"Jason got an A in math," Lori said, the sounds of Nintendo bleeding into the kitchen from the separate family room of their older house. She talked on about the kids, their school, the usual things that made up their lives. Normally, Kit would have eaten it all up. Tonight he couldn't concentrate on that. He sliced tomatoes for the salad, but his thoughts were a million miles away, as he watched the sinking golden hour sun cast shadows through the yard. Not this yard, not this house. Another yard. A dream yard. Clouds hang low in the cobalt sky of that yard and it looks like rain. It's late and cool and two boys huddle with each other, only the tinny sound of a radio down the street reassures them that they're not in the Twilight Zone. They are only two years apart – inseparable. Nobody's asked them to come in yet. It's as if they've been forgotten, and that's fine with them.

"Kit, is something wrong?"

Lori's words woke him from his reverie. "No, uh, just thinking about work. Ow!" Blood leaked from a gash on his skin. Lori came over. "It's nothing. I just cut myself. Are you sure you're okay having Robert over?"

"I don't mind Robert coming for dinner as long as he keeps his nose clean," Lori said.

"He's not a dog."

"You know what I mean. He's a bad example for the kids."

"I think he's going to make it this time. He's determined and he has a job lined up."

Lori gave him a knowing smile.

Robert knocked on the door a few minutes later. A loud knock, like a policeman might do, though Robert was anything but a cop. Lori and Kit answered the door together, Jason and Jennifer standing quietly behind them. Robert's shoulder length hair was neatly combed and clean. He wore new blue jeans and a white dress shirt. He had two brightly wrapped packages, which he gave the kids after saying a stilted hello to Kit and Lori. The kids busied themselves tearing open the wrapping.

"I don't know what kids like these days," Robert said.

"They like anything that comes in shiny paper," Lori said.

Kit knew Lori was trying to make Robert feel at home. The kids were very picky about what they liked. They were told ahead of time to show that they liked what Robert brought them, if he brought them something, and they'd get a trip to Ben and Jerry's later in the week. They acted their parts well and Robert's grin proved it.

Dinner went well, though it seemed as if no one really knew what to say. No one said the wrong thing either. After dinner Kit took Robert into his home office-study. He was sure Lori would be relieved to have him and Robert go it alone for a while.

"Hey, bro." Kit slapped his arms around his brother. They might have been twins, but weren't. Damn it was good to see Robby after his latest stint in prison. He might have strayed, but Kit loved him more than he could say or show. "Good to see you."

"You too, man."

Kit put on a CD – A World of Hurt by John Mayall spun out.

"You and those blues records," Robert said. "What do you know about the blues?"

Kit didn't have an answer. Something about that music spoke to him.

"I know something about the blues," Robert said.

"Got a new one," Kit said, ignoring his brother's comment and noticing Robert's tattoo of a clock with no arms.

"And a couple new tombstones, one for every year served." He showed off his row of crude prison-made tombstone tats.

"You need to stop giving so much service."

"On the straight and narrow for me from now on, bro. If you can't do the time don't do the crime. I ain't doing no more crimes." Robert took in the room filled with books, electronics, CDs DVDs and posters of blues icons John Lee Hooker and Robert Johnson. "You done well for yourself, bro."

Kit looked at his brother. He'd been in prison for three years, armed robbery this time. Robert wouldn't let Kit visit him in prison, but he accepted all the cigarettes and candy and soap his brother would send. Kit hoped Robert really would stay out for good this time.

"Hey bro, love that slick do. You look like a movie star outta the forties," Robby said, grinning.

"And I love your hair, down to your shoulders, you look like a neo-hippie."

"Well, I think I'm gonna get it cut short. Look like a normal person. Y'know, be well-groomed like you."

"You look normal to me." Kit smiled warmly.

"You know bro, somehow I get the feeling that Lori don't like me, don't like me spoiling her nice upper middle class neighborhood."

"She doesn't really know you – give her time," Kit said.

"I'm not sure where the road forked, where I took a wrong turn."

"We were given a raw deal."

"Don't make excuses for me. I made my choices, I'll live with 'em."

"We got a raw deal," Kit said, the edge in his voice clearly audible.

"Smoldering, you're still smoldering. You can't let go. You got this nice house with a library even." Robert took in the walls of books in Kit's office. "You also got a beautiful wife and kids and you're still angry. Mine's on the surface, I live it, but you still got it too."

Kit's eyes lost focus.

"I saw her."

"Who?"

"Our mother." Kit said the word as if it tasted of sour lemons.

"The lovely Susan. Where?"

"Couple doors down from where I work. She was shopping. Driving a Jag."

"She and old Ernie did okay for themselves," Robert said. "She see you?"

"I helped her with her packages, looked her right in the eye. She didn't even recognize me." Kit clenched his fists. "We don't exist for her. Never did."

"Leave it, bro. Let it go. Don't give her another thought."

Kit looked at the L-O-V-E/H-A-T-E tats on Robert's knuckles. "Look what she did to you. To us."

"You're doing alright. Maybe that's what spurred you to work so hard..."

"...And you to spend half your life in prison."

"I made my own choices, bro. I always made my own choices. But three strikes and you're out, so I'm gonna stay out."

***

Kit lay in bed, snuggled up against Lori in her cotton nightgown, feeling the reassuring warmth of her body, smelling her coconut-scented hair, wondering what life might have been like had his birth family stayed together.

Robert was right and Robert was wrong. Kit was doing okay – on the surface. But Robert was wrong about him not knowing anything about the blues. Inside he roiled with flames he tried not to think about. Seeing his mother had rekindled them. His whole life was about escaping the blues, running from his early life. Ma Rainey's Chain Gang Blues echoed in his head, something about a ball and chain. Kit couldn't let go – his mother was his ball and chain.

And Robert, he was always a scared kid and that scaredness had turned into bullyness. He'd get someone before they got him. Then one day he stole a car, went for a joy ride and landed in reform school, or whatever they called it. When they cut him loose he had no skills, but a voracious appetite for reading. He self educated himself but he couldn't hold a job. He went through nine jobs in two years. And then started with burglary and moved to armed robbery. He'd done two felony stretches in prison. One more strike and he was out.

Kit's fork had taken him on a different road. He'd studied, but had no money. So he joined the Army, went to college on the GI bill and met Lori. It wasn't all roses, but it wasn't what Robert had gone through and he was grateful for that.

He wished he hadn't seen his mother today, or since he had that she would have been down and out. Not driving a Jag, not wearing a large diamond on her finger. Not wearing Jimmy Choo shoes, which cost a fortune and which he recognized because some of the women he worked with wore them and talked about them constantly. Lori didn't own any Jimmy Choos.

Kit stared at the ceiling. It was a blank slate, a movie screen. But not silver, more of a muddy gray, film noir screen. He watched the backyard lamps of that long ago house cast halos in the mist. It's late but he and Robby continue to play cops and robbers in the dewy grass. Normally on a night like this their mom would have called them in by now. But it's almost as if the family has forgotten about them. They know their pop is home too, and someone else is there. Uncle Frank maybe? They hear the sounds of high heeled shoes clicking on the tile floor inside the house. It's a nice enough house, typical of the San Fernando Valley, real Middle America, major Spielberg Country. Nothing fancy, but the kids like it. The footsteps echo. Eerie. The sound of china crashing to the floor splits the night. Voices raised. An argument. Kit is eight, Robert six. They don't want any part of another argument and decide to stay outside in the rain. They are soaked to the bone, but it's better than the alternative.

Kit prayed for sleep. It didn't come.

***

It took a few weeks, but eventually Kit stopped thinking about his mother. He saw Robert once in a while, usually for lunch. Robert was working construction. Looking good. He'd cut his hair, as he said he would, and people thought he looked like a star. They thought he and Kit were twins they looked so much alike. He enjoyed dinners with Lori and their friends, the occasional concert or movie. What he loved most was taking his kids to the Children's Museum or the Santa Monica Pier to ride the Ferris Wheel. Not a very exciting life, but a good one.

And then he saw her again.

This time she was heading into Book Soup on Sunset. He had just finished lunch and was heading back to the office. The sun bounced off her designer sunglasses, forcing him to squint. But he recognized her.

She walked right past him, didn't notice him. His own mother. The blood rushed to his face, his heart pounded. He wanted to say something to her, call out, Mother, I'm here.

Instead of heading back to the office, Kit ran for his car. Headed out of the lot, but had to wait for traffic on Sunset Boulevard. Her green Jag was tooling up the road.

"Damn!" he cursed, as no one would let him into the street. He kept an eye on her car and finally made his way out into traffic. She was several cars ahead, which was okay. She turned down Robertson, heading south, then turned right on Santa Monica Boulevard, toward Beverly Hills. He followed her, staying a couple cars behind, until she pulled into a driveway in the Beverly Hills flats, south of Santa Monica, the other side of the tracks – 90211, not 90210 – the poor part of town, where houses only cost a million or two instead of three or four or more.

He parked across the street and one house down from her house, a Spanish Colonial with a large stained glass picture window. His four year old Volvo wasn't really out of place here, but he was nervous sitting in it doing nothing. He pulled his cell phone out so if a cop came by – and they actually did in Beverly Hills – he could say he'd pulled over to make a call. He sat with the phone to his ear, looking at the green Jag in the driveway.

A few minutes later Kit's mother came out in a change of clothes, dressed for gardening now, and started tending the yellow rose bushes in front. A few minutes after that Kit heard the thumping bass of a car radio. A new Beamer pulled into his mother's driveway. Teenagers were spilling out the windows. Two of them, a boy and girl, in their mid-teens, got out of the car, waved goodbye to their friends, went up to Kit's mother and kissed her on the cheek.

Kit's blood surged. He put the car in gear, tore out, burning rubber. In the rearview mirror he saw Mom and her little family looking to see what all the noise was about.

***

Sitting at a stoplight, he could barely keep himself from jamming his foot on the gas and tearing into the intersection. That would make a pretty picture. Almost as pretty a picture as the one playing in his mind, Kit and Robert pressing their noses against the sliding glass door. No one inside seems to notice them. Kit's father storms from one end of the room to the other. His mother is crying. A second man enters the room. It's not Uncle Frank – who is it? Ernie – Mom's friend.

Another crash echoes through the yard as the downpour continues. Still, Kit and Robert don't go inside. Kit hugs the shaking Robert. They are bathed in the moonlight streaming through the rain and broken clouds. They're getting wet, but they're afraid to go inside – all that yelling. Kit presses harder against the plate glass and peers inside the many-mirrored room. Images flash and dance all around.

It's hard to tell what's going on. The water glitters in ribbons and droplets across the window as he presses his face to the glass, which has a moist, wet smell. The lights are low. The faces in the room deeply barred with shadows. And then a loud boom!

***

Kit had forgotten about a client meeting when he'd chased after his mother. He got chewed out by his boss and the client when he got back to the office. But it was worth it to see where she lived.

By the time he got home, the kids were already down for bed. He looked in on them as they slept.

"They're angels when they're sleeping," Lori said. "I guess that's what all mothers say."

"Not all."

He squeezed Lori's hand, then left her and went into his home office, pressed a button. Robert Johnson's Me and the Devil Blues (Take 1) spilled from the speakers. In this one Satan shows up at Johnson's door and they walk side by side. Seemed like Johnson was always walking with the Devil, talking with the Devil. Selling his soul to the Devil.

The window was open, the scent of jasmine filling the air. Real SoCal. Kit thought about his life. All these years later and it still hurt, what his mother did to him and Robby. All those years in foster homes, he'd wished she'd come get them. Make them a family again. She'd told them she'd come back for them – she never did. And now she was still in L.A. – Beverly Hills. Had she ever bothered to look for him and Robby?

***

Kit snuck time away from his job; he stalked Susan. Learned that the man in her life wasn't Ernie. He learned when she went to the beauty parlor, the gym – her routines. He spent so much time at it that his boss had to reprimand him. Kit promised to give more time to work. And he did, for a couple of weeks.

He also spent time with Robby. In the fall they watched the Dodgers, then the Lakers. Making up for lost time. Robert worked hard, long hours. Kit was glad to see it. He helped him find a decent apartment for the money he was making. Kit offered to help him out; Robert wouldn't let him.

It was good to have his brother back.

And he spent time with his kids. And his wife. And the sun was shining.

And one day he was waiting for Susan at her house.

 He stood in the red-tiled portico. His car was parked around the corner. He knew today was the maid's day off, the kids' soccer practice and her husband's night to come home late.

He stood in the long shadow of a palm tree. He heard her car pull into the driveway. Footsteps on the path to the front door.

"Excuse me," he said.

Susan stopped, looked frightened. "Yes?"

"Susan." It wasn't a question.

"I'm sorry, I don't recognize you." She scanned his face up and down, squinting as if that would help. She still looked good – good bones.

Kit stepped from the shadows, "I'm sure you wouldn't."

A sliver of golden sunlight cut across his face.

"Though you do look familiar."

"It's nice to be remembered, thanks Mom."

Susan's eyes widened as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing, a ghost from the past. A past she probably wanted to forget as completely as she could.

"Kit, is that you?" Tears rolled down her face. She dropped the package she was holding, put her arms out. Kit almost let himself fall into her, a little boy into the comforting, loving arms of his Mommy. He held himself back. "I missed you. I've thought of you often."

"That's why you abandoned us."

"I had no choice – I did it for your own good," Susan said.

"That's why you sent us off to foster home hell."

"Ernie wanted to, to..."

Kit knew what she was trying to say. "It might have been better that way."

"You can't mean that. I loved – love you."

"You said you'd come back. Take care of us." Now he thought he sounded pathetic.

"I couldn't. Ernie..."

Kit stared into his mother's eyes. In them he sees his and Robert's father fall to the floor – dead. He doesn't see who fired the shot, his mother or her lover, Ernie. Kit squelches a yelp. He pulls Robert tight and they slowly back away from the plate glass. But not before Ernie looks their way, a feral expression on his face. He heads for the sliding door. Susan grabs him and they argue. Kit can hear muffled sounds through the glass, but can't make out the words. Finally, Susan and Ernie grab a few things and head for the door – they grab the boys. Susan deposits them on a neighbor's doorstep. She promises she'll come back for them if they promise to be good. When the neighbors find them huddled on the porch, Robert shakes so hard that he has to go to the hospital. They never see their neighbors, their house or their mother again. They end up in foster care for years, until they turn eighteen, when Kit joins the Army and Robert does his first stint in adult prison. And the rest, as they say, is history.

"Don't hurt me, Kit." Her voice shook like Robby shook all those years ago.

"You killed our father. You haven't even asked about Robby."

Her eyes were calm, but fear slowly edged into them. Kit wondered what she saw in him to make her feel that way.

"You never came back for us."

"I couldn't. I did the best I could under the circumstances. Don't you see, it would have been worse."

"No, I don't see. What I see is what a good life you're living, though I'm not sure how you got away with murder. A house in Beverly Hills, a Jag. Fancy clothes. All the things you always wanted. What I see is Robby spending half his life in jail, never being able to get it together. Never knowing which end is up." The rage in his voice surprised him. He had thought he only wanted to see his mother, talk to her, find out what happened. Now it was much more than that. Maybe it had been all along.

"You wouldn't kill your own mother."

He wasn't going to kill her. Was he?

"You don't want to be a murderer," Susan pleaded.

"Like you?"

"I have children now."

Her words stung. Without thinking, Kit charged his mother. He grabbed her the way he'd been taught in the service and with one clean jerk broke her neck. She didn't even have time to fight back. He let her slide through his hands to the ground. Watched her crumple into a pile of Donna Karan and Gucci.

He bent over her, stared into her wide open eyes, hoping she could see who did this to her. Who ended her life. Then he put his thumb and forefinger on her eyelids and pushed them down gently. He tried to make sure he wouldn't leave any trace evidence behind.

***

The jangling phone startled Kit out of a restless sleep. He'd been expecting a call, or worse a sheriff's deputy or Beverly Hills cop to show up at his door, handcuffs in hand. But this wasn't the call he had been expecting.

"Mr. Jansen, my name is Wayne Temple, I'm with the Public Defender's office. Your brother Robert wanted me to call you."

"Robert?"

"Robert confessed to the murder of one Susan Muldaur. He's in County Jail, Twin Towers downtown."

***

The cold halls of the jail sent a shiver down Kit's spine. He waited in the visiting room for Robby to be led in. Deputy sheriffs stood nearby, but Robby had explained to Kit that anything they overheard wouldn't be admissible in court so they could talk freely. Still, Kit's heart hammered his chest. His hands shook. He knew what he had to do. Robby smiled as he sat across from him, separated by a grimy Plexiglas barrier.

"I did it and I'm going to confess," Kit said.

"No fuckin' way, bro." Robert smiled placidly at his brother.

"It's your third strike, they'll lock you up forever, or worse."

"It wouldn't really be worse, you know."

"I'm not letting you take the rap." Kit had hoped the conversation would be monitored, despite what Robby had said, and the cops would come and hook him up.

"You got no choice, kid. I can do the time and I can do the other thing. You got a good life, let's not wreck it. And you did us both a favor, got revenge in both our names. 'Sides, in prison I know what I'm doing, I get three meals a day."

"Three hots and a cot," Kit tried joking.

"There's something to be said for that big brother. And I know who my friends are and when the lights will go out. Out there I don't know nothin'. Tell you the truth, I feel safer in the joint. I know who's got my back. You couldn't cut it in here."

"Hell, I could cut it in the Army."

"Night and day, bro."

"I can prove that I was there. I know the details."

"They love a confession, bro. I beat you to it. And the lineup – the neighbors IDed me right off."

"'Cause we look alike," Kit said. "You're crazy."

Robby smiled, "Besides, I already know all the words to Folsom Prison Blues."

The guard signaled that time was up. Kit said goodbye and stepped outside the jail, into the now broken night.

*          *          *

The next morning Kit mustered up everything he had, went to the cops, then the DA, and tried telling them how the crime took place. They took perfunctory reports, but he might as well have been confessing to the Black Dahlia murder. Robby had said he would be wasting his time. They had a body to put in an orange jumpsuit and maybe an arm for a needle. That's all that mattered. And as far as they were concerned the case was a slam dunk and closed.

Robert sucked it up, confessed on the stand. There was no formal trial. At the hearing, Kit saw the eyes of Susan's husband and teenaged children burning a hole into Robert, and into him. Because Robert confessed he got life in prison instead of the death penalty.

Kit didn't know which was worse.

As usual, Robert wouldn't let Kit see him in prison. And as usual Kit sent cigarettes, soap, candy and other supplies.   

*          *          *

The hearing had ended a month ago. It could have been years or maybe just a dream it seemed so far away and unreal. Kit lay awake in bed. He felt Lori's warmth and heard her breathing. He hadn't slept in weeks. And it showed. His hair was long and unkempt. He showed up for work only sporadically.

Kit went downstairs to the bar, opened a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and poured a glass. By the time the sun came up the bottle was empty, Kit was passed out on the sofa, and both he and Lori knew he wouldn't be going to work again today.

*          *          *

"Your brother's doing time." Larry's razor blade voice startled Kit out of his home movie flashback.

Kit nodded. "He didn't do it."

Larry sipped his drink. "I don't think so either." He stared into Kit's eyes. Larry had eyes that didn't believe anything. "But the case is closed."

Kit took Larry's glass, wiped the water ring with a towel. He thought about telling Larry the whole story – no one had listened before, why would he now? Or was Kit just rationalizing and chickening out?

A little after 2am, Kit locked the front door of the bar, pulled the security screen in place and locked it. He walked to his apartment. Some thought it wasn't safe walking on Sunset at this time of night. He didn't care. He worked the night shift. In the winter he'd arrive in the dark and leave in the dark. He saw little of the daylight. He liked it that way.

The air had that cold, crisp winter sting to it. Kit liked that. He headed up the steps to his apartment. The building was an old Spanish-Colonial, twelve crumbling units, though at one time it must have been the height of chic and high society. Three rooms, living room, kitchen and bedroom. He even had a view of the city. He sat on the dusty rose colored sofa he'd bought at the Salvation Army. He knew it was dusty rose because the lady who sold it to him thought that was a major selling point. He didn't care, he just needed something to sit on.

He left the blinds open and watched the city sparkling below him as the night breeze chilled the room and a hint of jasmine filled the air. He stared at the traffic below. Two-thirty in the morning and the roads were still crowded, people hustling everywhere, each one with somewhere to be, somewhere to go. Something important happening every minute of the day and night. He used to be one of them – been there, done that. Would he do it again if he could? He didn't know.

 Normally he couldn't have afforded this apartment, even crumbling, at least not these days. But he did some work around the building for the owner and got it at a cut rate.

A cut rate life, he thought, that's what I've got now. A cut rate life.

Right now he missed Lori and the kids. Hadn't seen them in over a year. Why would they want to see him now? And why would he want to see them? He wasn't the same man he'd been.

Guilt is the laser sharp knife that twists into your gut and stays there. Sometimes it's deserved, sometimes not. Sometimes it comes from without, sometimes from within. Kit missed Robby. He missed the good times. He even missed the not-so-good times. He never gave a thought to his mother.

 An Albert King CD played in the background, Born Under a Bad Sign. King sang about how his life had been one big fight since he learned to crawl. The music rang in Kit's ears: If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all. Oh yeah, Kit knew all about bad luck and the blues, didn't he.

 

The End