Chapter 8

The meeting with Luther was at his vintage bungalow on the beach. The place was salmon-colored with too many windows, a wraparound deck, and an attractive view. The summer day was balmy with its low humidity, bright yellow-sunflower sun, and tender wind. Luther’s wife, Jazelle, a fifty-seven-year-old Congo queen with skin the color of burnt soil, served Madagascar coffee and cinnamon rolls on a bamboo table at the rear of the bungalow that overlooked the Gulf.

Luther looked exhausted. His black exterior resembled something pale and almost gray. His eyes were deeply set, and he hadn’t shaved in what looked like two days. Rumor had it that he suffered from prostate cancer, declined any medical treatment in the modern day medical world, and was riding out his last days doing exactly what he wanted. My heart bled for the ex-Eagles player and his drama. He was dying right before everyone’s eyes, rotting away from the inside out, and there wasn’t a damn thing he wanted to do about it.