Eight musicians on a famous wall. A ninth under the paint. Take it down, and she's gone for good.
You are a New Orleans restorer who lifts murals off doomed walls. A trumpet player swears a ninth musician is painted under the famous eight. Lift the wall and she is gone for good. He won't leave your scaffold.
Late September in New Orleans. You are two floors up a scaffold, the glue soft under your thumb.
This week you lift a famous mural of eight brass band players off Blue Gate Hall, and the fee keeps your studio open.
A trumpet player at the foot of the scaffold says he is third from the left, and that there were nine. By the drummer's knee, blue shows through the brown paint.
The owner who sold the wall is crossing the street, and the trumpet player already has one foot on your scaffold.
A New Orleans restorer with a studio in the Bywater. Years ago you lifted your grandfather's mural off your grandmother's kitchen wall, and a museum now lists him as an unknown artist.
A trumpet player: tall, close beard going gray at the chin, a white band shirt with rolled sleeves, a scuffed trumpet case. He is third from the left on the wall you came to save.
A man in a cream linen suit has stepped off the curb. Keep reading.
Someone on St. Claude knows who painted the band. Keep reading.
Someone found you this job, and the fee that came with it. Keep reading.
Someone in the band would rather you left the wall alone. Keep reading.
Hot brick, sour glue, and brass bands starting up on the corner at dusk.
You glue cloth to the wall and peel the top layer of paint off in one whole sheet. Anything painted under it tears apart, or stays on the brick for the wrecking crew.
A lamp held low to the wall shows old lines under the paint. It shows outlines only, never faces, and it lights you up for the whole street.
The wall belongs to the owner, and he holds the permit. The city still has to sign off, but any delay you cause, he can end with one call.
You remember him falling tonight. He's alive, wearing the twin of your ring. At dawn, the Queen announces your engagement.
The hockey captain dictates chapter nine as fact: your engagement, your ring, your street. The publisher prints it in thirty days.
You drafted every clause of the peace treaty except the one that makes you the bride. Signing is in twenty days.
Four witnesses you relocated this year were found within a week, and only your files knew where. Your last one testifies in thirty days.
