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change in jazz in your lifetime has been the emergence of the bass player. And you said that most improvisation is based upon chord changes, and that jazz is really America’s only indigenous art form. Oh, and bebop is the most challenging form of jazz for musicians to play—let’s see, the leading bebop musicians were Charlie Parker, a drummer named Kenny Clark, oh, and of course, Dizzy Gillespie, and ...”
    I recounted for him other things he’d told me about jazz. When I was finished, he shook his head, smiling. “Whew! I’d say you learned your lessons well.” Consulting a schedule he’d pulled from his breast pocket, he added, “Tomorrow, you’ll have an opportunity to sample all kinds of jazz, and there’ll be a host of trumpet players to listen to this year because opening day is dedicated to the memory and spirit of Little Red LeCoeur. I had to push hard for that, but the organizers finally agreed. I’m sure they’ll have T-shirts and little trinkets with his image on them, so you can even bring home a memento of his influence.”
    “Wayne, do you really think there’s any chance of finding those recordings you spoke of this morning?”
    “I’m not sure. But I may know a lot more after tonight.”
    “Someone has already responded to your challenge?”
    “It could be a false lead, but if you don’t track them all down, you never know. I won’t say any more. I don’t want to jinx it.”
    “You’re not superstitious, are you?”
    “Everyone in this city is superstitious. I should have gotten a special gris-gris to wear till I find the cylinders. Maybe I’ll pick one up at Jazz Fest tomorrow.”
    “I’ve heard that term, gris-gris, but I don’t remember what it is.”
    “It’s a voodoo charm, a pouch containing a mixture of ingredients, which vary depending on what you need—something to bring you luck, protect you from evil, help you get a job, attract a lover, that sort of thing. You wear them on a string around your neck. I never have, but lots of people do. I wonder if Doris Bums knows about them. We should enlighten her.”
    The bill came and Wayne and I had a good-natured debate over who would pay for lunch.
    “This one’s on me,” he said. “After all, I chose the restaurant. You can buy me lunch tomorrow at the racetrack. That’s where the festival takes place.”
    “I’ll be happy to buy you lunch tomorrow, so long as you let me take you to dinner at a restaurant later on. As wonderful as a Po’ Boy sandwich or other festival fare may be, they can’t compare to a lavish meal like the one we just had. You must let me treat you to a special place.”
    “We’ll see.”
    We exited the restaurant and stood for a moment in the shade of the gallery overhead, acclimating ourselves to the heat.
    “Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. “I brought along the book you asked for.”
    I pulled from my shoulder bag a hardback copy of my latest mystery, which I had already inscribed to Wayne.
    “Wonderful! I’ll start it tonight.” He squeezed the book into his leather case along with his papers from the morning’s panel.
    “I should probably bring a book to the mayor and his wife next week, shouldn’t I?”
    “They might have it already,” he said. “Marguerite’s a big reader. Remind me, and I’ll give them a call and ask.”
    “I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks again for the wonderful lunch.”
    “It was my pleasure.”
    “What time shall we meet tomorrow?”
    “Why don’t I stop by your hotel at nine-thirty and we can have breakfast before we leave for the track? That way I can bring you a copy of my book, and assuage my guilt about deserting you this afternoon and evening, considering that I talked you into coming here.”
    “I’ll be happy to meet you for breakfast, but there’s no need to feel guilty. I intend to enjoy a leisurely promenade around the French Quarter. I spotted some artwork in Jackson Square I’d like to see again, and maybe I’ll even buy