Outside the cafe, on the sidewalk of Decatur Street, a two piece band started to play. Two ragged youngsters playing trumpet and drum. He remembered Marvia mentioning once—it had been pillow talk, late one night in her flat in the turret of an Oxford Street Victorian—that Louis Armstrong’s centennial was coming up soon. Louis Armstrong, and she’d mentioned his favorite drummer, Baby Dodds. Eighty years ago, these ragged musicians might have been Louis Armstrong and Baby Dodds, playing for grocery money.
He walked over and handed them each a bill. Then he returned to the table and sat down facing Benjamin Bruninski.
“I painted the picture, Mae posed for it. I painted the thing and it came out on the book. Izzy was so proud, Werner threw a little party for him. Izzy went around autographin
