“How come he fell?”
“He was hanging upside down over the edge of the freeway overhang, painting, a pal holding his legs, when the pal sneezed, God yes, sneezed and let go.”
“Jesus!”
“Nobody wanted to tell his folks or anyone the truth. Christ! Upside down painting illegal graffiti and crashing down in traffic. It was listed as a bike accident, though no bike was found. They washed the guilty paint off his hands before the coroner came. Which left Montoya—”
“With a gallery full of useless photo art.”
“No! A gallery full of priceless relics from an artful dodger’s life, dead too soon but thank God the inspired photos stayed to be bid for in prices that skyrocketed! Cardinal Mahoney added his imprimatur, and they shot through the ceiling.”
“So no one ever told where the original artwork could be found?”
“No one ever will. The relatives warned their boy never to play on the freeway, and look what’s happened! They might have survived a living festival where Sebastian was celebrated for the gallery photo stuff but, my God, look, it’s overhang 89 on Freeway 101, but with him dead, it was too melancholy and too commercial. Then Montoya thought to light a thousand candles and create the Saint Sebastian church.”
“How many people know this story?”
“Montoya, the gallery owner, maybe one or two aunts or uncles. Now you and me. Nobody will let the cat out of the bag to cross the freeway. Mum’s the word. Reach over in the backseat. Feel around. What do you feel?”
I reached back, blind-handed.
“Feels like three buckets.”
“What else?”
I probed. “A big paintbrush!”
“So?”
“Three buckets of paint!”
“Right!”
“For what?”
“To paint over Sebastian Rodriguez’s freeway masterpiece graffiti.”
“Paint over all those priceless murals, why?”
“If we leave them there, eventually someone will notice, compare them to the gallery photos, and the jig’s up!”
“The world will discover he was only a freeway graffiti stuntman?”
“Or the world will spy his genius and gawkers will cause collisions or block traffic. Either way it’s a no-go.”
I stared up at the bright overhang.
“And who’s gonna paint over the murals?”
“Me!” Sam said.
“How will you do it?”
“You’ll hold me upside down, by my knees, while I whitewash. But blow your nose first. No sneezing.”
“Siqueiros, nada, Orozco, no?”
“You can say that again.”