"Ghosts," said Dillon, sadly.

"A thief!" I replied. "Why would you think it was ghosts who stole your saxophone?"

"It started 30 years ago," Dillon sighed. "There were four of us, then, playing an alto sax and a baritone, plus a low 'contrabass' and a high 'soprano'." His eyes were lost in memory, and he smiled happily. "Our band had a sound like no other. We were this city's biggest saxophone quartet!"

Dillon walked to a tall bookcase, which was stuffed with vinyl records, and ran a tired finger along their edges. He settled on worn-out cover, and soon the needle on his phonograph had found the record's groove. His tiny room filled with 30-year-old music, fast saxophones rollicking while a bass and a drum kept the beat. "I didn't know it then," Dillon explained, "but my saxophone also had its own legend."