SAMPLE CHAPTERS:

Chapter One:

"Boy! Are you lookin' at porn?"

Collin turned from the screen of his ancient computer to find Aunt Libby invading his space. The huge woman filled the whole doorway, her striped cotton dress like a small circus tent. She glared around like she owned the house... which she did, as a matter of fact. Collin hadn't seen her in months, and he'd missed her as much as a virus.

"I think I am now," he muttered.

Aunt Libby gave him a scowl. "Is that any way to be talkin' to ladies?"

The thought crossed Collin's mind that there weren't any "ladies" he could see, either on or off-line at the moment. He glanced at his monitor again, wishing he could shut off his aunt by something as simple as flipping a switch.

"Nice to see you," he said. "But I'm kinda busy right now."

Aunt Libby was about as computer-literate as a bulldozer. To her, the web was a planet of porn created for the corruption of kids. She came rumbling in as if running on tracks, the floor boards popping and squeaking beneath her.

"That looks dirty to me," she said.

Collin sighed. "It's a T-rated fantasy game."

"Those kids are half-naked," observed Aunt Libby.

"They live in a jungle," said Collin.

"Waste of time," snorted Aunt Libby. "I heard about kids gettin' hooked on those games. They're just as addictive as crack! Pretty soon you forget there's a real world." She stared around with her hands on her hips. "Just look at the god-awful mess in here!"

Collin followed his aunt's narrow eyes as they roamed the room like a web-crawling spider. Maybe it was a little messy: the bed hadn't been made in... well, he wasn't sure when. A huge pile of comics fanned over the floor, while others filled plastic milk crates. Board-and-brick shelves were about to collapse beneath a ton of adventure books, while fantasy posters and manga pictures were thumbtacked or taped to the grimy gray walls. Most of his clothes, T-shirts and jeans, lay scattered around wherever they'd landed. There were pizza boxes, candy bar wrappers, cheese-puff bags, and various bottles. A rat scuttled out from under the bed.

The big woman glared at the the real-time rodent. "That's what comes from livin' like this!"

Collin sighed again. "No, that's what comes from livin' here." He watched the animal leave though the window. "The basement an' attic is full of 'em." Then he smiled. "But they're all yours, Aunt Libby."

"Don't get smart!" retorted his aunt.

"One of us should."

"Don't sass me, boy!" Aunt Libby aimed a mighty finger. "Just look at yourself, like a half-naked savage!"

Collin glanced down at his fourteen-year-old body: he wore only boxers, a little bit ragged. They had once been white but now matched the rat. He turned to a mirror above a dresser cluttered with anime magazines. The murky glass showed a panther-black boy sprawled in a battered old swivel chair.

"I live in a jungle, too," he said.

"You're a mess!" Aunt Libby snapped. "Sittin there on your butt all day, stuffin' yourself with junkfood! Playin' all those make-believe games, an' fillin' your mind with perversion an' porn!" She regarded the piles of magazines. "Livin' in some kinda fantasy world, 'stead of going outdoors in the healthy fresh air!"

Collin turned to the window, open because of the late-August heat. Tattered curtains swung in a breeze like the breath of an oil-burning dragon. Drips of tar like licorice whips hung from the eaves of the house next door as West Oakland roasted beneath a mean sun. A gunshot popped off a few blocks away, and Collin raised an eyebrow.

"'Bout the tenth one today, but I think I lost count. ...Livin' here in my fantasy world."

Aunt Libby glared at her nephew again. "There's plenty of good healthy physical stuff a boy your age could be doin'. 'Stead of rottin' your mind with comic books an' nasty computer nonsense. You're wastin' away your childhood, boy!"

Another gunshot sounded. "One more childhood bites the dust."

Aunt Libby sniffed. "When was the last time you took a bath?"

"That's called a non sequitur," said Collin. "Means a comment not relevant to whatever preceded it."

"Don't sass me, boy!"

"You said that already."

The computer spoke through a boom-box speaker that Collin had rigged... his desk looked like an electronic junkyard. "You have been inactive a long time. Do you want to continue this session?"

Collin tapped a key on the ancient Mac. "Look," he said, turning back to his aunt. "My room's a mess in a fantasy world, my mind's as rotten as your nasty house, an' I be a half-naked savage who smells. Now we agree about something, right?"

He faced the flickering screen again, hoping she'd take the hint and beam out. When she didn't, he added, "I know you don't understand computers, but this one's stressed to the max an'... Oh, shit!"

"Collin!"

"It froze again! Maaaaan!" Collin stabbed and rattled keys, though knowing it wouldn't do any good. The only way to get out of a freeze was to kill the power and start again, which could damage or flat-line the hard-drive. "Shit!"

"Collin Thatcher!"

"Oh, got to hell!" roared Collin.

That froze his aunt for a second, but she recovered a lot faster than Collin's computer. "I'm going to have me a talk with your father!"

"We heard it all before," muttered Collin.

"But this time you're gonna listen! I've stood by for almost ten years. Watchin' the both of you mess up your lives. It's time your father got a him a job. ...A real, genuine, J.O.B.! An' you're turnin' out every bit like him... a lazy, no-account, dreamer!"

Collin's eyes narrowed to ebony slits. "My dad ain't lazy! An' you never had a dream in your life, except makin' nightmares for somebody else!"

Aunt Libby chose not to hear that. "You're reinforcing each other's negative behavior, an' I been enabling you!"

"Yeah, right," muttered Collin. "Try tellin' me somethin' you didn't get from a clueless fool on trash-time TV. Talk about rotting your mind!"

Aunt Libby spun her bulk around and lumbered out of the room. The house seemed to shake as she tromped down the stairs.

Collin toggled the power switch, hoping the stressed-out CPU -- an electronic rat on a rusty treadmill -- wouldn't panic and overload. Then he sprawled in the chair with his arms hanging down and his legs spread under the rickety desk. The old computer sputtered to life and began the slow and ponderous process of checking its own feeble functions. Its clock showed 6:17. It would probably take at least half an hour to navigate back to where he'd been before Aunt Libby had blown it. He could hear her dissing his father downstairs... not a smart move since he'd been at work at his own computer with a deadline to meet on his book.

Collin blew out a sigh as the weary old Mac prepared itself to plow through the web at the pace of a snail. He snagged a bag of potato chips and munched them while sipping a can of warm beer. He considered going down for a cold one, but he didn't want a re-boot with Aunt Libby.

Broiling breeze invaded the room, bathing his body in oily stinks of oozing asphalt and maggoty garbage. There were two more shots from the neighborhood park, but otherwise the streets were still. Collin leaned forward over the desk as the screen finally cleared for new commands. Sweat ran down from under his arms, dripped from his face and spattered the keyboard. He looked down at himself as the Mac plodded on: his body was fairly muscular, despite doing little but surfing the web and reading his comics and books all summer. He supposed he had good genes or something, probably thanks to his dad.

He fingered his father's old Army dog tags that hung on a chain around his neck, then glanced in the mirror again. His dusty dandelion-thistle of hair hadn't been cut for at least six months. It shadowed a face with gentle cheekbones and a broad but almost bridgeless nose. His lips were full and expressive, tending to rest in a half-open pout, and displaying a pair of large front teeth. His eyes were midnight below ebony brows that emphasized their slight upward tilt. His shoulders were wide and solidly squared despite a careless posture. His biceps bulged like baseballs, while his chest muscles jutted like oval-shaped stones. But, a lazy summer of surfing and snacking had given him a spherical belly that looked like he'd swallowed a basketball. He grinned at the cartoonish boy in the glass. "Trapped in a world I never made. Just like Howard The Duck."

A siren screamed in the distance, approaching, and there were sounds of running feet down in the alley below. Collin went to the window in time to see a pair of boys dash past. They were close to his age, shirtless and muscled like young super-heros. Were they fighting for "good," Collin wondered? The fact that one of them carried a gun wasn't much help in making a judgment. He watched as the duo dashed away. They looked like they were enjoying their flight. A cop car roared past, losing its prey. The boys disappeared up the alley, one vaulting over a garbage can for no special reason except he could.

The computer beeped. Collin plopped down in his chair once more to stack a set of new commands. Then he sprawled like a prince on a junk-salvage throne, sipping beer and munching chips while waiting for the machine to catch up. Dust-bunnies drifted across the floor in the hot, sticky breeze from the window. Cobwebs and curtains swayed to and fro. From below came the roars of his dad and Aunt Libby. Their battles were nothing new to Collin. Haunting houses was Aunt Libby's hobby. Her profession was teaching fourth-grade... and warping young minds in the process. She also counseled "at-risk" children... which might have been why they were.

Collin woke up to find the room dark and his monitor gone to sleep. The potato chip bag and beer can were empty. He glanced at the clock: 7:03. His stomach growled like a ravenous panther. Why hadn't his dad called him down for supper... especially since it was his turn to cook? He heard the man bellow a frustrated curse. Was Aunt Libby still here?

The breeze through the window still bore the day's heat, but also the wet scent of oncoming rain. Collin shut off the computer. He wondered if it was wise to go down with Aunt Libby still in rant mode, He cocked his head and listened; but though the voices were rasied in anger he couldn't make out the words. He turned on the desk lamp and picked up a comic. The book was in Japanese, but he liked the style of the drawings, and the adventures looked exciting even if he couldn't read them.

His stomach growled again. He glanced to the open window. He could climb down the vent pipe and go to the market, thus avoiding his aunt. He had twenty dollars somewhere, commission from selling fantasy books and comics on his site. ...Oh yeah, in his jeans.

He got up and snagged them off the floor. A spider had hopefully webbed them. He waited for it to abandon ship and scuttle under the bed. All his socks were dirty, but who needed socks anyway? Same went for a shirt. Maybe he'd do some laundry tomorrow.

Chapter Two:

The market was on the next corner, a shabby wooden two-story building with bars on its street-level windows. Despite the evening coolness, it felt like spice-scented oven inside, small, and incredibly cluttered with things, its narrow aisles like canyons of cans with shelves on the brink of collapsing. A few dim light bulbs dangled on wires from a sagging ceiling patterned with tin. Half the stock was Asian stuff. Collin paused to study a snack food display... "dried cuttlefish with minority flavor."

"Yo, Collie."

Seemingly trapped behind a small counter, and slowly crushing an old wooden chair, was a mammoth fat boy of heroic proportions. He wasn't taller or older than Collin, but outweighed Collin at least three times. His upper arms were massive, as big around as Collin's thighs, and his chest was a pair of blubber balls that bobbed on a titanic belly. His button-nosed face was as round as a moon, while his eyes were secret obsidian slits hidden by hair that was shaggy, oily, tangled and thick like the rusty-black coat of a mammoth. He wore no shirt in the store's stuffy heat, just bib-overalls with unbuckled straps, and old-fashioned black and white sneakers. His skin seemed to glow beneath a bare bulb as if he'd been polished with baby oil -- gleaming a dark cocoa-brown -- and he gave off a sort of musky scent, not really bad, just pungent and strong. His eyebrows were furry caterpillars that kissed above his nose when he frowned. It was hard to tell if smudge on his lip was a future moustache, or simply soot. But, despite his awesome size and shape, his rosebud lips could have melted an iceberg whenever he chose to smile.

"Yo, Ralpa," said Collin.

The huge boy had tensed when the door sensor bonged, one hand slipping under the counter to grasp the butt of a shotgun. But he smiled when he saw it was Collin, and tilted a thumb toward the glowing screen of an almost-new Gateway P.C. "I was just going to send you a message."

"Syncronicity, man," said Collin. "I was just thinkin' 'bout you."

"Great minds reason alike."

Collin came over to lean on the counter. Ralpa's work-space, a small board shelf below a rack of cigarettes, was piled with food wrappers and soda bottles. Ralpa's gun hand went back to work on a big bag of barbecue chips, a steady march from fingers to mouth that filled the air with crunching.

"S'up?" asked Collin.

Ralpa bent forward as best he could over all his rolly mass. His shaggy mop tumbled over his face, and the orbs of his chest overlapped the shelf as his chubby fingers clattered keys. "I found a cool site," he said, while crunching another mouthful of chips. "A dude named Timmy'owns it. Rather interesting. Grab us a forty-dawg, home-boy. The sun has gone over the yardarm."

"What's up with that?" asked Collin, padding to a glass-fronted cooler and snagging a forty of Olde English malt. "The web's full of kid-sites. Most of them are white dudes. Got a message yesterday from some kid who didn't believe I was black, 'cause everybody knows we don't have computers."

"Don't you hate that?" said Ralpa from somewhere beneath his tangle of hair. "But, this site is better than many. Timmy is thirteen and into photography. He seems to have friends all over the world. There is his picture."

Collin squeezed into the narrow space behind the cluttered counter, which was almost totally filled by Ralpa, and peered over Ralpa's massive shoulder. The big Gateway had sharp definition. Timmy was on a beach somewhere, clad in only cutoff jeans. His muscular body was pure snowy white, and his light-blond hair was an albino Afro. Collin didn't know any white kids, but Timmy looked as clueless and cheerful as most of them did on TV. He probably didn't have any problems other than schoolwork and possibly girls. Collin leaned against Ralpa's broad back. "Funny, it's like I seen him before."

Ralpa nodded. "I had a similar impression. He looks rather like the boy in that old Blue Lagoon film."

"Oh, yeah," agreed Collin. "I seen that on TV last year. ...'Course, I was a lot more interested in Brooke Shields than the dude who was on that island with her." He scanned Timmy's image. "But, the dude in the movie was tan. Besides, he'd be an old man by now. That movie was made a long time ago. Brooke Shields is probably somebody's gramma."

"That is true," said Ralpa.

Collin studied the picture. "Y'all think that's one of them boylove sites?"

Ralpa shook his shaggy head. "I find that concept hard to grasp. A contridiction in terms, at best. But, Timmy is only thirteen."

"Well, maybe he's gay?" said Collin. "Like, he's almost too cute, if you know what I'm sayin'."

Ralpa smiled over his shoulder. "I, too, was more interested in Brooke Shields. But, are you perhaps homophobic?"

"Huh?" Collin considered. "Well, I guess not. There was a gay brother in Math last year. We had P.E. together, too. I showered with him a couple of times. But he never tried to kiss me."

Ralpa sniffed the air. "Was that the last time you had a shower?"

"You ain't no cherry-blossum yourself."

"That is a Japanese analogy."

Collin laughed. "I don't know what a yak smells like, but you gots to be close."

"I wasn't complaining," said Ralpa. "I find it refreshing to smell someone who does not reek of artificial sweeteners."

"I wasn't complaining, neither," said Collin. He held up a palm that was shiny with oil from resting on Ralpa's shoulder. "But, don't you slide out of bed at night?"

"Many people in Tibet believe that bathing washes the natural protection off your body."

"Maybe that's 'cause it's so cold?"

"Possibly," said Ralpa. "Cultural standards and religious beliefs are often shaped by environment."

"Well," said Collin. "I never thought much about gay dudes. He did say I had a cool body. The dude at school, I mean. But I took it like a compliment." He thought for another moment. "Besides, it don't matter in cyberspace. Ain't like we gonna meet Timmy for real." He scanned the picture again. "He looks like a Timmy, don't he?"

"He looks every bit like a 'Timmy'," said Ralpa. "Despite being very muscular, he has an innocent face." He paused to read the lines of print. "He sounds rather innocent, too. A newbie on the web, perhaps. Someone who just built a personal site and does not realize the possible danger of using his real name."

"So, besides takin' pitchers an' hangin' on a beach, what's his thing?" asked Collin.

"He is looking for friends."

Collin popped the cap off the forty-ounce and leaned way back to drink. "Ain't we all?" he muttered, finally coming up for air. "Realtime usually sucks."

"His uncle makes films," added Ralpa. "A producer-director. After-school television specials."

"That's kinda cool." Collin passed the bottle to Ralpa. "But, I bet they're movies for white kids."

"That is also what I thought at first. But..." Ralpa scrolled the screen. More photos of kids appeared; and there were boys of various races -- though most were white -- in cutoffs or swim trunks, a couple in Speedos, and usually on beaches. A few were in boats, and one poled a raft like Huckleberry Finn.

"Hmmm," said Collin, watching the photos glide seamlessly past and wishing his Mac performed like that. "He ain't prejudiced anyways. But, his friends all look like actors or models, no matter what color they are."

"True," said Ralpa, and passed back the bottle. "One seldom sees people like that on the real."

Collin gulped malt, then burped. "Um, you think I look messy?"

Ralpa grinned, showing huge white teeth like a chomping beast. "You are asking the wrong person, Collie. To me you are really quite cool."

"Not according to my aunt," sighed Collin. "She come over a few hours ago an' ragged on me about bein' a mess."

"I cannot imagine why. You look positively princely, if slighty rough around the edges."

"Like a badly-drawn cartoon?"

"I would not go that far."

"Thanks, man," said Collin. "Got any cheesebugers?"

"Tons. A new order came today. Snag me a couple too, please. And a another bag of barbecue chips. I will sign Timmy's guest book in hopes of a future chat. Want me to add your screen name?"

"Guess so," said Collin. "If Timmy's legit he might be cool. An' if he's just another creepy ol' pervert pretending to be a kid, we can mess with his mind an' blow him off." Collin watched as Ralpa tapped keys, signing his own screen name -- "Yakboy" -- then Collin's, "NightMoves7."

"Use our web-mail boxes," said Collin. "I don't want spam from other people who go to that site."

"Yes," agreed Ralpa. "Spam is very American."

"So is porn, I guess. My box is full of it every morning."

"Of course you do not check it out?"

Collin passed back the bottle. "Only the good stuff. But, after a while it all looks the same. Sorta like kids on TV or movies. Nobody looks like that in the real world."

"West Oakland is not the real world, Collie."

"It's the only one I got."

"Some of those web girls are quite attractive, 'real' or not," said Ralpa.

"Pitchers on a screen don't do much for me. Besides they all green."

"Green?" asked Ralpa.

"The girls. An' everything else right now," said Collin. "I got a monitor problem. It's like lookin' at space-aliens. Needs degaussing, I guess."

Ralpa took a few gulps of malt. "It is amazing you were able to get that old Mac of yours working at all."

"I found some ol' junk in a dumpster uptown. 'Course, it freezes all the time."

"You are light-years ahead of me in technical knowledge, Night-colored One."

"I don't guess you had a computer in Tibet."

"Not with the bloody Chinese in control."

"You wanna send your pitcher to Timmy? My dad got a scanner an' cam yesterday with the money from his book advance."

"If Timmy is who he says he is, and reasonably intelligent." Ralpa passed the bottle. "When does your father's book come out? I will purchase several copies."

"Not till next spring. It takes almost a year for a book to get published. That’s why books for kids are always so dated."

"I have noticed that, too," said Ralpa. "Perhaps it is one of the reasons why American children do not wish to read? Is the publisher buying his next book as well?"

"We don't know yet. Takes 'em forever to make up their minds."

"I shall keep a positive thought," said Ralpa. He went back to Timmy's website and scrolled the photo gallery. "Timmy does, as you say, seem to prefer handsome and muscular friends in watery outdoor settings. I have seen animal paintings with similar themes, as if wet creatures fulfill some deep human need. But, whatever his tastes or his motives may be, I am doubtful if he would wish to become web-pals with a 400 pound Tibetan boy."

"But, you wouldn't tell him you're Tibetan, would you?"

"Of course not," said Ralpa. "Governments have computers which are programmed to scan internet traffic for certain words. 'Bomb' is one example. As is 'terrorist.' I am sure that 'Tibet' is suspect as well."

"So, why show him what you look like?"

"As you saw, he wants photographs."

Collin grinned. "My dad has a ton of ol' National Geographics down in the basement... if the rats ain't ate 'em all yet. We could find some way cool pitchers of 'us' an' scan 'em."

Ralpa clucked his tongue. "Deception is a poor basis for beginning a friendship, Collie. To lie to someone is like putting a virus into their spiritual computer."

Collin killed the bottle. "Well, Timmy probably wouldn't like being web-pals with a black dude from the 'hood neither."

"Then he is a very shallow person, and not worthy of your friendship."

Collin wound his way through the labyrinth of shelves and got four cheeseburgers out of the cooler. He took some barbecue chips off a rack, then returned to the counter and popped the burgers into the microwave. The oven was one of those ancient reactors that probably spewed out enough radiation to mutate a turtle at three-hundred yards.

While the burgers were nuking, Collin went to the comic book stand. Like the rest of the store, it held a multicultural mix for about any taste in West Oakland, ranging from good old American classics like X-men, Punisher, and Wolverine, to a few black 'zines like Concrete Candy, along with many Asian adventures like Dragonball-Z, and Pokemon.

Ralpa called: "We have that new issue of Classic Animation you wanted. The one with the article about Jay Ward, the creator of Rocky and Bullwinkle. I didn't know he had done Crusader Rabbit, too."

"Oh yeah." said Collin. "Fact is, Crusader Rabbit was the first cartoon series made for TV. Hanna-Barbara keeps tryin' to say they was the first with Ruff 'n Ready, but that's bull."

"The magazine is up in my room if you wish to go get it."

"Thanks," said Collin. "Hey, you got a new issue of Howard The Duck." He took it -- one of his favorites -- but then another book caught his eye. It was some kind of Asian comic. He couldn't read the title, of course, but the cover design was way past cool, and he'd never seen anything like it. The picture was almost a holograph. It showed three boys of about his own age who seemed to be out in a jungle. They were of different races -- at least one was definitely black -- and though the other two boys were Asian, they didn't seem to be the same kind of Asian. All were naked except for loincloths; and they might have been primitive kids from the past, except they were driving a big rugged truck. It looked like an oversize Army Jeep, its windshield folded down on the hood. The Asian boy at steering wheel was obviously the leader. He was willowly slender but beautifully muscled, like a delicate sculpture of honey-gold china. At his side was a small, short sword. The other boys were armed with spears. The black dude was handsomely muscular without being very massive. Collin noted the resemblence to himself... except for not having a basketball belly. The other Asian youth was almost as fat as Ralpa.

Collin took the book off the rack. "What's this?" he asked, holding it up.

Ralpa turned from tapping keys. "I do not know. Someone asked my father to order it. It arrived yesterday with the other new issues."

Collin studied the title: the letters looked like hieroglyphics. "Is it Korean?"

Ralpa dank from the bottle and burped. "I just pass for Korean, I do not speak it."

"Vietnamese?"

"How would I know? The only thing I can tell you for sure is that it is not Tibetan."

"Are there any Tibetan comics?"

"Mostly political propaganda. The bloody Chinese do not want children to read in Tibet. At least independently. It is much easier to control a marginally illiterate population."

Collin returned to the counter, and Ralpa scanned the book. "The cover is quite unique. It may be Indonesian. There are many new comics coming out of South-Pacific countries." He paused to study the 3-D cover. "The brother looks rather like you."

"I noticed that," said Collin. "An' the other dude looks a lot like you."

Ralpa smiled. "I used to have more beef and less blubber. I worked in a quarry when I was a child. But I much prefer running a store to loading stone in a truck all day."

Collin flipped through the pages. "Woah! Check this out, man! You... I mean this cartoon dude... just put some pirate guy on his back! This is the first time I ever seen a fat kid hero!"

"There are many Japanese comics that feature fat Sumo kids," said Ralpa. "Cultural values differ. For instance, fat children are considered lucky in Tibet."

"Do a lot of Tibetian kids look like you?"

"They probably would if they could, but the bloody Chinese are trying to keep Tibet poor. Poor people are easier to control."

Collin continued to page through the comic. "This is cool! It's really kinda like you an' me, man! An' some little golden dude, But we're in a jungle havin' adventures. Maybe I'll buy it. ...Um, you said your dad got it special?"

"Yes," said Ralpa. "But, whoever ordered it did not pay a deposit to put it on hold. A few kids have looked at it, remarking upon the cover as you have; but no one seems to know the language. It is also rather pricey at five dollars."

"Yeah," said Collin. "Maybe 'cause of the cover. ...Wonder how they did that?"

"I have never seen anything like it," said Ralpa. “Possibly computer art. Though the rest of the book is simply drawn in the usual pen and ink manner."

Collin laid his twenty on the counter. "I'ma take it."

The microwave beeped, and he pulled out the cheeseburgers, juggling them because they were hot. He passed two to Ralpa, then opened another.

"You will need new jeans for school," observed Ralpa. "Those make you look like the boys on gay sites... just about ready to fall off."

"What's up with this gay stuff, man?" asked Collin. "Is there somethin' about you I should know?"

Ralpa shrugged. "It has just been the theme of my surfing today. I must admit that gay American kids do seem more articulate and possibly more intelligent than their straight counterparts."

Collin considered. "Maybe it's kinda like evolution?"

"In what way?"

"Well... it's kinda like bein' a vegetarian in the food-chain. What I sayin' is, how much intelligence does it take to sneak up on a leaf?"

"I assume you are speaking inversely?"

"Yeah. Reversedly. Seems like you gots to be smarter if you're in a minority."

Ralpa smiled. "Pardon my tactlessness, Night-colored One, but in that case black kids ought to be genuises in America."

"Guess so, huh?" said Collin. "I better work on that theory a little." He picked up the bottle and took another hit. "Y'all be home-schoolin' again his year?"

"I am too super-sized to fit in a public school desk. But, after seeing what is being taught in your school... or should I say what is not being taught there... my parents prefer a tutor." Ralpa smiled. "Perhaps your aunt will now accuse you of having a learning disorder?"

Collin snorted. "Give her time. She just ain't seen a TV show about it yet."

Ralpa glanced back at Timmy on the beach. "Have you ever come across kiddie-porn?"

Collin finished his burger. "You interest me strangely, Yak-boy."

"I hunger for knowledge. It is the only true wealth in the world. That is why the ignorant are always poor."

"So, why y'all livin' in West Oaktown?"

"Blows off the a stone hut in Tibet."

"I did a search once," said Collin. "Just curious, what I sayin'. Come up with a billion sites. ...Um, you think some government monitored that?"

"Some people have way too much time on their hands and nothing constructive to do with it. Especially in America. Having one's country terrorized may be a good thing once in a while. At least in an evolutionary sense. It takes intelligence to survive."

"I wish somebody would terrorize Aunt Libby," sighed Collin. "Might be just what she needs."

The computer announced, "You've got mail!"

"Speakin' of porn..." said Collin.

Ralpa laughed. "At least some things in life are still free." He keyed his mailbox. "It's from Timmy."

"I thought you gave him our web-mails?"

"I did. But he may have searched for my screen name. ...Yours, too, apparently. Though I would assume that your profile, like mine, is not exactly accurate."

"Never saw no reason to tell the whole world who I am," said Collin. "So, let's see what Timmy's all about." He squeezed behind the counter again as Ralpa scrolled the letter:

Hi Yakboy and NightMoves7! What's up, dudes? Thank you for writing to me! I hope that we will be friends! I live in San Francisco, California. (That's in the U.S.A.) But I have web-friends all over the world. Where do you guys live? How old are you? What are you into (besides surfin' the web)? Please write back and send me your pictures. My uncle makes movies and he is always looking for cool new faces! Your friend. Timmy.

"Well," said Collin. "He sounds pretty normal. An' maybe a little innocent, like you was sayin'. Tellin' us where he lives."

"Possibly," said Ralpa. "But, there must be thousands of Timmys in a city the size of San Francisco. Therefore, as long as he is careful about his actual residence address, he is realatively safe from those sinister 'predators' Americans seem so paranoic about."

Ralpa paused to tap keys, calling back Timmy's Page. "I do not think we would need to worry about revealing our geographic location, should you wish to do so. It does not seem likely that a 'predator' would venture into this neighborhood." Ralpa laughed. "Or that Timmy would, either."

"He'd be safe enough," said Collin. "Timmy, I mean. Fact is, he'd probably be a lot safer comin' here than us in his neighborhood. He might get dissed an' called a whiteboy, but most Gs wouldn't touch him."

"But I doubt if he would know that," said Ralpa. "There is so much racial ignorance in America. Black kids 'not having computers' is a good example. But, just as in Tibet, it is much easier to control people who are hateful and suspicious of one-another." Ralpa pouted his rosebud lips in thought. "Do you think we ought to reply? At least Timmy can spell, which seems a bit remarkable for an American kid."

Collin laughed. "Maybe that means he's gay."

"Would that make him less than desirable as a friend?"

"I guess not. Maybe we should send him our pitchers an' see what happens? He might take one look an' just blow us off."

"My father has a Polaroid," said Ralpa. "He has taken many pictures of me to send to our relatives back in Tibet."

"Ain't that kinda dangerous?"

"He uses a remailing service in Singapore."

"Well," said Collin. "The only pitcher I got is my school one from last year. Makes me look like a retard."

"The Polaroid is up in my room," said Ralpa. "And you mentioned your father now has a scanner."

"You mean, take pitchers now? Like we are?"

Ralpa shrugged. "All of Timmy's friends are shirtless."

"I was thinkin' about backgrounds," said Collin. "Like, we could go down by the bay tomorrow. There's sort of a beach at Emeryville. My dad used to take me there on his walks. An' all Timmy's friends be kickin' by water."

"That sounds quite artful," said Ralpa. "Perhaps we should also wear Speedos?"

Collin laughed again. "Then Timmy might think we're gay. Or maybe predators."

Ralpa laughed, too. "That is possible."

"You gots predators in Tibet?"

"Only the bloody Chinese."

"They sound worse than Aunt Libby."

"You could stay here until she leaves," said Ralpa. He glanced at the computer clock. "I will be closing soon. My parents have gone to visit friends in our Buick; and my father told me to lock up at nine so we don't get robbed again."

Collin looked at a smiling picture of the Dali Lama that sat atop Ralpa's computer. "Don't you have good karma?"

"Bad things still happen to good people, Collie. Life is a challenge and we are all avatars. Cartoon heros in a manner of speaking. Cast in adventures of various sorts to overcome evil in this incarnation."

Collin sighed. "Well, I sure don't wanna try an' overcome Aunt Libby no more today."

"Then we may as well have a party," said Ralpa.

"I could eat another burger."

"Try the super-deluxe. It tastes rather like yak. Get me one also, please." Ralpa relaxed in the protesting chair. "There are some sites that I want to check out. 'Teenage Bimbos Hot 4 U' sounds rather intriguing."

"My dad says stuff like that is demeaning to women," said Collin.

"Pornography is in the eye of the beholder, Collie. I have no wish to demean anyone."

"You sayin' your thoughts are pure, Yak-boy?"

"I am only human, Night-colored One. And thirteen. Buddhist boys have hormones, too. Lock the door if you would, please. I see it is beginning to rain, and I doubt if there will be any more customers tonight. At least without guns."

Chapter Nine:

Five more days had passed for Collin; days of fishing and working with Tyger. Mud sharks were plentiful. Why not? Nobody wanted them except Dolphin-safe Bob, who made a fortune on "swordfish steaks"... until an inspector busted him. But, Bob wasn't fined, blaming his Asian workers for making a stupid mistake, though the bottom dropped out of the mud shark market.

That was okay; Collin and Tyger made a lot, and Bob was still buying their other fish. It seemed as if Collin could hold out forever. But, Aunt Libby had finally surrendered. She wasn't that much of a fool; and it hadn't taken her long to guess that Collin had never run away, but was only staying on the under. So, with Collin's "best interests at heart," she'd dropped the idea of boot-camp as long as he returned to school. She had also called off the police, saying she'd made a silly mistake and Collin had been staying with friends. The cops had basically said, "Collin, who?"

This would be Collin's last night on the boat, though he planned to bring Tyger home with him... there were those two empty rooms in the house. It was afternoon and they'd sold the day's catch. Ralpa had hooked with them by bus to mess around for a while downtown. The boys had walked to Harrison Street so Tyger could buy a few special spices and treat his "homie-os" to lunch. This part of Oakland was called Chinatown; but Collin could see that a lot of the restaurants were run by Koreans or Vietnamese.

Exotic aromas flavored the air, curry powder and peanut oil, pungent peppers and spicy sauce. Cooking was going on everywhere, in the many little restaurants with their colorful signs and pictures of food, in the second and third-floor apartments above; and even the tiny grocery stores had grills or woks that sizzled and steamed. Every kid seemed to be eating something... egg rolls, pot-stickers, hot-honey chicken, barbecued pork, Mongolian beef. Then, Collin spotted an eight-year-old boy who was wearing a Tyger Tales T-shirt. He was sitting in a doorway, munching something like little sausages skewered on Popsicle sticks. They were crackly brown and smelled delicious. Collin studied the T-shirt's graphic... a long-haired, muscular, elf-like boy, with a small short sword and a wide-open grin. Like most Asian cartoons he had big Bambi eyes. But, cartoon or not, it seemed to be Tyger, just like the comic book covers.

Collin nudged Ralpa, then turned to Tyger. "He Burmese, huh?"

Tyger had already seen the boy: he missed nothing out on the street. "You gettin' good eye, homie-o."

"I gots a even better nose, an' what he's eatin' smell good to me."

Ralpa gave Collin a funny look from under his tangled mane. "Are you saying you'd like some of those?"

"They gotta taste as good as they smell."

Ralpa glanced at Tyger and laughed. "Many people in Burma enjoy them. Really quite tasty, I'm told. Though I wasn't aware they were sold in America."

"Why not?" asked Collin.

"Well, to most Americans they would be... exotic. But then, so is yak. I would love a large slab of that right now."

Tyger grinned a tiger grin. "Want Burma treat, guys?"

"Not my usual fare," said Ralpa. "But I could force myself in the interest of Collie's education."

Tyger grinned. "Ooo-kay, homie-os. C'mon."

Three doors down was a tiny market. Its dusty front window was jaggedly cracked, held together by bolted plywood, and plastered with signs in some kind of language that looked like hieroglyphs. The place was like a quiet cave after the noisy, sun-baked street. A small bulb dangled on cobwebby wires from a lofty ceiling lost in shadow. The creaky floor was age-blackened boards that smelled a little like gasoline. They were scooped and hollowed from decades of feet so the nail-heads stuck up shiny and high. There was only a narrow passageway between sagging shelves and rickety racks laden with oddly-shaped bottles and cans, plus various boxes with colorful labels, many with animal pictures.

Ralpa lumbered in like a yak in a china shop, almost causing an avalanche. He and Collin followed Tyger to the dimlit rear of the room, where there was a counter and a grease-spattered grill. Jasmine incense sweetened the air at the feet of a fat Buddha statue. A husky bronze boy of maybe fourteen was perched on a stool behind the counter, smoking a cigarette scented of cloves, and reading an anime magazine. Ipod headphones were clamped to his ears, and he wore only faded blue gym shorts. His raven hair smothered his shoulders and hung in bangs in front of his eyes. His face showed a flash of recognition, seeing Tyger approach.

Collin noticed a comic book rack with Tyger Tales among the others, and wondered if that was the reason. But, the boy's expression grew curious as he studied Collin and Ralpa. The recognition was clear enough when Tyger spoke to him in Burmese. The boy's face showed amusement now, seemingly aimed at Collin. He set aside his magazine and slid off the stool to scrape the grill. The cigarette drooped from his lips as he worked.

"Want beer wi' munch-os?" asked Tyger.

"Sure," said Collin.

"Tiger-Brand?"

"Def, man."

"Rather appropriate," Ralpa agreed.

Tyger went to an ancient cooler and returned with a trio of emerald-green bottles, their labels featuring fierce felines. An old-fashioned opener hung chained to the counter, and Tyger popped the bottle caps. Ralpa drank deeply and smacked his lips. Collin downed a big swallow, then leaned beside Tyger with an elbow on the counter. The husky boy skewered some sausage-like things and lay them to fry on the grill.

"Yo, Tyger?" asked Collin. "How come you don't buy spices an' stuff, or your comic books from this place?"

Tyger glanced at the husky boy's back. The dude had put on his headphones again, but Tyger lowered his voice. "Not many Burma people in Oak-town. Word go 'round when see new face."

Ralpa's moon-face grew thoughtful. "I assume there is something about yourself that you wish to keep on the under?"

Collin nodded. "Yeah, Tyger. Is there... um... somebody lookin' for you."

"Someone who doesn't want your autograph?" added Ralpa.

Tyger hesitated. "...Yeah."

"So," said Ralpa. "Aren't you taking a chance coming here?"

"Yeah," said Collin. "Check all them books of yours, man. It's like goin' to the post office an' seein' wanted posters."

"Only cartoons." Tyger regarded the comics, then seemed to make a decision. "Me Tyger on real. That me on cover."

Ralpa didn't look very surprised. "You as much as admitted it the first night we met."

Tyger was scanning the comics. "Me pose many way, wi' sword, knife in teeth. Make many faces, happy, sad, angry, love-sick. Sit in ol' Burma Jeep truck. Studio-man take lots of pitcher. I be model-boy for Tyger."

"That was in Burma?" asked Ralpa.

"Was at first. Small stu-dee-o outside Rangoon. Veri low-tech. Veri old cameras. One from America airplane that crash in World War Two when survey to build Burma Road. Tyger Tales comic book veri success-full. Every issue sell out. One day Japan-man come. Him say put comic on World Wide Web-o. Soon come many order, from all over world. People even like comic who no read Burmese. Many like cover, half real, half cartoon." Tyger frowned. "Some like model boy me on cover. Wonder if me be real."

"What about the other dudes?" asked Collin. "Even me... I mean 'Panther'... looks cool the way they done those covers."

"I also," said Ralpa. "Quite a good likeness, actually."

Tyger shrugged. "Sure-sure, all boys cool. But me special. ...Then, one day, America-man come. Him see Tyger Tales comic in Thailand when lookin' for talent." Tyger's face darkened. "Him want model-boy me, but no just for comic. Comic good thing... Tyger Tales like a hero for kids. Fight for freedom an' justice stuff. But this man, him want me for other thing, too... pictures, movies, video game. Him buy me..."

"Buy you?" asked Collin.

Ralpa put a finger to his lips and flicked his eyes to the boy at the grill.

"Parents sell," said Tyger.

"That sucks!" hissed Collin.

Tyger scowled. "You no down wi' whattup! Many things diff-rent in Burma. People veri poor. We live on boat. Catch fish to eat an' sell."

Ralpa asked, "Didn't the studio pay you for being a comic book model?"

"No veri much. Burma wages for kid be shit. Our boat veri old. Leak many places. Wi' new boat, father fish bett-o. Feed family good. Me only third son, so not worth much, so father sell."

"That sucks, man," Collin repeated. "Hard!"

Tyger shrugged. "Diff-rent culture-values, Panth-o. Besides, parents think bett-o life for me, be comic book model-boy."

"...Oh. I never thought of that. ...But, you make it sound like there's some sorta market for kids." Collin pictured kids in chains being drooled over by the kind of people he imagined those kind of people would look like.

"You might be surprised," said Ralpa. "By what in the world there are markets for."

"In-ter-net," said Tyger. "Sellin' kids be veri high-tech. Kids 'disappear' all over world." He cocked his head. "You see pitcher on milk carton, but never no wonder what happen to kid? Think kid sail away to Blue Lagoon island?"

Ralpa nodded. "I have browsed a few rather suggestive websites."

"Ol' Burma sayin'," said Tyger. "Where be buyer, also be seller. People want swordfish, other people catch swordfish. People want kid, other people catch kid." He studied Collin. "For cool, black, down-wi'-it homie-o, you sure be dumb some-time."

"Wait a minute, man," said Collin. "This is America. Nobody buyin' black kids no more."

"Don't be so sure, homie-o boy. Nobody never try an' buy you?"

"...Well, not for no movie model. ...But, once there was this guy in a Lex, curbed me over by the bus station. Said I could make a lot of money with my looks." Collin patted his stomach and added, "That was before I got this. But, I'm sure it weren't for no video game. I told him to go to hell."

"Maybe you just not hungry enough?" Tyger tapped a finger on Collin's tummy. "Easy be proud when belly full."

"Is that a Burma sayin'?"

"Tibetian, actually," said Ralpa.

"But, you big, strong Panth-o," said Tyger. "Make tuff man think twice before tango."

Collin considered. "But, ain't there lots of money, bein' in the movies? Everybody wants to be in the movies."

"At least in the U.S.A.," said Ralpa.

"No these kinda movies," said Tyger. "This man make movie wi' kids, but no for kids."

"Huh?" said Collin.

"I believe he means kiddie porn," said Ralpa.

Tyger nodded. "Parents not know this, or never sell me to dirty man. Him use kid till all pretty gone, then throw away."

"What you mean, 'throw away'?" asked Collin.

Tyger's black eyes got suddenly cold. "What you think, fool... retire to ol' kid home?"

"...Oh." Collin crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, nobody could make me do that kinda stuff. I kick their asses an' bust their cameras!"

Tyger scowled. "Talk like fool! Think me no fight? Grrr! Kick-ass? Man gots way to make kid behave. Drug-shot way. Then you do anything... any thing! You even like doin' anything! Drug take long-long time to wear off."

Collin thought about that. "Um, is that why you 'go away' sometimes?"

"Yeah. Sometime me forget what real. Colors get bright. Things get black line all around like cartoon."

"But," said Ralpa. "I thought you didn't do Tyger Tales any more... after that old pervert bought you? The comics are still coming out every month."

"Dirty man make deal wi' Burma studio to keep making comic book covers. Also vid game, an' big movie. Him start production for movie when me run away. Him got many ol' pitchers of me. Why comic covers still make."

"Well," said Ralpa. "Perhaps they found a new Tyger Tales model?"

Surprisingly, Tyger snorted. "Never find another! Me special! Many black boy for Panth-o model. Many fat kid for Panda. But, Tyger special-boy. Me special-boy! Born under magic moon! Master of many marvels! Never find another me!"

Collin frowned. "Is that what the guy told you when you was on drugs an' it ain't wore off yet?"

"I believe the expression is that 'fame went to his head'." said Ralpa. "Dubious fame though it seems."

Tyger looked sulky. "No more talk about that." Then he shrugged. "But, me safe now. Look diff-rent."

Collin regarded the comics again: Tyger didn't look much different. But, how many people would recognize a cartoon in the flesh?

"I assume this purveyor of kiddie-porn is still hunting for you?" asked Ralpa.

"Yeah." Tyger smiled. "But now me Tyger on real! Escape from comic book land! Sly like fox, free like wind. Master of many marvels, me. Nobody catch."

"Can't you just go home?" asked Collin. "Like, tell the cops what happened, an' get sent back to Burma? You said your parents wouldn't of sold you if they knew it was kiddie-porn shit."

"Me go home, be poor again. No special me no more. Here, maybe make good life. Maybe even go to school. Me always want go to school."

"I guess it's different when you can't go to school," said Collin.

Ralpa nodded. "Tyger has many oppertunities here that he would not have in Burma. And, unlike many American kids, he has the sense to want them."

"Me an' my dad can help you with that," said Collin. "When you come live with us."

"Forgive my curiosity." asked Ralpa. "How much this old pervert pay for you?"

Tyger looked proud. "Fi-hundred dollar! Most him ever pay for kid!"

"Damn!" exclaimed Collin. "No wonder he still lookin'!"

The husky boy slid the sizzling things onto sheets of newspaper, a trio on each square, then set them on the countertop. Tyger dug out his money and paid. The boy said something to Tyger in Burmese, and Tyger nodded. The boy disappeared through a doorway curtained by colored glass beads.

"What he, say?" asked Collin.

"Him Batman."

"Huh?"

"Go batroom."

"Oh."

"We watch store. Got honest faces."

Collin picked up one of the golden-brown things by its stick. He couldn't tell what it was in the dimness, but it smelled delicious. Tyger was already chomping one, and Ralpa was munching his thoughtfully. Collin took a bite. It was crunchy and good, sort of like a crispy french-fry.

"Mmm!" He ate it all, snagged another, then took a gulp of beer. "So, what you call these in Burma?"

Ralpa smiled. "Perhaps it wouldn't translate."

Collin ate the last one. "Well, there gotta be somethin' like 'em in America."

"Oh, there are," said Ralpa. "I'm sure there are some in your own front yard."

"Huh?" said Collin.

Tyger giggled. "Grasshoppo!"

"Locust, actually," said Ralpa. "Large 'grasshoppo'."

"WHAT?" Collin gave Tyger an uncertain look. "Oh... you mean like the name. ...Like, 'snails' ain't really snails?"

"Nope," said Tyger. "Real, gen-you-wine, grasshoppo."

"Yes," said Ralpa, finishing his. "And quite good, actually. Nutritious too, I'm told. An excellent source of protein, and not a bit of cholesterol."

"Shit!" cried Collin. It was way too late to spit anything out. He gulped down the rest of his beer, then wiped his mouth and shrugged. "It was good, though."

Tyger giggled again, ate his last fried locust, drained his bottle, and patted his stomach. "Yeah. Was, huh. Never had before." He grinned, seeing Collin's new shocked look. "Not all Burma people eat insect-o."

"I imagine they are an ethnic specialty," said Ralpa. "Like minorities in China... of which Tibetans are supposedly one. 'Quaint' and all that, you know."

"...Oh," said Collin. "Well, I don't much go for chitlin's, myself."

"Yes," agreed Ralpa. "The bowels of pigs do not appeal to me, either."

"Just don't tell me if this Tiger Beer was made out real tiger piss, okay?"

"Better than a donkey's, I'm sure," chuckled Ralpa, finishing his.

Collin scanned the dark little store. A rag-eared calico cat acknowledged him by ignoring him from atop a shelf. The sun-baked streets of Oakland seemed far away somehow. He wouldn't have been too surprised to see a rickshaw rattle past. "I could almost believe we was real river rats... cartoon ones, anyway. ...If I wasn't too ol' for make-believe."

Tyger relaxed against the counter. "Me used to pretend be somebody else. Marlboro cowboy-man. Japan Magic Boy. Spide-o-man."

"I, too, had comic book heroes," said Ralpa.

"I thought you didn't have comics in Tibet?" asked Collin.

"My father smuggled them in for me. ...I'll tell you the story sometime."

Tyger's face turned serious. "In Burma we say, be careful what wish for, sometime you get."

"Actually, that came from Tibet," said Ralpa.

Tyger smiled, seeming at home in this setting, bare-chested, wily, like Tyger on the real. "Want 'nuther beer, mates? Before we shove off?"

"You ain't gonna 'go away' again, are you?" asked Collin.

"Nah. Me still here."

"Aight, captain. But, let's have some grub with less than six legs."

"And a bit more substantial," said Ralpa.

The husky boy returned. Tyger said something to him in Burmese, then got three more beers from the cooler.

"Um?" asked Collin, opening the bottles. "So, what kinda weird food you order now?"

"Cheeseburgers."

A pair of small shadows came in from the street. One was a Vietnamese boy, maybe twelve, with shoulder-length hair. He was dressed in jean-shorts clinging low on his hips, and a black silk vest, too big, and unbuttoned. His feet were encased in high-top Nikes about the size of moon-boots. He probably had anime eyes, but an old-time Humphrey Bogart hat hid them almost completely. A Lucky Strike dangled from his lips, and one upper arm was brightly tattooed with a cobra as fierce as Tyger's tiger. A flip-phone was clipped to his jeans.

His companion was about thirteen. He wore only Levis and big battered Cons, and was beautifully muscled for his age. His skin was a light-dark dusky tone that seemed to change shades as he moved, and his hair was a tangle of soot-colored curls. His face was sharply V-jawed, which made his nose seem cartoonishly wide. Collin couldn't guess his race, but noted a little pistol packed in the boy's hip pocket.

The Vietnamese boy looked at the comic books, while his dark bodyguard scanned Tyger and crew. Then, the smaller boy strode to the counter. Even compared to Tyger he looked like a delicate toy. The Burmese boy opened two beers in some kind of unspoken agreement. The Vietnamese dude ordered three cheeseburgers -- one to go -- in only slightly accented English. Then he tilted his bottle and chugged down half, his tummy expanding visibly. The bodyguard stood at his shoulder and took a sip from his own bottle. His eyes met Collin's; and Collin was shocked to see they were blue.

The Vietnamese boy murmured to Tyger. Tyger turned to Collin and Ralpa. "Wanna see spido-fight?"

"Spider fight?" asked Collin.

"I have heard of those," said Ralpa.

Collin was curious, but the Vietnamese boy was so casually cool that he answered carefully. "I s'pose it cost?"

The boy pushed his hat back and shrugged. "What don't in dis world? Five bucks... each. But you can bet. Maybe win your back your green."

Fifteen dollars to watch spiders fight seemed kind of expensive... unless, Collin wondered, they were big hairy tarantulas?

"It would be an experience," said Ralpa.

"Sure," said Collin. "Let's do this."

"Eat first," said the Vietnamese boy. "Den we go." He held out a hand. "Name's Trong."

Collin carefully took the toylike hand.

"Tyger," said Tyger, also shaking with Trong.

Trong cocked his head. "Ain't I seen you somewhere before?"

Collin flicked an uneasy glance at the comic book rack, but Tyger only shrugged. "New in town. Just off boat. Look for action."

Trong grinned. "Action I got." Then he studied Ralpa. "So, what boat you off, man?"

"I'm from Korea," said Ralpa, also shaking hands.

Collin was tempted to say he was also off a boat... from a long time ago: but if Tyger and Ralpa had secret identities, he might as well have one, too. "I from Africa."

"Welcome to America," said Trong.

"Thanks."

"Were you in da African Army?" asked Trong, indicating Collin's dogtags.

"Nah. They my dad's."

Trong patted his bodyguard's shoulder. "Dis Billy. He's from New Guinea."

Collin knew enough about bodyguards not to expect Billy to shake, but the blue-eyed black boy cheerfully nodded.

"Pardon me," said Ralpa. "But are those contact lenses?"

Billy grinned. "Nah. But everybody thinks so."

"His father's Dutch," said Trong, as if that explained everything.

The burgers were served on sheets of newspaper -- Trong's to go neatly wrapped. They were big and juicy, dripping with flavor, and slathered with some sort of spicy-sweet sauce.

After the meal. Trong collected fifteen dollars from Collin, Ralpa and Tyger. Then, with his bodyguard bearing the take-out, Trong led the way to a narrow alley a few doors down from the store. Laundry fluttered from overhead lines, casting shadows like dinosaur birds. Reaching the end of the passage, Trong climbed a rickety staircase to a little second-floor landing. Another Vietnamese boy, also about twelve, sat on a milk crate, guarding a door. A snub-nose revolver was stuck in his jeans. Billy give him the burger.

"It's cool, Bao," said Trong. "New friends."

There was a shoebox at Bao's feet. It held many knives, from Boy Scout models to wicked switchblades. There was also a cheap-looking pistol.

"You guys packin'?" asked Bao. "No weapons inside."