He folds the paper and glances to his left and right. Then he stares at Tank for what seems like a full minute. “The kid’s old man is some kind of cop, right?” he whispers. Smoke streams out of his mouth and nostrils when he speaks.

“Tank’s dad?” I whisper back.

“Yeah, Tank’s dad.”

“He’s a cop, but he’s never home.” I look behind me. Tank has his back turned, scanning the Gatorade and energy drinks. I turn toward Huey. “It’s some kind of undercover work, but that’s all I know, and I think that’s all Tank knows.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Depends on the day. He changes a lot. You know, because of all the undercover stuff.”

“But, in general,” Huey says, still whispering, keeping an eye on Tank through a pair of large, circular security mirrors mounted in the upper corners of the back wall. “What’s the guy look like?”

“I haven’t seen him in a few months, but he’s got a lot of muscles, kind of like Tank but even bigger. Last time I saw him he had one of those nasty black mustaches that curls up at both ends, but he shaves it off every now and then. Does that with his hair, too. I mean, it’s usually long and black, like the weedheads at school. But sometimes he’s totally bald.”

Huey nods and rubs his eyebrows with his right hand as if he has a headache. He takes another look at Tank through the mirrors.

“What about tattoos?” he asks, lighting a new cigarette from the still-burning end of his previous one and stubbing out the old one in a red plastic ashtray. “He have any tattoos?”

“Yeah.” I point to my right forearm. “A big green dragon, right here.”

“Son of a … ” He trails off and shakes his head. Then he reaches beneath the counter, raises a can of beer to his lips, and takes a huge gulp before putting it back.

I turn. Tank’s browsing the protein bars, an unopened can of something in one hand. He catches me looking at him. I turn away.

“Listen,” Huey says. “Do me a favor and keep an eye out for Tank’s old man, okay? If you see him, let me know what he’s looking like. Peek around the house a little if you can. See if you can learn anything more about what he does, where he works. Stuff like that.”

I squint. “You want me to spy on my best friend’s dad?”

“Call it what you want, James Bond.”

He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a thick wad of cash, peels off a fifty, and slides it across the counter toward me. Then he raises his eyebrows and points at the bill, my signal to take it. I grab it and shove it deep into my front pocket.