The crew found a sketchy spot to park off Good-Latimer. The boys got out and wandered down Elm Street, the main drag, past the tattoo parlor and the bikers eating quesadillas on picnic tables, past Easy Skankin’, the ska spot on the corner of Crowdus, and then turning down onto Commerce and arriving at the patio for the Crescent City Café. Already parked at a prime center table with café au laits were Jane and Tommy, holding court with Maura, her friend Eileen, and Eileen’s friend Brittany, and so on. Various arty kids with spikes, fades, and mushroom cuts thumbing through Chomsky readers and the Dallas Observer occupied the other spots on the patio. A huge Muppet of a man sat in the corner playing Leonard Cohen at a wrist-slitting cadence. The three boys tried to find seats, Sticky immediately ordered sopapillas (correction: beignets), everyone lit a cigarette, and the waitress brought fresh mugs of Community Coffee.

“Anything going on tonight?” Rick gave Jane the quick-awkward-boyfriend-kissing-girlfriend-in-front-of-his-dudes-like-we-always-do-this-right?

“Maura and I almost got mugged on our way here. Some insane, drugged-out homeless guy trying to sell us his dog.” Jane shuddered with the perfect I’m-barely-over-it face.

“You know what I saw? Craziest thing . . .” Tommy put his hand to his chest. He was a bit ridiculous, but no one minded, it was part of his charm. “I was walking past here last week with Ashley”—Ashley was a boy from Magnet, and a douchey poser worth an eye roll—“and we saw a dog with a tattoo.”

“Get the fuck out of here.” Stick pretended to snort the powdered sugar heaped on his beignets.

“Swear on the baby Jesus.”

“What was the tattoo?” Jane asked.

“‘Bite me,’” Sticky offered.

“Just a paw print,” Rick suggested. “or maybe a bone with angel wings.”

“‘Fido RIP,’” Sticky chimed in, now balancing a teaspoon on his nose.

“No, who is Fido’s mom?” Jane thumped on the table. She almost had the joke.

“‘Bitch’!” Tommy screamed. “That’s right! It said, ‘RIP Bitch’!”

Everyone died at that one. A DPD cruiser went screaming by, and Sweetums picked up the pace and sang “Police and Thieves” in zero-four time.

“So what are we doing, or is this it?” Dan asked. With $10 from his father, he was semi-flush for the first time in his limited history of going out.

“Anyone playing tonight?” Rick flicked a Zippo against his thigh. The clubs were all eighteen-and-older, which was why coffee shops like Crescent City were moth lights to the young and the restless.

Tommy sat up and ashed off his lavender Sobranie cigarette. “My friend Tristan can get us into Gypsy Tea Room.”

“All of us?” Rick asked. “Who’s playing?”

“I think it’s the Reverend.”

“Eh . . .” As in the Reverend Horton Heat. No one was really into punkabilly.

“When are the Smiths coming to Dallas?” Jane asked.

“Not until next year.” Stick was practically an A&R man for all the bands they listened to.