Now we were playing. “What do you know?”

“Maybe I don’t know.” He was quiet. “Why are you hiding from everyone?”

“I’m not hiding. I’ve seen Inchoy.”

“Inchoy? He won’t be happy you’re hanging out with me.”

“That’s because you’re a capitalist pig and he’s a socialist.”

“Inchoy isn’t a socialist,” said Chet. “Inchoy is poor.”

I had met Chet through Inchoy when we were in college. Inchoy hadn’t wanted us to get together. He’d warned me that Chet was trouble. He’d said the same thing to Chet about me, which convinced me that Chet and I were fated for love. Chet and Inchoy’s profound differences had created in them a wary admiration for each other, one they both denied but that did explain their enduring friendship, although they rarely got together. Occasionally, Inchoy would need Chet to make a phone call to ensure his mother’s building permit got approved or find a job for some smart young relative who was otherwise doomed by lack of connection, and Chet always complied. He didn’t ask for thanks, and he knew Inchoy disdained everything he did, but Chet was one of the few who knew about Bibo.