"If it has to, it has to," Tess sighed.

"You know what he looks like?"

"No, just that he's real young, about seventeen, and he may be using."

"There's one kid who comes in here regular, but I've never heard anyone call him Treasure." He muttered something into the walkie-talkie, listened to the static-y reply. "Joe Lee says the guy I'm thinking of was here when the doors opened at ten. He's long gone by now, though. That's three or four seatings ago."

An old toothless man, who wore a wool hat and heavy coat despite the warm day, sidled up to the doorman and whispered shyly in his ear. He had been on the streets so long that it looked as if dirt and grime had been baked into his skin and clothes. When Esskay tried to sniff the hem of his navy pea coat, the man shrank back in fear and scurried halfway up the block.

"What was that about?"

"Guy says he heard Bea Gaddy is giving away food today, says this kid was headed up there when he left. You know her place, over on Collington?"

The old man had creeped back toward them, rummaging in his pockets even as he kept his eyes on Esskay. Again, he whispered to the doorman, his voice so soft that Tess couldn't make out a word of what he was saying.

"Your dog bite?" the doorman asked.

"Only if you're a hot dog or a rodent."

"See, Howard? Her dog don't bite, and I don't think she does either. Go ahead, ask the sister what you want to ask."

The old man shook his head bashfully, then pulled a can of orange soda from his pocket and held it out to her. The back of his hands were filthy, but the palms looked recently scrubbed.

"A guy from the Superfresh donated a couple of cases of sodas today, and we're giving each diner a can as they leave," the doorman said. "Howard wants you to take his. Says it's a long walk over to Bea Gaddy's place, and you'll get thirsty on a hot day like this."

Tess looked at the soda can in the gnarled hand, the yellowed, ridged fingernails rimmed with dirt. The bright orange can-America's Choice, the Superfresh's generic brand-was still beaded with condensation. It couldn't have rested in that pea coat pocket for long. She felt the doorman's eyes on her. America's Choice, her choice. She took the can, trying not to flinch when her fingers brushed against his, popped the top and took a long drink.

"Thank you, Howard," she told the man, who began walking away from her backward, then turned and ran up the block.

"You made his day," the doorman said.

"By taking his soda and scaring him with my dog?"

"By letting him do something for someone else. Nobody wants to be on the receiving end all the time, you know. Howard smuggles bread out of here every day, just so he can feed the birds, just so somebody will need him."

Sure enough, Tess saw him standing in the middle of a flock of birds as she turned east on Bank Street. The pigeons and seagulls circled close to him, but he wasn't scared, she could tell. He cooed at them in their own language, crumbling the slices of bread and tossing them into the air like bright white pieces of confetti.

Although summers were a slow time for Bea Gaddy, who put most of her energy into putting on-and promoting-a Thanksgiving dinner for thousands, she kept a table outside her rowhouse for the donations that trickled in every day. Today, the table held only some sweaters and a box of used videotapes. Amazing the kind of junk people sloughed off on the local charities, Tess thought, as if they were tax-deductible dumps.

A young man was examining the videotapes with great care, as if he were at his neighborhood Blockbuster Video and choosing his night-time entertainment. Maybe he had even had a VCR once, but his wasted frame told the story of many pawnshop tickets, of a life plundered of anything that could yield a dollar or two.

"‘Dorf on Golf,'" he said, putting the tape down. "Aw, there ain't nothing here. I heard you had TastyKakes today."

"We did," said a woman watching over the table, making sure people didn't carry off armloads to sell, not that these clothes would fetch much. "You're about ten minutes too late. You know sweets go fast."

"Aw, man." He drew the syllables out in the fretful whine of a disappointed child, stomped his feet a bit. "Did they have Butterscotch Krimpets? Don't tell me they had Butterscotch Krimpets."

"Why do you care? They're gone. You're not getting any."

"A man likes to know what he's missing. You get me? Now did they have any Butterscotch Krimpets or not?"

"I don't know," the woman said sullenly. "It was mostly Juniors and fried pies."

Tess had hung back politely, waiting for the man to wind up his snack cake inquiry. When he started sifting through the used sweaters, she asked the woman, "Do you know Treasure Teeter?".

"Huh."

The one syllable, although not particularly friendly, was more or less affirmative. "Has he been here today?"

The woman said nothing, just turned her back on Tess and began folding up several brown grocery bags. The man was still picking through the clothes, but he was studying Tess from beneath his heavy-lidded eyes. She took a five-dollar bill out of her jeans pocket and fluttered it ostentatiously in her hand, then began walking away with Esskay. She turned the corner off Collington and waited, out of sight. Soon enough, the man came around the corner, jogging to catch up with her.

"I know that guy," he gasped out when he caught up with her, his breathing ragged from running even that short distance. "Treasure Teeter. He calls himself Trey, though, but there's this girl who comes around sometimes, calls him that. A good-lookin' girl. I don't know what she's doing with him."

"You show me where to find him, I'll give you this five-dollar bill and you can buy all the Butterscotch Krimpets you want." Tess knew he wouldn't, though. With cash in hand, he would forget his sugar craving and start thinking about the junk that made him want sweets in the first place.

"I'll take you right to him for ten."

"Right to him? Deal."

He put his hand out-not to shake and seal the deal, but to take the bills.

"After I see Treasure," Tess said.

He took off almost at a trot, heading west, then south onto Chester Street, stopping about midway down the block.

"Here," he said, holding out his palm insistently.

"This is a boarded-up rowhouse," Tess said. "How can I know if Treasure hangs out here?"

"He's here right now." He pounded on one of the windows so the plywood shook and rattled. "Trey, man. It's Bobby. Got something for you. Something good."

The window board swung slowly to one side. The boy whose head poked out looked much younger than seventeen, with a sleep-filled cherub's face like a small child awakened in the middle of the night. There was crust in the corner of his eyes and his hair was flatter on one side than the other. A yellow smear ran down one side of his mouth, lemon filling from his fried pie.

"What you want, man?"

But Bobby had already gone, sprinting away with Tess's five-dollar bills tight in his fist.

"Hi, Treasure. I'm Tess Monaghan. I've been looking for you."

"My name's Trey."

"I'm still looking for you."

"I know you?"

"No."

"I didn't do nothin'," he said automatically.

"I didn't say you did."

"What you want with me, then?"

"Someone asked me to check up on you, see how you're doing."

He was too affectless to evince true skepticism, but she could tell he didn't believe her. "My aunt hired some white woman to come ask me how'm doing? She knows how'm doing. I asked her for money last Wednesday, the day Beans and Bread was closed and I couldn't get me no hot meal. Man, she was cold. Said if I was hungry, she would make cornbread for me. That woman can't cook for shit, though. What I want to eat her cooking for?"