Little Brother

until they were relocated to the more tourist-friendly environs of Fisherman's Wharf.
    After dark, there's hardly anyone out there. It gets very cold, with a salt spray that'll soak you to your bones if you let it. The rocks are sharp and there's broken glass and the occasional junkie needle.
    It is an awesome place for a party.
    Bringing along the tarpaulins and chemical glove-warmers was my idea. Jolu figured out where to get the beer — his older brother, Javier, had a buddy who actually operated a whole underage drinking service: pay him enough and he'd back up to your secluded party spot with ice-chests and as many brews as you wanted. I blew a bunch of my indienet programming money, and the guy showed up right on time: 8PM, a good hour after sunset, and lugged the six foam ice-chests out of his pickup truck and down into the ruins of the baths. He even brought a spare chest for the empties.
    "You kids play safe now," he said, tipping his cowboy hat. He was a fat Samoan guy with a huge smile, and a scary tank-top that you could see his armpit- and belly- and shoulder-hair escaping from. I peeled twenties off my roll and handed them to him — his markup was 150 percent. Not a bad racket.
    He looked at my roll. "You know, I could just take that from you," he said, still smiling. "I'm a criminal, after all."
    I put my roll in my pocket and looked him levelly in the eye. I'd been stupid to show him what I was carrying, but I knew that there were times when you should just stand your ground.
    "I'm just messing with you," he said, at last. "But you be careful with that money. Don't go showing it around."
    "Thanks," I said. "Homeland Security'll get my back though."
    His smile got even bigger. "Ha! They're not even real five-oh. Those peckerwoods don't know nothin'."
    I looked over at his truck. Prominently displayed in his windscreen was a FasTrak. I wondered how long it would be until he got busted.
    "You got girls coming tonight? That why you got all the beer?"
    I smiled and waved at him as though he was walking back to his truck, which he should have been doing. He eventually got the hint and drove away. His smile never faltered.
    Jolu helped me hide the coolers in the rubble, working with little white LED torches on headbands. Once the coolers were in place, we threw little white LED keychains into each one, so it would glow when you took the styrofoam lids off, making it easier to see what you were doing.
    It was a moonless night and overcast, and the distant streetlights barely illuminated us. I knew we'd stand out like blazes on an infrared scope, but there was no chance that we'd be able to get a bunch of people together without being observed. I'd settle for being dismissed as a little drunken beach-party.
    I don't really drink much. There's been beer and pot and ecstasy at the parties I've been going to since I was 14, but I hated smoking (though I'm quite partial to a hash brownie every now and again), ecstasy took too long — who's got a whole weekend to get high and come down — and beer, well, it was all right, but I didn't see what the big deal was. My favorite was big, elaborate cocktails, the kind of thing served in a ceramic volcano, with six layers, on fire, and a plastic monkey on the rim, but that was mostly for the theater of it all.
    I actually like being drunk. I just don't like being hungover, and boy, do I ever get hungover. Though again, that might have to do with the kind of drinks that come in a ceramic volcano.
    But you can't throw a party without putting a case or two of beer on ice. It's expected. It loosens things up. People do stupid things after too many beers, but it's not like my friends are the kind of people who have cars. And people do stupid things no matter what — beer or grass or whatever are all incidental to that central fact.
    Jolu and I each cracked beers — Anchor Steam for him, a Bud Lite for me — and clinked the bottles together, sitting down on a rock.
    "You told them 9PM?"
    "Yeah," he said.
    "Me too."
    We drank in silence. The Bud Lite was the least alcoholic thing in the ice-chest. I'd need a clear head later.
    "You ever get scared?" I said, finally.
    He turned to me. "No man, I don't get scared. I'm always scared. I've been scared since the minute the explosions happened. I'm so scared sometimes, I don't want to get out of bed."
    "Then why do you do it?"
    He smiled. "About that," he said. "Maybe I won't, not for much longer. I mean, it's been great helping