Chapter One

    "What's up Dog," Boxer said to Lil Topper as he turned up and into the latter's yard. Lil Topper was standing in his driveway, leaning under the hood of his classic Monte Carlo.
    "Nothing, Homie," Lil Topper muttered in disgust.
    "Looks like car trouble," Bosco offered.
    "No s**t, Sherlock."
    "Sorry, Dog"
    "Forget about it Homie."
    "It's forgotten, Dog. You know I'm good at that."
    Bosco was thin and slight of build. His style of dress was what was known in the barrios as 'hardcore vato loco.' Immaculately pressed khaki pants with oversized Pendleton shirts and white tank tops underneath. The shoes were always black. Either Imperials or Stacy Adams polished to a mirror finish. A lot of the younger vatos preferred tennis shoes like Nike Cortez but not Bosco. Just like the hair gel that he used, Tres Flores, everything about him was OG (Original Gangster) vato loco.
    He came from a large family. A few were hard working blue collar raza but sadly, many of Bosco's clan had succumbed to the hardships and dangers of urban barrios. Bodies in prison because of bad decisions made and minds imprisoned by drugs because of bad decisions made. That would read as the epitaph for Bosco's family, if and when it dwindled down to nothing. Not a single family member had graduated from high school much less college. The lack of education crippled many barrio families. The few men not dead or in prison for life were not sufficient to carry on the family name. While the females became absorbed into other clans.
    Bosco's family was still paying rent on the same house after three generations. They'd never thought of saving for a down payment to purchase their own home. With a wink and a nod from their landlord (and then his son), bedrooms had been added and the garage illegally converted. Yet the same old faded print of the Last Supper still hung over the wobbly kitchen table with it's mismatched chairs.
    He was the same age as Pablito. Both of them were a few years younger than Lil Topper and Hector (who were also born the same year). But even though he was younger than Lil Topper, Bosco's receding hairline, worried facial features and a body twitch that Lito(Pablito) cruelly mimicked every time the two would disagree on something, made him look much older than the fantastically sculpted Lil Topper. For if ever the age old adadge, 'A chip off the old block,' applied. It was in the case of Topper and his son, Lil Topper.
    Both were dedicated body builders, whose strength was legendary on either side of California's infamous penitentiary walls. For although Lil Topper had never been to prison, many of the homeboys his age were already doing long stretches of time. Some had even been 'struck out.' Whenever any of these youngsters who knew Lil Topper from the streets would encounter his father (Topper) behind the walls, their eyes would grow wide in astonishment. So similiar were father and son in appearance.
    "Is there anything I can help you for, Dog," Bosco nervously yelped in between some serious twitching. The gaunt looking Chicano had been picked on all his life. From his older siblings to his classmates and even a misguided teacher or two, Bosco had grown up forever having his flaws pointed out to him. The unlucky Bosco had never known self-esteem, self-respect, self-confidence or any other type of positive character traits. One would think that such an individual would be immersed in addictions like so many of his family members. But not Bosco. The put upon Chicano was rarely seen under the influence of booze and never known to get fall down, stupid drunk.
    While not a complete teetotaler he pretty much was by barrio standards. He drank very little and drugged not at all. Just like Lil Topper. Mostly just enough to be one of the guys. Just like Lil Topper. Never had either one of them given it any thought but it was one of the things that made them tight homeboys.
    Lil Topper wadded up an oily rag that he'd unsuccessfully attempted to clean his hands with and tossed it atop the Monte Carlo's engine. "It's the pinchee carurater," he stated in disgust.
    "That's messed up, Dog," Bosco commisserated.
    "Tell me about it, Homie."
    "If I had a ranfla (car), Dog. I would take you right to the auto parts store. I swear I would, Dog" Bosco uselessly told him.
    "I know you would Bosco." Lil Topper wrapped a Herculean arm around his scrawny homeboy and gently hugged him. Bosco's painfully thin frame popped and his lungs wanted to collapse but he definitely stopped twitching.
    "Don't worry about the carburater, Homie. I'll call our homeboy Ray-Ray at the shop where he works. I'll have him bring me a rebuilt one when he gets off tonight." Lil Topper released his homeboy, who nearly crumpled to the ground. Bosco would never have thought about calling Ray-Ray with such a request. Even though he was his homeboy too.
    "I'll tell you what, Bosco," Lil Topper continued. "Walk with me down to Union Pacific Ave to pick up something and afterwards I'll buy us a couple of chili burgers from Tommys."
    "Orale, sounds good," Bosco agreed. "What are we going to pick up?"

    An hour earlier, a child had rode a nondescript bicycle up to Lil Topper's doorway and knocked. "There's a letter for you at my Tia Carmen's," said the Chicanito to the Chicano. Then he disappeared as quickly as he arrived. That was when Lil Topper attempted to start his car and found out he needed a new carburater.
    "Just a letter, Homie," Lil Topper semi-informed his homeboy.
    Bosco and his family had lived in the barrio a long time. There was no doubt about their loyalty. They were raza people to the core. However, Lil Topper was wise beyond his years and he knew that an intelligent person could cleverly extract information that a, 'not as' intelligent person might possess. For this reason, neither Lito, Hector, or Lil Topper ever said too much around the unsuspecting Bosco.
    That was because even though Bosco was a part of the same street gang, he was not privy to 'The Cause.' It had no name. It was just an idea shared by three friends. A trio of young men who were mentored and financed by two old family friends. Nobody else knew about the cause. Not friends at work, classmates on campus, nor even homeboys in the barrio. It was just three young men, an old man and an old woman.
    The letter was from Huehuehuah. He wanted Lil Topper, Hector and Lito to meet him on the rez.
    "What's the letter say, Dog?" Bosco asked as they headed toward the burger joint.
    "I'm going to go visit familia for a few days, Homie."
    "Orale, don't worry Dog. I'll watch the neighborhood," Bosco quickly volunteered.
    "I know you will, Homie. It's nice to have at least one pair of sober eyes in our barrio when I'm gone," Lil Topper sincerely answered. Compliments were few and far between in Bosco's life. His chest swelled with pride.       
     "You can count on me, Dog."

    "Isn't there a song about it never rains in southern California?" Hector asked. The rythmically challenged Chicano listened to very little music.
    "Yeah, simone ese," Lito answered twice. "But he probably wrote it on a beach in July and these are the mountains in January!"
    Lil Topper listened to his childhood friends but didn't say a word. It was obvious that neither was familiar with the lyrics to the song. Which are about a person having a hard time making it in California and wanting to go home. A lot of people come to California to try and start over. To try and have a second chance. Lil Topper liked the emotion of the song but couldn't relate to the wanting to go home part. As a native Angeleno, California was his home. It was a question that had always been at the back of the big Chicano's thoughts. 'If you're a native Californian and you can't make it here. Where do you go?'
    On this day they'd started out in East LA, headed south on the 5 freeway for over a couple of traffic plagued hours, then struck off east on highway 94. The three Chicanos were in a rugged part of southeast San Diego County. On what Lil Topper had said to them would be a trip to Huehuehuah's rez. The raindrops were fat and cold. For it was a heavy northern storm that lashed at the trio.
    They didn't know it but the turbulence stretched from California's pacific coast to the desert on the California/Arizona border.  As the rain continued Lil Topper started to worry about flash flooding but kept that thought to himself. As was his character.
    Hector and Lito both trembled under their camouflaged rain gear. All three of them wore military surplus ponchos over their civilian clothes. Lil Topper and Lito appeared gallant in a Latin American revolutionary kind of way but poor bespectacled Hector looked like a nerdy, camouflaged avocado.
    Lito had regrown his partial goatee or "juice catcher" as the oversexed Chicano called it. Only it wasn't a young lady's warm love nectar that dripped from the dark hairs on his chin. It was cold rain water. Lots of it.
    "This sucks, ese!" Lito snapped. "And it smells like feet!" he added. Lito was referring to the moist vegetation surrounding them.
    "Maybe your feet, Homie," Lil Topper joked.
    Hector started to laugh then awkwardly slipped and fell when his own feet became entangled with themselves and some low growing rabbitt bush.
    "Damn, ese!" Lito shouted. "I knew about the walking and chewing gum..." the conceded Chicano paused for effect, "...but hiking and laughing too?"
    Chapparal litter clung to Hector's body. He pushed himself up from the ground with both hands before attempting to wipe the debris off. The wet leaves and broken twigs simply restuck themselves to other parts of his ample midrift.
    "This isn't hiking!" Hector blurted out. "This is mountain climbing!" he wheezed loudly.
    "Not yet, Homie," Lil Topper said to him in a voice that let him know the worst was yet to come. Then he began walking back down the trail to help his clumsy homeboy. Lil Topper had walked these hills and mountains several times already with Huehuehuah. The big Chicano had quickly mastered the art of pushing through the often heavy growth that bloomed and burned in a never ending cycle along the spine of mountains connecting Alta California with Baja California. Or as he called the two combined, CalifAztlan.
    He'd been awed by the natural temples that reached toward the sky. The very first time that he'd gazed upon them he'd felt an incredible urge to climb them and see what lay on the other side. It soon became obvious to him that here lay two countries and one people.
    "You need to look at the ground and eye level at the same time, Homie," Lil Topper advised Hector.
    "I know, Homeboy. It's just hard because my glasses are foggy from all the sweating I'm doing," replied the pudgy Chicano. Then he slipped and almost fell flat again. This time he managed to catch himself on his knees.
    "Chingado, ese," Lito commented sadly. Lito, who was almost as good in shape as his bigger, non smoking homeboy, Lil Topper, walked right past the kneeling Hector.
    Within minutes Lil Topper was several yards ahead of them both. Once again he turned and waited. Though he kept a moderate pace, it never took him long to distance himself from his homeboys. It wasn't merely due to his size that he pulled ahead so rapidly. For he didn't overstride at all. He just had a natural grace for the mountains. Lil Topper didn't hike the trails. He prowled them. Like a lone wolf or solitary mountain lion.
    The Chicano didn't fear the outdoors like so many urban dwellers. He'd learned to spot the barely revealed, sloping granite that raised a trail's level just enough to jar a knee or ankle. Or differentiate between branches that bend versus those that snap. Lil Topper could sense the paths made by wild animals when no human eye could see them.
    He thought back to the first time his mother, Sadgirl, had brought him to visit Huehuehuah and Josephina. He thought about the first time she'd left him with the wise old pair. Then he remembered the first time he'd come alone. He'd nearly gotten lost. The bus had only taken him so far. After that he walked. And walked some more. Then the dirt road ended and he hiked. And hiked some more.
    Trees that appear bright and airy during the light of day can look eerily spooky as that day comes to an end. Lil Topper's apprehension  had just begun to ice into fear when he saw Huehuehuah's cabin.
    'That sure seemed like a long time ago,' Lil Topper thought to himself. Now he knew exactly how to get to Huehuehuah's place. He could find it blindfolded on a moonless night. Behind him quarrelled his comrades in arms. His fellow liberators. It wasn't the first time they'd met the man who would be funding their cause. But it was the duos first journey to his residence.
    "Damn, you're slow," Lito chided Hector as they arrived simultaneously. Hector because he was constantly falling and Lito because he was taking his sweet time. The chubby Chicano was too exhausted to answer. Upon their immediate arrival, Lil Topper silently wheeled about once again, and continued up the mountain. The rain had eased a little but darkness was coming fast. Within moments there was a sizable gap between himself and his still standing homeboys. An out of breath Hector turned helplessly toward a winded Lito who shoved him forward and gasped, "Move!"
    "This must be important," cried Hector as he was being pushed forward. Lil Topper heard the words of his homeboy and silently concurred.
    'Yes, it was important that he arrive at Huehuehuah's as soon as possible. Only this time it wasn't because Lil Topper was a scared child fearing the oncoming darkness. This time it was as a freedom fighter. A warrior for the cause. This time they were going to talk about the missiles.'