In the evening, the Screech Owls went down into the heart of downtown Nagano. It had been Mr. Dillinger’s idea, and it turned out to be a good one. It stopped the Owls from thinking about the murder.

Data brought along his video camera, and Mr. Dillinger and Travis and Sarah took turns pushing Data’s wheelchair along so that Data could use his good hand to record the scene for when they all got back home.

Travis had never seen anything like this unfamiliar city. What struck him was not so much the people moving everywhere, the cars and the buses and the policemen’s whistles at the intersections, it was the powdery snow falling to earth through the brilliant lights, the still-busy stores, and the million different things for sale in packaging so strange that Travis often didn’t know whether they were to be worn or eaten. It was like some wild combination of the Santa Claus parade, Disney World, the Eaton Centre in Toronto, Niagara Falls–and a world Travis had never even imagined.

Nish, of course, was acting as their tour guide–even though he himself had not yet been downtown. But obviously he had been quizzing his new pal, Mr. Imoo. He knew there was a McDonald’s at Central Square. He knew how to work the vending machines so the team could get cans of Sweat, the new team drink. He knew that the area was renowned for its huge, delicious apples, still looking fresh at the end of the winter. He knew that the main street was called Chuo, that the main department store was halfway up it, and that the Buddhist temple, where Mr. Imoo was a priest and where they would be touring on Saturday, was at the far end. When they crossed at one of the busy intersections, they could see up to the temple in the distance, like some fantastic fairytale setting in the light falling snow and the magical glow of the downtown lights.

Nish, however, didn’t know everything.

“What’re they wearing?” Fahd had asked, pointing at some shoppers.

Travis had seen others like them before. Every once in a while they would come across someone on a bus or in the street wearing a curious white gauze mask across the mouth and hooked by elastic over the ears. They looked like doctors and nurses about to head into the operating room.

Mr. Dillinger knew. “Health masks,” he said. “People with breathing problems wear them when the smog gets bad. A city like this traps smog between the mountains. The masks cut out the pollution.”

“We should get them for Nish,” Sarah said.

Nish, who had only partially been paying attention, turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Think about it, Stinky.”

Nish let the comment pass. His mind was apparently on more important things. From the moment Muck had named him backup goaltender for the game against Sapporo, he had taken his new role to heart.

“Great goaltenders,” he had announced to the boys sharing their little apartment, “are nuttier than fruitcakes. You have to be eccentric to play goal.”

He had gone down the list of great goalies as if counting off points for an exam. Jacques Plante, who used to knit his own underwear. Glenn Hall, who used to throw up before every game and between periods. Patrick Roy, who talks to goal posts and insists on stepping over the lines in the ice rather than skating over them. Goalies who have secret messages painted on their masks. Goalies who talk to themselves throughout the game, as if they’re not only playing but also doing the play-by-play.

“Mr. Imoo’s going to help me,” Nish announced as they walked along. “He’s going to work with me until I’m the first goalie in history to have a force shield.”

“A what?” Travis had asked.

“He’s an expert in martial arts, too–not just a Buddhist priest. He’s the greatest guy I ever met. He’s got a black belt in judo and he knows tae kwon do, and he’s going to teach me how to do the Indonesian ‘force shield.’ It’s a little-known Asian secret that’ll give me superhuman powers.”

“You already have superhuman power,” said Sarah. “Unfortunately, it’s in your butt.”

“Back off,” Nish said. “Look at what I got here.”

Nish flattened out a piece of carefully folded paper.

“This is the address of a restaurant where a friend of Mr. Imoo’s can bend spoons.”

“What’s so hard about that?” Jenny asked.

“He doesn’t touch them, that’s what’s so hard about that.”

According to Nish, the restaurant was located in what seemed to Travis to be a back alley. It was a narrow passage leading off the main street, not even wide enough for a car to get down. They walked along, Travis growing nervous, until finally Nish stopped and pointed at what looked like little more than a run-down house.

“This is it.”

“Your Mr. Imoo’s pulling your leg,” said Sarah.

“Ha!” snorted Nish. “Let’s go.”

Nish pulled the front door open and stepped inside. Fahd followed, then Andy, then the rest of them. Travis had to turn Data’s chair around and back him up over a small step, but he managed it easily.

Sure enough, it was a tiny restaurant, with barely enough room to hold them all.

A woman came out from behind the cash register clapping her hands together and smiling. Obviously, she was expecting them. She began speaking–very fast and in Japanese–to Nish, who kept bowing and saying, “Moshi moshi!” to her, which only made her smile all the more.

She called back into the kitchen and a man wearing a white apron came out, also smiling and bowing. Nish held out his piece of paper. The man took it, nodding as he wiped his hands on the front of his apron, and laughed when he realized why the kids were really there. He had business cards for them all–but in Japanese, of course, so Travis had no idea what they said.

Travis was shocked at the reception. Back home, he thought, kids like him and Nish and Sarah were often regarded with suspicion the moment they walked into a store or a restaurant on their own. Often, they couldn’t get anyone to wait on them. They got ignored in lines. It was as if somehow, at the age of twelve or thirteen, they’d just broken out of prison, where they were serving life sentences for shoplifting and armed holdups.

But not here. Not in Japan. There was such trust, such open acceptance, even if they were just kids. The woman had an Olympic pin for each of them. Sarah, luckily, had a small Screech Owls crest to give her in return. A man who had been sipping a large bowl of soup picked up and moved off happily to give the Owls and the restaurant owner more space at the one large table in the place.

Just then, the door of the restaurant opened again. It was Mr. Imoo, his ragged hockey bag over his shoulder, a stick in one hand, and a huge Band-Aid over his nose that oozed with fresh blood.

Nish seemed ecstatic to see his new hero, racing to help Mr. Imoo unload his hockey gear.

“What happened to you?” Nish asked.

“Good hockey game tonight,” Mr. Imoo grinned.

“Who won?” Fahd asked.

Mr. Imoo grinned again. “Game or fight?”

Mr. Imoo seemed particularly pleased with his little joke. He explained it, in Japanese, to the restaurant, tapping his injured nose a couple of times while everyone else laughed and giggled. Whatever Mr. Imoo was, thought Travis, he wasn’t at all like the minister of the church his family attended back home.

The woman brought over a handful of spoons.

“How come he doesn’t use chopsticks?” Fahd asked.

Nish turned to him with a look of astonishment combined with disgust.

“Chopsticks,” he informed Fahd, “are made of wood.”

“My goodness,” said Sarah, “such an expert.”

Giggling, the man placed one of the spoons in the centre of the table, and then fell very quiet. He seemed to withdraw into his body, his arms folding tightly over his chest. His eyes were closed and he began to rock slightly, as if gathering his energies.

Mr. Imoo, the snow still melting in his hair, also went quiet, not even bothering to wipe away the long drop of melted snow that rolled down one cheek.

The Screech Owls fell silent too, but most of them slyly looked around to catch the eye of a friend, their expressions all asking the same question: What on earth is going on here?

But not Nish. Nish was even rocking slightly himself, his eyes almost closed but open just enough that he could keep them on the restaurant owner.

The man grunted once and opened his eyes. He had somehow changed, as if almost hypnotized, and it seemed he was now totally unaware of their presence.

He reached out his index finger. Slowly, carefully, he ran it lightly along the length of the spoon, almost as if he were reaching out to tickle a cat’s stomach.

Suddenly his hand moved with astonishing speed, the fingers fanning, and in the blur Travis thought he must have lost sight of the spoon, for when the hand pulled back, the spoon was still there, in the centre of the table–but twisted almost in a perfect circle.

“Outstanding!” Nish said, nodding his head rapidly.

“How’d he do that?” Fahd asked.

“It’s a trick,” Sarah said.

“No trick,” Mr. Imoo said.

“Can I film it?” Data asked.

Mr. Imoo spoke quickly, in Japanese, to the man, and the man nodded back in agreement.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Imoo said to Data. “This is special one for Sarah.”

With Data’s camera rolling, the man placed another spoon in the centre of the table, then reached out and gently took Sarah’s hand in his. Sarah seemed nervous, and Travis could see that she was blushing, but she let the man guide her hand to the spoon and place her fingers over it to feel that it was made of stainless steel.

He took her hand in his again, and while her hand rested on his, for a second time he ran a finger lightly along the spoon, flicked his fingers once, and another curled spoon lay on the table.

Sarah yanked her hand back as if it had just touched fire.

“Is it hot?” Fahd asked.

“N-no,” Sarah stammered. She reached out and carefully picked up the bent spoon.

“For you,” the man said, gesturing that Sarah should take it.

“Th-thank you,” Sarah said, blushing deeply now. She took the spoon, rolled it once in her hand, and then placed it proudly in her lapel buttonhole.

“Arigato,” she said to the man. “Thank you.”

The restaurant owner got up and bowed deeply. He seemed very pleased that Sarah had thought his spoon worthy of a fashion statement.

“Mr. Imoo’s going to teach me how to use the force shield,” Nish announced to no one in particular.

“You already bend your stick blades too much,” said Lars. Everyone laughed.

“You laugh now,” said Nish. “You won’t be laughing when ol’ Nish starts sending players flying with a flick of his glove.”

Mr. Imoo giggled and put a hand gingerly to his battered nose.

“Force shield not protect me tonight, that’s for sure.”