“What about a guy named Gritz?”
“Huh?”
“Gritz.” I began the description Coburg had given me, and to my surprise he broke in: “Yeah.”
“You know him?”
“I seen him.”
“Does he live there?”
The hand went back into his mouth. He fiddled, twisted, pulled out a tooth and grinned. The root was inky with decay. He spit blood onto the pavement and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Does Gritz hang out here?”
He didn’t hear me, was looking at the tooth, fascinated. I repeated the question. He kept staring, finally dropped the tooth into his pocket.
“Not no more,” he said.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Dunno.”
“Days? Weeks?”
“Dunno.”
He reached out to touch the sleeve of my jacket. Fifteen-year-old Harris Tweed. The cuffs were starting to fuzz.
I stepped back.
“Wool?” he said.
‘Yeah.
He licked his lips.
“What do you know about Gritz?”
“Nuthin’.”
“But you definitely know him?”
“I seen him around.”
“When’s the last time you saw him around?”
He closed his eyes. Opened them. “A week.”
“A week definitely, or a week maybe?”
“I think-I dunno, man.”
“Any idea where he is now?”
“To get rich.”
“To get rich?”
“Yeah, that’s what he said-he was drinking and partying, you know. And singing-sometimes he liked to sing-and he was singing about hey, man, I’m gonna get rich soon. Gonna get me a car and a boat-that kind of shit.”
“Did he say how he was going to get rich?”
“Nah.” A hint of threat sharpened his eyes. Fatigue wiped it out. He slumped.
“He didn’t say how?” I repeated.
“No, man. He wuz partying and singing-he was nuts. That’s it, man.”
“Is Gritz a first name or a last name?”
“Dunno, man.” He coughed, hit his chest, wheezed, “Fuck.”
“If I told you to see a doctor, you’d shine me on, wouldn’t you?”
Gap-toothed grin. “You gonna pay me to go?”
“What if you had a disease you could give to her-or the baby?”
“Gimme more money.” Holding out a hand again.
“The baby needs to see a doctor.”
“Gimme more money.”
“Who’d Gritz hang out with?”
“No one.”
“No one at all?”
“I dunno, man. Gimme more money.”
“What about a guy named Hewitt?”
“Huh?”
“A guy named Dorsey Hewitt? Ever see Gritz with him?”
I described Hewitt. The boy stared -not that much blanker than his general demeanor, but enough to tell me his ignorance was real.
“Hewitt,” I repeated.
“Don’ know the dude.”
“How long have you been hanging out here?”
“Hunerd years.” Phlegmy laugh.
“Hewitt killed a woman. It was on the news.”
“Don’t got cable.”
“A social worker named Rebecca Basille-at the Westside Mental Health Center?”
“Yeah, I heard something.”
“What?”
Grin. “Music. In my head.” He tapped one ear and smiled.
‘It’s like rock and soul, man. The clef cool no-fool.”
I sighed involuntarily.
He brightened, latching on to my frustration like a buzzard on carrion.
“Gimme money, man.” Cough. “Gimme.”
“Anything else you want to tell me?”
“Yeah.”
Tapping one foot. Waiting for the straight man. “What?” I said.
“The baby’s mine.” Smile. His remaining teeth were pink with fresh blood.
“Congratulations.”
“Got a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Then gimme money. I aks around for you, man. You come back and I tell you everything I aksed.”
I counted what I had in my wallet.
Two twenties and three singles. Gave him all of it. The jacket, too.
He scrambled back through the fence and disappeared. I hung around until his footsteps died, then walked back to the car. The air had cooled-sudden shifts were becoming the rule this autumn -and a soft wind from the east was nudging scraps of garbage off the sidewalk.
I gassed up the Seville at a station on Olympic and used the pay phone to get the number of the nearest Social Services office. After being put on hold several times and transferred from bureaucrat to bureaucrat, I managed to reach a supervisor and tell her about the infant living under the freeway.
“Was the baby being mistreated, sir?”
“No.”
“Did the baby look malnourished?”
“Actually, no, but-” “Were there bruises or scars anywhere visible on the baby’s body or other signs of abuse?”