Walking backward, toward the hatch, he created a snaky trail of food that led out to the sidewalk.
“Goddamn Hansel and Gretel,” he muttered, then he slipped back out.
I followed him. He was standing against the Fiat, had emptied one bag and crumpled it and was tossing it from hand to hand.
As we stood there and waited, cars rocketed overhead and the concrete hummed.
Milo lit up a bad panatela and blew short-lived smoke rings.
A few minutes later, he stubbed out his cigar and jammed it between his fingers. Walking back to the hatch, he stuck his head through, didn’t move for a second, then beckoned me to follow him through.
We stopped just a few feet from the hatch and he aimed the penlight upward, highlighting movement about fifteen feet up.
Frantic, choppy, a scramble of arms.
Squinting, I managed to make out human forms. Down on their knees, scooping and snatching, just as the man at the minimart had done.
Within seconds they were gone and the food had vanished. Milo cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted over the freeway: “Lots more, folks.”
Nothing.
He clicked his light off and we retreated to the other side of the fence again.
It seemed like a game–a futile one. But he looked at ease.
He began emptying another bag, placing food on the streetlit patch of sidewalk, just out of reach of the hatch. Then he returned to the car, sat on the rear deck causing the springs to groan, and relit his cigar.
Luring and trapping–enjoying the hunt.
More time passed. Milo’s eyes kept shifting to the fence, then leaving it. His expression didn’t change, the cigar tilted as he bit down on it.
Then he stayed on the fence.
A large, dark hand was reaching out, straining to grab a loaf of white bread.
Milo went over and kicked the package away and the hand drew back.
“Sorry,” said Milo. “No grain without pain.”
He took his badge out and shoved it at the hatch.
‘Just talk, that’s it,” he said.
Nothing.
Sighing, he picked up the bread, tossed it through the hatch. Picking up a can of soup, he wiggled it.
“Make it a balanced meal, pal.”
A moment later, a pair of unlaced sneakers appeared in the opening.
Above them, the frayed cuffs of greasy-looking plaid pants and the bottom seam of an army blanket.
The head above the cloth remained unseen, shielded by darkness.
Milo held the soup can between thumb and forefinger. New Orleans Gourmet Gumbo.
“Lots more where this came from,” he said. “Just for answering a few questions, no hassles.”
One plaid leg angled forward through the opening. A sneaker hit the pavement, then the other.
A man emerged into the streetlight, wincing.
He had the blanket wrapped around him to the knees, covering his head like a monk’s cowl and shrouding most of his face.
What showed of the skin was black and grainy. The man took an awkward step, as if testing the integrity of the sidewalk, and the blanket dropped a bit. His skull was big and half bald, above a long, bony face that looked caved in. His beard was a kinky gray rash, his skin cracked and caked. Fifty or sixty or seventy. A battered nose so flat it almost merged with his crushed cheeks, spreading like melted tar.
His eyes squinted and watered and didn’t stop moving.
He had the white bread in his hand and was looking at the soup.
Milo tried to give it to him.
The man hesitated, working his jaws. His eyes were quieter now.
“Know what a gift horse is?” said Milo.
The man swallowed. Drawing his blanket around himself, he squeezed the bread so hard the loaf turned into a figure eight.
I went over to him and said, “We just want to talk, that’s it.”
He looked into my eyes. His were jaundiced and clogged with blood vessels, but something shone through–maybe intelligence, maybe just suspicion. He smelled of vomit and alcohol belch and breath mints, and his lips were as loose as a mastiff’s. I worked hard at standing my ground.
Milo came up behind me and covered some of the stench with cigar smoke.