The man laughed again, scornfully. “For what? Wait around all night with gunshots and heart attacks? I’ve got no active diagnosis–just the virus, no symptoms yet. So all they’ll do is keep me waiting.
Jail’s better–they process you faster.”
“Here,” said Milo, dipping into his pocket for his wallet. He took out some bills and handed them to the man. “Find a room, keep the change.”
The man gave a warm, broad smile and tucked the money under his blanket.
“That’s real nice, Mr. Policeman. You made this po’, unfortunate, homeless individual’s evening.”
Milo said, “Was Gritz into dope, too?”
“Just juice. Like I said, white trash. Him and his hillbilly singing.”
“He liked to sing?”
“All the time, this yodely white-trash voice. Wanted to be Elvis.”
“Any talent?”
The man shrugged.
“Did he ever get violent with anyone?”
“Not that I saw.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“Not much. Sticks to himself–we all do. This is Little Calcutta, not some hippie commune.”
“He ever hang out with anyone?”
“Not that I saw.”
“How about Dorsey Hewitt?”
The man’s lips pursed. “Hewitt, Hewitt. .. the one that did that caseworker?”
“You knew him?”
“No, I read the paper–when that fool did that, I was worried.
Backlash.
Citizens coming down here and taking it out on all us po’ unfortunates.”
“You never met Hewitt?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t know if he and Gritz were buddies?”
“How would I know that if I never met him?”
“Someone told us Gritz talked about getting rich.”
“Sure, he always did, the fool. Gonna cut a record. Gonna be the next Elvis.
Pour a bottle down his gullet and he was number one on the charts.”
The man turned to me. “What do you think my diagnosis is?”
“Don’t know you well enough,” I said.
“They–the interns over at County–said I had an affective disease–severe mood swings. Then they cut off my methadone.”
He clicked his teeth together and waited for me to comment. When I didn’t, he said, “Supposedly I was using stuff to self-medicate–being my own psychiatrist.” He laughed. “Bearshit. I used it to be happy.”
Milo said, “Back on track: what else do you know about Gritz?”
“That’s it.” Smile. “Do I still get to keep the money?”
“Is Terminator Three still here?” I said.
“Who?”
“A kid from Arizona. Missing pinkie, bad cough. He has a girlfriend and a baby.”
“Oh yeah, Wayne. He’s calling himself that, now?” Laughter. “Nah, they all packed up this afternoon. Like I said, people come and go–speaking of which.
..”
He hooded himself with the blanket and, keeping his eyes on us, began edging toward the fence.
“What about your room for the night?” said Milo.
The man stopped and looked back. “Nah, I’ll camp out tonight. Fresh air.”
Grin.
Milo laughed a little bit with him, then eyed the food. “What about all this?”
The man scrutinized the groceries. “Yeah, I’ll take some of that Gatorade. The Pepsi, too.”
He picked up the beverages and stashed them under the blan “That’s it?” said Milo.
“On a diet,” said the man. “You want, you can bring the rest of it inside. I’m sure someone’ll take it off your hands.”
-..
,4: 3, P The hooded man led us through the darkness, walking unsteadily but without hesitation, like a well-practiced blind man.
Milo and I stumbled and fought to keep our balance, hauling boxes with only the skimpy guidance of the penlight beam.
As we progressed, I sensed human presence–the heat of fear. Then the petrol sweetness of Sterno.
Urine. Shit. Tobacco. Mildew.
The ammonia of fresh semen.
The hooded man stopped and pointed to the ground.
We put the boxes down and a blue flame ignited. Then another.
The concrete wall came into focus, in front of it bedrolls, piles of newspaper. Bodies and faces blue-lit by the flames.
“Suppertime, chillun’,” shouted the man, over the noise of the freeway.
Then he was gone.
More lights.
Ten or so people appeared, faceless, sexless, huddled like storm victims.
Milo took something out of the box and held it out. A hand reached out and snatched it. More people collected around us, blue tinted, rabbity, openmouthed with expectation.