Bad Love

He considered his answer. Shook his head.

'Are there ever others?'

'Sometimes.'

'Where are they now?'

'Around.' He looked at the money, worked his tongue against his cheek, and came closer.

'She fucks you, it's twenty bucks.'

I put the bill in my pocket.

'Hey!' he said, as if I'd cheated at a game.

'I don't want to fuck anyone,' I said. 'I just want some information. Answer my questions and you'll get paid, okay?'

'Why, man?'

'Because I'm a curious guy.'

'Cop?'

'No.'

He flexed his shoulders and rubbed his gums some more. When he removed his hand, the fingers were bloody.

'Is the baby yours?' I said.

'Thas what you wanna know?'

'Is it?'

'I dunno.'

'It needs to be looked at by a doctor.'

'I dunno.'

'Is she your woman?'

He smiled. 'Sometimes.'

'What's your name?'

'Terminator Three.' Glaring. Challenging me to mock him.

'Okay,' I said. 'Are there more people in there?'

'I told you, man. Not now, just at night.'

'They come back at night?'

'Yuh.'

'Every night?'

He looked at me as if I were stupid. Shook his head slowly. 'Some nights- it changes places, I dunno.'

'It moves from place to place?'

'Yeah.'

Tent City as a concept. Some New Wave journalist would have a ball with it.

'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?'