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. He put the soup up against the man's chest. The man looked at it and finally took it, but continued to stare at me.

"You are not police." His voice was surprisingly clear. "You are definitely not police."

"True," I said. "But he is."

The man glanced at Milo and smiled. Rubbing the part of the blanket that covered his abdomen, he shoved both hands under it, secreting the bread and the soup.

"A few questions, friend," said Milo. "Simple stuff."

"Nothing in life is simple," said the man.

Milo hooked a thumb at the bags on the sidewalk. "A philosopher. There's enough there to feed you and your friends- have a nice little party."

The man shook his head. "It could be poison."

"Why the hell would it be poison?"

Smile. "Why not? The world's poison. A while back someone gave someone a present and it was full of poison and someone died."

"Where'd this happen?"

"Mars."

"Seriously."

"Venus."

"Okay," said Milo, blowing smoke. "Suit yourself, we'll ask our questions elsewhere."

The man licked his lips. "Go ahead. I've got the virus, makes no difference to me."

"The virus, huh?" said Milo.

"Don't believe me, you can kiss me."

The man flicked his tongue. The blanket fell to his shoulders. Underneath, he wore a greasy Bush-Quayle T-shirt. His neck and shoulders were emaciated.

"I'll pass," said Milo.

The man laughed. "Bet you will- now what? Gonna beat it out of me?"

"Beat what out of you?"

"Whatever you want. You've got the power."

"Nah," said Milo. "This is the new LAPD. We're New Age sensitive guys."

The man laughed. His breath was hot and emetic. "Bearshit. You'll always be savages- got to be to keep order."

Milo said, "Have a nice day," and began to turn.

"What do you want to know, anyway?"

"Anything about a citizen named Lyle Edward Gritz," said Milo. "You know him?"

"Like a brother."

"That so?"

"Yup," said the man. "Unfortunately, this day and age, families deteriorating and all, that means not well at all."

Milo looked over at the hatch. "He in there now?"

"Nope."

"See him recently?"

"Nope."

"But he did hang out here."

"From time to time."

"When was the last time?"

The man ignored the question and began staring at me again.

"What are you?" he said. "Some kind of journalist riding along?"

"He's a doctor," said Milo.

"Oh yeah?" Smile. "Got any penicillin? Things get pretty infectious down here. Amoxicillin, erythromycin, tetracycline- anything to zap those little cocci boogers?"

I said, "I'm a psychologist."

"Ooh," said the man, as if wounded. He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them they were dry and focused. "Then you're not worth a damn to me- pardon my linguistics."

"Gritz," said Milo. "Can you tell me anything about him?"

The man appeared to be contemplating. "White trash, juicehead, low IQ. But able-bodied. He had no excuse ending up down here. Not that I do- you probably think I was some kind of white collar overachiever, don't you? 'Cause I'm black and I know grammar."

Smiling.

I smiled back.

"Wrong," he said. "I collected garbage. Professionally. City of Compton. Good pay, you wear your gloves, it's fine, terrific benefits. My mistake was leaving and starting my own business. Vinyl flooring. I did good work, had six people working for me. Did fine until business slumped and I let the dope comfort me."

He produced one arm from under the blanket. Raised it and let the sleeve fall back from a bony forearm. The underside of the limb was knotted with scars and abscesses, keloidal and bunched, raw in spots.

"This is a fresh one," he said, eyeing a scab near his wrist. "Got off just before sundown. I waive my rights, why don't you take me in, give me a bunk for the night?"

"Not my thing," said Milo.

"Not your thing?" The man laughed. "What are you, some kind of liberal?"

Milo looked at him and smoked.

The man put his arm back. "Well, at least get me a real doctor, so I can get hold of some methadone."

"What about the county?"

"County ran out. Can't even get antibiotics from the county."

"Well," said Milo, "I can give you a lift to an emergency room if you want."

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?"