“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 def 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.