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.”