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?”

“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.”