“With a “z.' The closest I can come to someone who might be called Dorsey's friend.”

“First name or last?”

“Don't know. He came by here a couple of times with Dorsey. Another homeless guy. The only reason I know his name is because I noticed him hanging around over there”—pointing to the partition—“asked Dorsey who he was and Dorsey said “Gritz.' First thing I said was what you just did: “As in hominy?' That went right over Dorsey's head, and I tried to explain it. Spelled “grits', told him what they were, asked him if it was a last name or a first name. He said no, it was a name and it was spelled with a “z.' He spelled it for me. Really slowly—he always talked slow. “G-R-I-T-Z.' Like it was profound. For all I know he was making it up.”

“Did he tend to do that?”

“He was schizophrenic—what do you think?”

“Did he ever mention the term “bad love' to you?”

He shook his head. “First time I heard about that was from the police. Asking me why Dorsey had screamed it—as if I'd know.”

Pushing himself away from the desk, he wheeled back in his chair, then sat up. “And that's about all she wrote.”

“Can you describe this Gritz fellow?”

He thought. “It was a while ago . . . about the same age as Dorsey—though with street people you can't really tell. Shorter than Dorsey, I think.” He looked at his watch. “There's a call I've got to make.”

I got up and thanked him for his time.

He waved it off and picked up the phone.

“Any idea where this Gritz might be located?” I said, as he dialed.

“Nope.”

“Where did Dorsey hang out?”

“Wherever he could—and I'm not being flip. When it was warm, he liked to go down by the beach—Pacific Palisades Park, all up and down the beaches on PCH. When it cooled down, I was able to get him into a shelter or an SRO a couple of times, but he actually preferred sleeping outdoors—lots of times he bunked down in Little Calcutta.”

“Where's that?”

“Freeway overpass, West L.A.”

“Which freeway?”

“San Diego, just past Sepulveda. Never saw it?”

I shook my head.

He shook his, too, smiled, and put down the phone. “The invisible city . . . there used to be these little hovels there called Komfy Kort—built God knows when, for Mexican workers doing the day-labor pickup thing on Sawtelle.”

“Those I remember,” I said.

“Did you happen to notice they're not there anymore? City tore them down a few years ago and the street people moved onto the property. Nothing to tear down with them, so what could the city do but keep chasing them out? And what with voodoo economics taking hold, that became too expensive. So the city let them stay.”

“Little Calcutta.”