The light hurt my pupils. He appeared to be in agony.

He finally stopped rubbing. I said, “Habla inglés?”

“I'm from Tucson, man,” he said, in unaccented English.

His hands were fisted, but the tremor and his small bones mocked his fighter's stance. He started to cough, dry and wheezing. Tried to bring up phlegm and couldn't.

“Didn't mean to scare you,” I said.

He was looking at the money. I extended my arm and he snatched the bill and crammed it under his waistband. The pants were much too big for him and held together with a red plastic belt. One of his sneakers was patched with cellophane tape. As his hand balled up around the bill, I saw that the pinkie of his left hand was missing.

“Gimme more,” he said.

I didn't say anything.

“Gimme more. But she won' fuck you, anyway.”

“I don't want her to.”

He flinched. Thought a moment. “I won', neither.”

“I'm not interested in that, either.”

He frowned, put a finger inside his mouth and rubbed his gums.

I gave a quick look around, saw no one, and took out a fourth ten.

“Whu'?” he said, yanking his hand free and making a grab for it.

Holding it out of reach, I said, “Is that Little Calcutta?”

“Huh?”

“The place we just were. Is that Little Calcutta?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yeah.” He coughed some more, hit his chest with the four-fingered hand.

“How many people live there?”

“I dunno.”

“Are there others in there right now? People I didn't see?”

He considered his answer. Shook his head.

“Are there ever others?”

“Sometimes.”

“Where are they now?”

“Around.” He looked at the money, worked his tongue against his cheek, and came closer.

“She fucks you, it's twenty bucks.”

I put the bill in my pocket.

“Hey!” he said, as if I'd cheated at a game.

“I don't want to fuck anyone,” I said. “I just want some information. Answer my questions and you'll get paid, okay?”

“Why, man?”

“Because I'm a curious guy.”

“Cop?”

“No.”

He flexed his shoulders and rubbed his gums some more. When he removed his hand, the fingers were bloody.

“Is the baby yours?” I said.

“Thas what you wanna know?”

“Is it?”

“I dunno.”

“It needs to be looked at by a doctor.”

“I dunno.”

“Is she your woman?”

He smiled. “Sometimes.”

“What's your name?”

“Terminator Three.” Glaring. Challenging me to mock him.

“Okay,” I said. “Are there more people in there?”

“I told you, man. Not now, just at night.”

“They come back at night?”

“Yuh.”

“Every night?”

He looked at me as if I were stupid. Shook his head slowly. “Some nights—it changes places, I dunno.”

“It moves from place to place?”

“Yeah.”

Tent City as a concept. Some New Wave journalist would have a ball with it.

“What about a guy named Gritz?”

“Huh?”

“Gritz.” I began the description Coburg had given me, and to my surprise he broke in: “Yeah.”

“You know him?”