The woman screaming.
Startled, the boy looked at her and I moved in, grabbed the bar, and twisted it out of his grip. The inertia threw him backwards onto the ground so easily that I felt like a bully.
He stayed there, looking up at me, shielding his face with one hand, ready to be beaten.
The woman was up, tripping out of the sheets, naked, the baby left squalling on the dirt. Her belly was pendulous and stretchmarked, her breasts limp as a crone's, though she couldn't have been much older than twenty.
I threw the bar as far as I could and held out both hands in what I hoped was a gesture of peace.
The two of them looked at me. Now I felt like a bad parent.
The baby was openmouthed with rage, clawing the air and kicking. I pointed to it.
The woman rushed over and picked it up. Realizing she was naked, she crouched and hung her head.
The chinless boy's hands were still shaking. I tried another smile and his eyes drooped, tugged down by despair.
I took out my wallet, removed a ten, walked over to the woman and held it out to her.
She didn't move.
I put the bill in the cardboard box. Went back to the boy, took out another ten and showed it to him.
More of that same hesitation he'd shown before coming at me with the bar. Then he took a step, biting his lip and teetering like a high-wire artist, and snatched the money.
Holding out yet another bill, I headed for the place where I'd broken through the fence. Checking my back as I trotted through the muck.
After a few steps the boy started following me. I picked up the pace and he tried to catch up, but couldn't. Walking was an effort for him. His mouth was open and his limbs looked rubbery. I wondered when he'd last eaten.
I made it to the flap, untied the wire and walked out to the sidewalk. He came through several moments later, rubbing his eyes.
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?"
"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."