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He meets Mick St. John in New York City in the winter of 1945, a few months after the guy's heart has been blown to smithereens.
It's snowing and the city is all dirty slush and post-war exhilaration; Josef gets him drunk on gimlets in a dive bar in Hell's Kitchen and gets him to spill everything about Ray and Lilah and the shit he saw in Italy. It's gruesome, as far as human emotions go, but Josef is fascinated. There's something both hardened and vulnerable in Mick's eyes as he tells his tales to the dregs of gin at the bottom of his glass while Josef tries but mostly fails to stare at anything but the gently pulsing line of Mick's jugular.
He’s hesitant. Mick smells like he’d be a good meal and an even better fuck, but Josef is starting to know himself better than this. Plus, he has rules.
Don't play with your food. Don't get attached.
But most importantly: just wait and see.