“Your call, Kev.” Walking back to Wilshire, I returned to the sweater display, kept my eye on him while pretending to study my cell phone.

Co-workers coalesced around him. A woman said something and pointed across Wilshire. Smiling painfully, he shook his head. The group continued on, merry as carolers. Crossing the boulevard, they continued toward a restaurant on the ground floor of a black-glass office building.

El Bandito Grill.

A banner proclaimed Happy Hour!!!

Not for Kevin Dubinsky.

As I waited for him, he kicked one heel with the other. Contemplating an alternative. Failing to come up with one, he removed his glasses and swung them at his side as pipe-stem legs propelled him toward me.

When he got close, he mumbled, “What’s going on?”

I said, “How ’bout we walk while we chat?”

“Chat about what?”

“Or we could talk right here, Kevin.” I pulled out the photocopied order form.

JayMar Laboratory Supplies, Chula Vista, California

Five hundred dermestid beetles and a set of surgical tools, including a bone saw, purchased four months ago.

It had taken me a while to get the info. Call after futile call using the address of the compound off Coldwater Canyon.

The pitch: “I’m calling to renew an order for dermestid beetles …”

No one knew what I was talking about. Then I realized I’d goofed big-time. People like that didn’t do things for themselves. After substituting Apex Management’s shipping address—a warehouse in Culver City—I had confirmation by the seventh call, a nice clean fax of the form.

Kevin Dubinsky’s name at the bottom as “purchaser.”

Facebook and LinkedIn supplied all I needed to know about him. Let’s hear it for cyber-truth.

He turned away from the order form. “So? It’s my job.”

“Exactly, Kev. Your job’s what we need to discuss.”

“Why?”

“You buy flesh-eating insects and scalpels regularly?”

“I figured it was …” He shut his mouth.

“It was what?”

“Nothing.” Flash of bitter smile. “I’m not paid to think.”

“Are you paid not to think?”

No answer.

“What you take home, Kev, you might want to reconsider your priorities.”

“There’s a problem?”

“Only if you don’t cooperate.”

“With what?”

“Better I ask the questions.”

“Something bad happened?”

“I don’t visit people to talk about jaywalking, Kev.”

“Oh, shit—what’s going on?”

“Like I said, Kev, the less you know the better.”

“Shit.” He licked his lips, began walking east on Wilshire. I kept up with his long stride. All those years with Milo, great practice.

I said, “Tell me about it.”

“I don’t remember specifics.”

“You buy what you’re told, all part of the job.”

“That is the job. Period.”

“Service assistant.”

“Yeah, it’s stupid, I know. I need to eat, okay?”

“You get a call to—”

“Never a call, always email.”

“Buy me bugs.”

“I order all kinds of things. That’s what I’m paid to do.”