Despite the sun, he wore a full-length black coat over dark slacks and sneakers. His white hair blew in the breeze. A couple of times he looked as if he’d fall. No cane; he used his arms for balance. When he finally reached us, he was breathing hard and sweating, the scooped-out section of his neck glossy and pallid as tapioca.

Milo and I stood. Cohen said, “Sit,” and followed his own advice. The three of us perched awkwardly on the rim. Cohen’s position forced us to twist to see him. He gathered his coat, sank into the garment.

Milo said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Cohen?”

Cohen watched as the woman with the Lab began running it around the circle. The dog panted but she was merciless. One of the homeless men looked up. Glint of glass as he took a swig of something.

“Exercise,” said Cohen. “I used to think it helped. Maybe it did … they say I’ve lasted longer than I should. Now they’re giving me months, not years. That’s why I decided to get in touch with you.”

He chewed his lip. “What I’m doing is clearly unethical. If I was planning to be alive for an appreciable period …”

One of the homeless men got up and began walking north on Doheny. Cohen watched his exit. “The cards we’re dealt … all right, enough mawkishness. I’m not even sure this is relevant but if I didn’t tell you I’d be unsettled.”

Several more silent moments. Cohen laced his hands, let them drop. Deep breath. “Yesterday, I had an unsettling experience with Richard Corey.”

He coughed hard enough to flush his face, brought out a handkerchief, swiped his lips, licked them. “Until now, Richard’s attitude regarding Ursula’s death has been what you’d expect.” Turning to me. “Psychologically speaking.”

I said, “Grief.”

“How much he missed Ursula, how terrible it was for the girls. Yesterday, he phoned asking for an appointment and I assumed the reason was to continue our previous discussion: how best to keep the business going without Ursula’s expertise. Richard felt he’d either have to learn Ursula’s job, which he wasn’t sure he could do, or hire someone. I’d given him the name of an executive headhunter, but he hadn’t followed through.”

He coughed again, played with a coat button. “Yesterday was different, not only wasn’t he grieving, he was ebullient. Physically he was different, as well, had shaved off his beard, was sporting a suit from Battaglia on Rodeo, where I’ve always told him to go. But he’s never listened to that, either. His sartorial tastes generally leave much to be desired.”

“New man,” I said.

“Quite,” said Cohen. “I’ve always seen him as one of those farbissiners, the type who’d win the lottery and complain about a paper cut from the ticket.”

Milo and I smiled.