The first time in three days that he tried food—a barely warmed can of Hearty Man chili—what he didn’t heave whooshed out the other end. He smelled like a goat pen, his hair felt brittle, and his fingernails were getting soft. For a full week later, his ears rang and his back hurt and he drank gallons of water a day just in case he’d damaged something. The day he returned to the station, a transfer slip—Vice to Auto Theft, signed by Reisan—was in his box. That seemed a fine state of affairs. Two days later, someone slipped a note through the door of his locker.

How’s your bunghole, faggot?

He pulled into the Healthy Foods lot, stayed in the Taurus, scanned the parking lot for anything out of the ordinary. During the drive from his house to the station, then from Budget to the market, he’d been on alert for a tail. Hadn’t picked up any, but this wasn’t the movies, and the hard truth was, in a city built around the combustion engine, you could never be sure.

He watched shoppers enter the market, finally satisfied himself that he hadn’t been followed, and crossed over to the row of small stores—rehabbed shacks, really—that sat across from Healthy Foods. Locksmith, dry cleaners, cobbler, West Hollywood Easy Mail Center.

He flashed his badge to the Pakistani behind the mail-drop counter—pile up those violations, Sturgis—and inquired about the box number listed on the Jeep’s registration. The clerk was sullen, but he thumbed through his circular Rolodex and shook his head.

“No Playa del Sol.” Behind him was the wall of brass boxes. A sign advertised FedEx, UPS, rubber stamps, While-U-Wait gift-wrapping. Milo spotted no ribbons or happy-face wrapping paper. This was all about secrets.

“When did they stop renting?” he said.

“Had to be at least a year ago.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the current tenant has been renting for thirteen months.”

Tenant. Milo pictured some leprechaun setting up house in the mailbox. Tiny stove, refrigerator, Murphy bed, thumbnail-sized cable TV blaring The Pot of Gold Network.

“Who’s the current tenant?” he said.

“You know I can’t tell you that, sirrr.”

“Aw shucks,” said Milo, producing a twenty-dollar bill. Keep those felonies coming . . .

The Pakistani stared at the bill as Milo placed it on the counter, closed his hand over Andrew Jackson’s gaunt visage. Then he turned his back on Milo and began fiddling with one of the empty mailboxes and Milo reached over and took hold of the Rolodex and read the card.

Mr. and Mrs. Irwin Block

Address on Cynthia Street. Just a few blocks away.

“Know these people?” said Milo.

“Old people,” said the Pakistani, still showing his back. “She comes in every week, but they don’t get anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Once in a while, junk.”

“Then why do they need a POB?”