The first was midmorning, when Kelp’s cell vibrated against his leg, and the caller turned out to be Stan Murch, who, based on the balalaika music in the background, was calling from a cab: “I seen our friend.”“Uh huh.”“About the swap.”“Gotcha.”“Says he can.”“Good.”“Day after tomorrow.”“Not today?”“No. Looks like we’ll move the smaller one first, take it out there.”“But,” Kelp objected, hunkering over the phone, “what we said, we’d use the big one to pick up the small one.”“Not the way it’s gonna work.”“Too bad,” Kelp said, wondering how they’d get at that alarm without a nice, tall truck to help.“So what we’ve got here,” Stan said, “is what Tiny would call another delay.”“Yes, he would. In fact, he will.”“I was wondering, could you call him.”Kelp made a regretful face, which, of course, Stan could not see. “Gee, I don’t think I could,” he said. “I think of it as your news.”“Well, it’s everybody’s news.”“It was yours first.”“Well, then, there’s the other issue.”“Other issue?”“The location you were gonna find, for the trade.”“I’m working on that.”In fact, Kelp was at that moment sharing muffins and eggs with Anne Marie at a neighborhood beanery, but he had actually turned his thoughts once or twice so far to the question of where to stash the truck once it was full of product for Arnie Albright.
