Preston frowned toward that other boat, which, instead of going, was definitely coming nearer. "It doesn't have a sail."

"No, it's a motorboat." She shielded her eyes with a hand, gazing at the interloper. "I think it's one of those they call the cigarette boats."

"Noisy and fast," Preston said, disgusted with the idea. "Drug dealers and the like."

"Oh, some very decent people, too," Pam assured him.

"Is that boat going to crash into us?"

"Of course not, darling."

"They're coming right at us."

"Maybe they want to say hello."

Preston looked back past Tonio, and there was no island back there at all any more, no land anywhere in sight, nothing and no one except themselves and that other boat. "I don't like this," he said.

Scoffing, Pam said, "Oh, there's no bad people in this part of the ocean."

Preston shielded his own eyes with his hand. That other boat was surging powerfully through the sea, thundering on like a seagoing locomotive, nose up. It could now be seen to be mostly white, with blue trim, and with names and numbers in blue on its side. Sunlight glinted from its windscreen, so that whoever was driving the boat couldn't be seen.

Preston made a sudden decision. Twisting around again, he called, "Tonio, take us back! Now!"

Tonio didn't even bother to look at him. They continued to sail as before. Wide-eyed, Preston stared at Pam, but she was smiling at the approaching boat, apparently mightily amused by something or other.

And now Tonio did do something with the sail, so that they definitely slowed. Instead of rushing, all at once they were wallowing. And the cigarette boat was just there, also slowing, turning in a large, carnivorous circle as it approached.

Pam turned her beautiful head to meet Preston's stare, and her smile now was savage with triumph. "It's been fun, darling," she said.

"You're taking me off the island!"

"You are off the island, darling."

The cigarette boat eased in close, and Preston made a belated and bitter discovery. "You look like my wives."

She laughed, lightly. At him. "Of course," she said, and Tonio held out a hand to catch the cigarette boat's rope.

35

OF THE SEVERAL guarded telephone conversations that took place on that Wednesday, Kelp was involved in most if not all of them. 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. "But now, turns out," he said, "I got an extra forty-eight hours."

"Use them well," Stan advised.

"Thank you."

Kelp broke the connection, pocketed the cell, kissed Anne Marie on the cheek, the nose, and the lips, and went off to look for a little cranny somewhere. It was such a nice sunny August day, without that humidity that sometimes happens, that he decided to leave the medical profession alone for once and start his search on foot. If I were a truck, he asked himself, where would I want to stash myself?

The problem is, Manhattan is not only an island, it's crowded. Other places, where people and their civilizations spread out like kudzu, you've got your front lawns, back yards, side driveways, alleys, mewses, cul-de-sacs, empty lots. In Manhattan you've got three things: street, sidewalk, building. Bang bang bang, that's it. (Forget parks; they're watched.)

There was a cubbyhole in Manhattan once, way downtown, about the size of the original Volkswagen Beetle, and one day an immigrant from Pakistan found it, moved in, and sold CDs and sunglasses from there for years until he retired to Boca Raton. Sent a son through NYU, a daughter through Bard. Is this a wonderful country or what?

Or what, if you're trying to stash a truck. The upside to this crowded-island thing was that always, somewhere, here and there around town, something that wasn't wanted any more was coming down to make way for something new that would be much more useful, at least for a while. The city is forever pockmarked with construction sites, some of them quite extensive, up to a full city block rectangle (city blocks aren't square; would you expect them to be?).

It was Kelp's initial idea that he would ankle this way and that around town in the pleasant sunlight and see did he come across a construction site large enough for its workers not necessarily to notice the addition of one extra truck parked in a corner, particularly if it was in with materiel not yet in use or a section they were temporarily finished with. After all, how long would it be before Arnie found some other location for the goods? Just a few days, probably, especially if they insisted. Especially if they sent Tiny to insist.

It's true the extra two days was a bit of an irritation, but on the other hand, it took the pressure off Kelp in his search. So he ambled along, and when next his cell vibrated against his leg, he took a couple of extra steps to get in the shade of a very nice plane tree before he uncorked the thing, and said, "Yup."

"Another delay."

Tiny — so the news had spread. "I've been thinking about that," Kelp told him, "walking around here remembering the three most important things about real estate—"

"You got your location yet?"

"I'm not gonna need it till day after tomorrow, you know."

"Where you looking?"

"Around and about."

"I don't like these delays."

"We just roll with the punches, us guys."

"Not my punches," Tiny said, and broke the connection.

Over to the west by the river was where a lot of construction was taking place these days. For many years, New York City ignored its riverfronts, got along somehow without all those esplanades, boardwalks, colonnades, market piers, and waterside restaurants that lesser cities tried to console themselves with, but now the real estate devil-princes, in their aeries on top of the taller buildings, have noticed that gleam of water far below and have devised just the perfect way to deal with it. Put up a Great Wall of separate huge buildings, jammed together, marching for miles up the West Side, with windows. That way, the office workers and residents in those buildings can have terrific river views and then come out and describe them to everybody else.

Moving up along this serial construction site, Kelp had made it into the upper Fifties when he thought he saw something that might serve. So he swerved that way, but then the cell started vibrating, so he swerved the other way, unleashed the cell, and it was Dortmunder: