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“Dunn,” a deep male voice said.

“Is this WOrth-two-seven-six-two-five?”

“Yeah.”

“My name is Canidy. I have a message to call but no name.”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t leave this number?”

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Canidy. C-A-N—”

“Hang on.”

Canidy heard the clunk sound of the receiver being put down on a hard surface, then the sound of footsteps, then, faintly in the distance, the sound of the man’s voice relating their conversation. After a moment, the footsteps grew louder and the receiver was picked up from the hard surface.

“Hello?” a different voice said in Canidy’s ear.

“This is Richard—”

“Yeah, I remember,” the voice said sarcastically. “We just met.”

Lanza?

“Listen,” Lanza continued, “that thing we talked about? I got someone you want to meet. Eight o’clock tonight, you go out of your hotel, walk to the northeast corner of the park across the street, and a car will be there to pick you up. Got it?”

I didn’t tell him what hotel. Clearly, he knows. And he’s not making anything of it, just letting me twist knowing that he knows.

“Eight,” Canidy said, “northeast corner. Got it. What—”

“And get out of that uniform. You won’t need it. Get in something you won’t care if it gets dirty. Or wet.”

Wet?

Canidy heard the connection break.

He checked his chronometer. It was three o’clock.

Five hours. Not a lot of time.

Canidy, the .45 tucked again into the small of his back, took the elevator back down to the first floor. At the front desk, Victor was still there, and Canidy asked him where the nearest shop was that he could buy some casual, rugged clothing.

“For any special purpose?” Victor asked.

Yeah, Canidy thought, something that can get dirty and wet. “You know, Victor, mob kind of stuff.”

Hell, I don’t know.

“Khakis, flannel shirt,” Canidy said, thinking about what Lanza and the monster fishmonger had been wearing. He didn’t mention the rubber boots.

“Leonwood’s,” Victor said immediately.

“What’s that?”

“The outfitter L.L. Bean?”