Five minutes later they were waiting in the Eddie Edgar Ice Arena lot but at the back, under some tree branches that needed cutting. Johnny Boy was intently working his phone, looking up whenever he heard a vehicle.

Spencer glanced at Johnny Boy’s phone as Johnny Boy flipped from Facebook to Instagram. It seemed as if Johnny Boy worked social media like Abby worked her Spotify.

“I thought you said no Facebook or anything?”

He didn’t look up. “It’s not my Facebook, Spencer. Keep your eye on the entrance over there. You’re looking for a green-and-white delivery truck. Name on the side is AtoB. These guys are couriers, so if we give them some money to process, they’re going to divide it up on their rounds. So they can handle more. It means more people taking their little cuts, but it’s safer. They’re doing the same kind of thing as you. We work together.”

“He’s here,” said Spencer.

The truck drove slowly into the lot. When the driver looked their way, Johnny Boy gave a discreet wave. The truck headed over and parked beside them. Real close.

“Window down, Spencer.”

The courier driver did the same. Spencer recognized the uniform of green pants and shirt with its white pocket flaps and sleeve stripes. The courier was a fat, unfriendly-looking Hispanic guy with a regular Freddie Mercury moustache, its thickness probably encouraged to cover acne scarring.

Johnny Boy passed Spencer the last bag of money and motioned him to throw it to the courier. The courier threw a bag back at them. “There’s thirteen seven in there. How much in this?” the courier asked.

Johnny Boy leaned forward so he could see the face of the courier through Spencer’s window. “Six nine.”

The courier nodded. He had a quick look inside the bag before stuffing it into a gym bag behind his seat. He nodded at Spencer. “Who’s this?”

“Rosso’s replacement.”

The guy looked long and hard at Spencer. “He find you?”

Johnny Boy seemed to be expecting a question along these lines because he fired his answer back without hesitation. “I found him. Random. Not from around here.”

“Hey,” said the courier to Spencer. “Where you from?”

Spencer hesitated before answering. “Britain.”

The courier looked at Johnny Boy, then back at Spencer. His big swarthy moon of a face cracked into a smile. He shook his head as he started his truck. “Hey, Johnny Boy, McGrath? He don’t pay you enough.”

They watched him drive off. “Why’d you hesitate, Spencer?”

“That question, it just kind of irritates me.”

“Well, get over it. You hesitate on a question like that with these people, any of these people we met today, they get nervous. You don’t want that. OK, day’s over. Back to the depot.”