41
Toronto 1961
Armed with a warrant we got from an understanding judge, Birdie and I drove the route up to Milevsky’s farm. Birdie watched as we passed Barber’s, the hamburger joint off the highway. The line seemed to have continued from the time we stopped in last.
“Sorry, man. We don’t have time to stop.”
“Pity. Good burgers.”
Callaway had seemed pleased when we told him just before leaving we’d located the notary, less so, that he refused to press charges.
“Bring this goofball, Milevsky, in,” he barked.
“We’ll need a warrant,” I said.
“So, get one.”
“Okay, okay. You don’t need to bite my head off.”
“Yes, I do.”
Some provincial cops were meeting us up at Milevsky’s farm. It lay outside our jurisdiction while the province covered the rural areas. I turned into the dusty road t
