44
Toronto 1961
Birdie and I sat parked outside Mr. Flooring as the shop began to close and various employees trickled out, on their way home for the evening. The light faded toward dusk. We waited another half-hour but Abrams didn’t show. Either he’d left early or stayed working late. I was about to call it quits when a familiar figure moved through the shadows. I nudged Birdie.
“Take a look.”
He lifted a pair of military issue field binoculars in his gargantuan hands and focused them across the street. “Hmmpph,” he muttered.
“Is that who I think it is?”
“Yup.”
None other than Boris Milevsky dressed normally in a double-breasted suit, wearing a fedora pulled down over his face.
“Let’s see who comes out,” I said.
Milevsky stayed in the shadows but lit up a fag. The spark revealed
