47
Toronto 1961
The mellifluous voice purring down the phone belonged to one person of recent acquaintance.
“Reb Wineberg. What can I do for you?”
“It’s more a matter of what I can do for you, I think, Mr. Gold.” I heard dissonant jazz and screechy voices in the background.
“I see. And what might that be?” I almost added, “pray tell.”
Wineberg chuckled. “A voice in the wind told me something that might spark your attention.”
“I’m listening.”
“Ah well. This voice whispered in my ear that you are looking for an odd Russian fellow given to wearing women’s clothing. Would that be a correct assumption on my part?”
“It could very well be.”
“Would you be interested to know that I’m looking at him as we speak?”
“Very interested.”
“Good. He’s standing about 30 feet from me at the moment
