35
Toronto 1961
I must have dozed off. I awoke to the phone ringing and the record player skipping. I snatched at the receiver.
“Yeah. What?” I growled.
“Mr. Gold? This is Mr. Gold?”
“Who wants to know?” The voice sounded cultured but strained through the sieve of a generic Eastern European accent. The accent of someone schooled in religion, who spent formative years in a yeshiva.
The voice hesitated. “Mr. Gold. There is an important matter to discuss.”
“Is that so?” My head felt muddy and I didn’t feel like giving any encouragement.
A chuckle crackled over the line. “I’ve heard you’re a hard one. Let me introduce myself, if I may. My name is Chaim Dinkleman. I am counsel to Simon Wineberg. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
The image of the tall, blond sylph with the glowing aura came
