15
Toronto 1961
I held Abrams’ rock in the palm of my hand. It gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the Chevy’s wide windshield.
“What are you thinking?” Birdie asked.
I looked at him. “You have to ask?”
“No,” he replied.
“Then let’s go,” I said.
Ten minutes later, Birdie and I occupied worn but comfortable velvet-covered seats in the sanctuary of Ziggy Faiganbush, a renowned diamond cutter and appraiser. He located his lair down an alleyway off Queen Street, a stone’s throw from a clutter of pawn shops where the junkies hocked everything they owned to pay for a fix. Ziggy’s clientele remained a cut or two above. Many were legitimate, others out-and-out crooks. Ziggy didn’t ask. He just cut and appraised the diamonds as he found them. No questions, no lies. He’d been a poker bu
