"In Toronto, where I grew up, a white Christmas was even money. A white Chanukah was a long shot. However, in 1960, on the first night of Chanukah, it snowed like hell. But for that snowstorm, I wouldn't know the story I am about to repeat; I would not have known that my zeyde had an encounter with the Baal Shem Tov (This was truly miraculous, since the Besht died 104 years before my grandfather was born); and I would never have gone to work for my Uncle Davy, making book.

"Prior to that night, I remember Davy mainly for his cuff links, which had gold horseshoes affixed to a buffalo nickel. The rest of him was invariably hidden behind a racing form. Uncle Davy was a fixture at family occasions, but a silent one. My aunts said he was shy. He wasn't. Some judged him misanthropic, saying he liked horses better than people, but that wasn't so either. Davy's silence was, as I would come to know, a corollary to a life spent outside the law. Once when we were alone, I asked him an indiscreet question. He looked around the empty room, put a finger to his lips, and whispered, Bobby, don't trust your shirt. But that snowy Chanukah night, Uncle Davy broke his silence and held us as spellbound as if he were Sholem Aleichem himself. From then on, whenever I could, I stuck to him like glue. My Aunt Celia used to say, 'When you leave school, your shoes take you out looking for a job. Where they stop, that's where you spend your life.' My shoes took me to Uncle Davy."