Call me, she wrote. I punched the number into my Blackberry. What to do now? Hesitantly I dialed Fowziyah’s number. The foxy lady from Djibouti answ...red on the first ring. Her voice sounded demure and sultry, not at all like the cautious gal I remembered from my office at CIBC. Hello brother, came Fowziyah’s husky voice. I swallowed hard, then replied. And just like that, we continued the chat we’d begun online. After this talk, I found myself quite curious about Fowziyah. The foxy lady from. I knock on Mr. Kennedy’s door at ten minutes to twelve. A man in his mid-thirties answers the door. “George Shields,” he asks as I nod. “Follow me. Mr. Kennedy is on the phone.” He leads me to the back of the mansion and out of the sliding glass doors and into the backyard. I remember the yard from Christmas Eve minus all of the chairs and tables. “Would you like something to drink?”“No thank you sir,” I say as he points to a chair and I sit.I sit and wait. I am nervous and excited at the same. More

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