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Men's wallets are like women's purses; they accumulate junk-photos, clippings,
shopping lists, et cetera without end; they need periodic housecleaning. But, in
cleaning one out, one always leaves in place the dozen-odd items a modem man
needs in order to get by. My friend Schultz had nothing.
Conclusion: He was not anxious to advertise his true identity. Corollary:
Somewhere in Golden Rule habitat there was a stash of his personal papers...
another ID in a different name, a passport almost certainly not issued by
Belize, other items that might give me a lead to his background, his motives,
and (possibly) how he had invoked "Walker Evans."
Could these be found?
A side issue niggled at me: that seventeen thousand in gold certificates.
Instead of its being get-away money could he have expected to use so fiddlin' a
sum to hire me to kill Tolliver? If so, I was offended. I preferred to think
that he hoped to persuade me to make the kill as a public service.
Gwen said, "Do you want to divorce me?"
"Eh?"
"I hustled you into it. My intentions were good, truly they were! But it
turns out I was stupid."
"Oh. Gwen, I never get both married and divorced on the same day. Never. If
you really want to shuck me off, take it up with me tomorrow. Although I think
that, to be fair, you ought to try me out for thirty days. Or two weeks, at
least
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