ALLAN McLEOD GRAY 1905-1975 “We need you to kill a man.” This stranger glanced nervously around us. I feel that a crowded restaurant is no place for such talk, as a high noise level gives only limited privacy. I shook my head. “I’m not an assassin. Killing is more of a hobby with me. Have you had dinner?” “I’m not here to eat. Just let me—” “Oh, come now. I insist.” He had annoyed me by interrupting an evening with a delightful lady; I was paying him back in kind. It does not do to encourage bad manners; one should retaliate, urbanely but firmly. That lady, Gwen Novak, had expressed a wish to spend a penny and had left the table, whereupon Herr Nameless had materialized and sat down uninvited. I had been about to tell him to leave when he mentioned a name. Walker Evans. There is no “Walker Evans.” Instead, that name is or should be a message from one of six people, five men, one woman, a code to remind me of a debt.
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