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Evan Stoess could choke back the bile that soured his throat. His soul was a different story.
He stood in the shadow of a Dutch elm tree, the strong summer sun behind him over Central Park. Sweating in his dark suit, he watched the front entrance of 940 Fifth Avenue. He shifted from foot to foot, impatiently focused on the ornate building and its money-soaked green canopy. He waited; he watched.
Evan’s ritual often lasted more than an hour, and sometimes his quarry never appeared. Later in the season, when the ocean warmed and the city slowed, the