Walker can be a good listener, when he wants to be -- finely attuned to double meaning and sensitive subjects, particularly as they relate to rising action. He hears March out, clarification, buried threat and all, in a tolerant, poker-faced kind of silence.

“My interest is just that,” he says. Gaunt with age, drawn with disappointment, bitter in the way lines web in deep and dry around the bright points of his eyes when he narrows them.

“An interest.”

His knuckles are bare, save for the off scar, no indication of a ring, or of there ever having been one.

“You got something in particular you need him for?”