Naumann slits an envelope to a blank both sides page of paper holding in its folds the surprise of a clean crisp one hundred dollar note. An overlooked thin letter? A tucked-away tiny card? The empty envelope bears his name and address in computer-generated typeface on a stuck-on label, nothing more, nothing else. Where posted? When? The stamp says local. Posted yesterday. A fan! says his wife. Naumann is a non-best-selling writer. This wife, his second, does kindergarten work. Every bit helps. Let’s go out! she says, as Naumann, who loves her dearly and all the rest of it, knew…