I picked up a yellow carpenter pencil from the bench. I rolled it between my thumb and index finger, feeling the flat hexagonal sides turn against my skin.
In my trade, if a joint does not fit, you do not force it, you find where the wood is warped.
“I am going to talk to the people who know him,” I said.
Helen looked at me, her eyes tired and dark with a guilt she was trying to hide.
“Be careful,” she said. “We do not know what kind of people we are dealing with yet.”
The Downtown Athletic Club sat on the corner of Fourth and Elm, its brick walls stained with decades of coal smoke. Through the fogged double-pane windows of the front doors, I could see the faint glow of fluorescent lights over the heavyweight ring inside.
I did not go inside. Instead, I crossed the street to the Oakridge Diner, where the head trainer, Thomas, usually spent his lunch hour.
The diner smelled of burnt grease, boiled cabbage, and old onions, a sharp contrast to the cold wind outside.
