He saw a hulking, thirtyish man who slowly looked around the office interior before settling his eyes on the trainer. The man wore a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans, tinted glasses. In ironic contrast to the size of its owner, Tenuta heard a high-pitched voice say, “Tenuta? Are you Ralph Tenuta?” The trainer stood up. “Yes. Who wants to know?” The large man crossed the office threshold, the old floor boards creaking beneath his feet. “I’m Wendell Pilling. We need to talk.” Without being invited, the visitor walked over to the old, worn brown leather couch. He used one big hand to flip the cat Tuxedo off it and onto the floor before sitting down. She spat out sounds of protest. When the man’s wide rump landed, the sound of the creaking couch springs was nearly as loud as the insulted Tuxedo’s resentful mewing. Pilling removed his glasses. His small, brown eyes bored into Tenuta’s.
