I walked back out into the bright afternoon sun and left him standing at the workbench.

Arthur rented a cramped office beside a dry cleaner on Murfreesboro Pike.

His name was painted on the front window in peeling gold letters.

I pushed open the glass door and went in.

The room smelled of stale coffee and old carpet.

Arthur sat behind a gray metal desk, going through a pile of pink invoice carbons.

He had on a faded yellow dress shirt and a brown tie.

A little brass lamp lit his work area.