“Anybody could have got hold of my knife. We just kept ‘em laid out in the back. Ever’body had his own spot.”

I try to visualize the floor of a meat packing plant and conjure up a scene of bloody, controlled carnage. I will have to get the judge to allow me a tour of the plant. The inside of my mouth begins to moisten at just the thought. This will be fun: I can’t even see a dead weasel on the road without becoming a little queasy.

“How do they tell them apart?”

“Most scratch a little mark on the handle,” Class explains.

“I got my initials on mine.”

It occurs to me that Class misses his work.

“What have you been doing since you got fired?”

I ask, wondering how I’d handle months of idleness.

I’d probably turn into an alcoholic after the first month.

“I’ve been helpin’ out at my uncle’s barbecue place in town for a while,” Class responds.

“It’s actually owned by Paul Taylor. I didn’t even know that.”

For the first time since I’ve been talking to him, I pick up a false note here. I haven’t asked about his association with the Taylors.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, watching his face carefully.

If he is conning me, I’d like to find out earlier than later.

“They’re sayin’ he hired me,” Class says.

“I hardly even know him.”

I question him at length about Paul, and he admits that before he started at the plant he was a delivery man for an appliance store in town that Paul owned. Paul rarely came in the store, but when he did, he would make a point to speak to the help.

“He was real friendly,” Class says.

“We always got a ham at Christmas from him.”

That sounds like Paul, the great benefactor of the underclass. He wouldn’t pay minimum wage if there was any way he could avoid it, but he liked to play Santa Claus.