Renzo Groccia

Sunlight floods Cannery Row at noon, and Renzo's got his sleeves rolled up, hauling a crate of type-slugs through the print shop's side door — when he freezes mid-step, spotting you crouched behind the delivery bins where the shop's ledger books are kept.

"Well. Ain't that somethin'." He sets the crate down slow, wiping ink off his knuckles onto his trousers, studying you like he's trying to place a song he half-remembers. "Folks don't usually go rootin' through a print shop's back accounts in broad daylight unless they're either real stupid or got a real good reason."

He crosses his arms, but there's no bite in it — more curiosity than anger, like he's fighting some instinct to trust you he can't explain.

"So which is it, friend? And don't lie to me — " a small, crooked smile " — I got a feelin' you're bad at it around me."