Chapter 7
Center Point, Iowa, was a lively town in 1916, the barbershop serving as the unofficial social club and rumor mill.
“That young Bill. Track, basketball, and a pretty damned good baseball player.”
Jim, the barber, was the moderator of the Saturday morning group. One or two might be there for a haircut and shave. For the rest, standing room only. This was more important than the town council meeting. This was a place to relish the latest rumor. You missed the session at your own peril.
“He runs like the wind,” a customer said through a mask of shaving cream.
“Sit still,” the barber said.
The man did.
“I think we’re fixing for at least five inches of snow by tomorrow,” someone said, ending the discussion about the town’s favorite son.
Bill opened the door. While under six fe
