Not the site manager. Not the foreman. The owner.
Men like Arthur Whitmore usually existed in glimpses. A black SUV at the curb. A polished shoe stepping around mud. A voice from a distance asking why the west side schedule had slipped. He owned half the developments your company touched on the North Side and spoke like every word was part of a negotiation already tilted in his favor. You had seen him maybe four times in two years. He had never once spoken directly to you.
When you walked into his office on the top floor of a building still half-finished, your boots felt too dusty for the carpet.
He didn’t invite you to sit right away. He just looked at you.
You would remember that look later. Not cruel, exactly. Not warm either. Evaluating. Like a man studying a horse he might buy if the legs seemed sound.
Finally he said, “You’re from Mexico.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t drink on site.”
“No, sir.”
“You send money home.”
