The Consultant

The drip coffee brewer finished with a repetitive, audible set of splashes as Nick Foals eyed the receptionist with a furtive gaze. She was obviously one not to be ashamed of her body and clearly liked to flaunt it, but he could tell that she was just starting to feel ever slightly so uncomfortable. He smiled. There was an array of crossword puzzles photocopied from the local newspaper, neatly stacked in order, the top of which was partially completed. She probably wasn’t the one that did the crosswords. Her place was at the end of the breakroom table. Plus she was in her mid-thirties. No, the crossword respondent was probably a much older woman. The only two hens in a cage of coyotes.

“Um, sir, Mr. Burns doesn’t normally get here until about eight. If you would like, you can feel free to hang out in the conference room.” The dilemma was clear. There was a ladder, a clearly burned-out fluorescent tube in the overhead lighting fixture, and a spare tube sitting on the counter next to the sink. And ‘Ashlyn’ as her name placard sitting on the receptionist’s station indicated, was dressed in somewhat of a less than conservative skirt – roughly two inches shy of being slutty.

“Need some help with that?” Nick said with an evil grin.

“Oh no… I can’t ask you to change that for me.”

“Oh… I wasn’t going to do that. I was going to hold the ladder for you.”

Ashlyn blushed. “That’s okay. I’ll just deal with it later.” She picked up her cell phone, walked out of the breakroom and headed towards the front of the empty office building, clearly perturbed.

It wasn’t even two minutes later that a slightly overweight man wearing slacks and highly polished, pointy toed shoes and a thin tie almost suggestive of a popular comic strip character entered, who was a sharp contrast to Nick Foals. Nick was somewhat short, with sharp features and he looked almost military in appearance, with close-cropped jet-black hair, and a tailored black leather jacket. Stick an iron cross on him, and he could double as a villain in a World War II movie.

“Nick Foals?” The man said as he entered.

“That’s me bud” Nick answered, extending his hand only out of business protocol. It was not a warm response.

“Larry Burns. Come, follow me to my office.” Burns closed the door behind him, and took a seat behind a red, wood patterned desk, which would be standard for a senior level engineer, but somewhat tacky for the head of the firm. “So, my good buddy from college says you’re the man that can get things done. Now ordinarily, just to be up front, I don’t tend to give business consultants the time of day.”

Nick rubbed his chin. “Let’s see, Larry… the Delany Overcrossing project. You did manage to end up snagging that, now didn’t you. And I know you didn’t expect to get that.”

Larry contemplated the question. “We did. But, honestly, I hate to say it, but the only reason we got that was because Delsun Group’s named PM was killed in an unfortunate traffic accident.”

“Well” Nick replied thoughtfully, after a brief pause. “I’m sure that could have been a contributing factor, but as we discussed on the phone, we did in fact grease the rails for your firm to get it. So, consider that a freebie. A goodwill gesture. Proof, if you will, that we can make things happen.”

“Again, Mr. Foals… so, what exactly, or rather, who did you talk to, to ‘grease the rails?’”

“Larry… I’m a consultant just like you. My means and methods are proprietary and confidential. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“All right, we’ll just leave it at that. Tell me, what can you do for me?”

Nick compulsively rubbed his chin again. “The Salt River Bridge project. It would be a real coup if you got it. Right?”

“The Salt River Bridge? Are you joking? Delsun has that in the bag.”

“But you can do the job.”

“Yeah. Of course we can do the job. But there is no way I’m wasting hundreds of man hours putting together a proposal on that one.”

“The county would appreciate it if you did, I would think.”

“Oh yeah, of course they would. The county would be overjoyed if we wasted a bunch of our resources keeping Delsun honest and not unopposed. It would make their job easier approving the contract. Seriously, though, if you could get us that, my ears are open.”

“Give me about… a hundred hours worth of work. So, about twenty five thousand, and well, I can get you that job.”

“So, what are you going to….”

“Politics.”

“Okay… so let me understand you” Larry said with a tone of disbelief. “I’m probably going to spend, probably easily fifty grand to put together an engineering service proposal for that bridge, plus pay you twenty five grand out of my own pocket, for, frankly a highly speculative project. I’m sorry Nick, but that’s a little too much to lay out on the table.”

“But it wouldn’t be too much if you got the job, would it?”

“Well no, of course not. Hell, it would launch us.”

“Okay. Fine. Tell you what. I’ll work for you pro-bono. You bid that job, and if you get it, you pay me. And if you don’t get it, you don’t pay me. Fair enough?”

“I don’t know, Nick. I gotta think about that one.”

“Think about it, but don’t take too long.” Nick stood up, and motioned as if to tilt an invisible hat. “I’ll see myself out.” He proceeded to the lobby, and glanced over at the receptionist on the way out. “Ashlyn, is it?”

“That is a very astute observation, Mr….”

“Nick. Say, did you manage to get that light fixed?”

“Yes I did, thank you for asking.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it? Torch Lounge at six?”

“Um, Mr… Nick, I um… I can’t….” She mumbled to herself as Nick walked out the front door. “Oh, never mind” she said to a non-existent audience.

The Torch Lounge was somewhat of an enigma. It belonged in a place like New York City, or Los Angeles, or Chicago maybe. No, it’s too classy for Chicago. Rome maybe. Paris. At least that was the atmosphere they were trying to sell in the heartland of the Midwest. And there were buyers.

Martini glasses clinked as covert trysts were brokered, all to the sound of a soft, barely perceptible classical improv jazz background. You didn’t show up here in jeans and a plaid shirt. A tuxedo wouldn’t be out of place. A casual sport jacket and slacks would be acceptable. Nick’s faux SS garb… worked. He looked like he both belonged there, and didn’t belong there, at the same time, as if he were Humphrey Bogart’s reincarnation.

The ladies get a little bit more leeway. Show up in street hooker garb and you’re getting turned away at the door. A classy evening gown will get you special treatment. But take the hooker garb, knock it down a couple notches to alluring office attire on the brink of inappropriate, and you’ll get a few smiles and probably a waiver on the cover as well. They call it a ‘membership charge’ as if it is a member’s only club, but in the end, a cover is a cover. It helps keep the riff raff out.

A familiar face sat next to Nick on the barstool beside him as he stared at the blue light illuminated waterfall flowing down a dual pane glass fixture. At least, familiar as of that morning, in the early hours just before business was technically open.

“Well you took a risk, assuming I would come here” Ashlyn said, as she placed her purse on the empty stool to her right.

“Who said I took a risk?” Nick asked, swirling a gin and tonic.

“Oh… well now that is presumptive, Mr. Ego.”

“Who’s being presumptive? I was going to be here anyway. If you came, great, if not, that’s fine too. But you’re here.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that just maybe, I might have a husband or a boyfriend?”

Nick raised his eyebrows. “Sure. But you were busy swiping on a dating app, so either way, you don’t seem too tied down.”

“So I’m going to guess you don’t really want me to tell you about my light bulb changing experience.”

“No, it would be anticlimactic. I just wonder if anybody else got to view a shot of your La Perla undies during the process.”

“What? How the hell did you… never mind. Let’s change the subject.”

“Well to answer your question, in your desk area, to the right of your chair, is a paper file box, on top of which is a mirror, facing up, with a few trinkets sitting on its face, probably placed there by one of your coworkers. And how did I know La Perla? The Levers Lace gave it away. It’s their trademark.”

Her face looked ashen. “Oh my god. It was probably John. Dude gives me the creeps. I’m telling you, he’s a freakin’ perv.”

“So what do you do?” Nick said, waiving down a bartender.

“You know what I do” Ashlyn replied indignantly.

“Okay let me rephrase that. What were you educated in? I saw the degree hanging behind the counter.”

“Oh. Foreign Policy.”

Nick coughed as he let out a slight laugh. “Sorry. I’m not being condescending. But I can’t think of any other outfit that would want to hire you other than the CIA.”

“They sort of had a problem with my uncle being a member of an outlaw white supremist group in Idaho when they went to process me for a clearance, so here I am.”

“Jeez, I was joking when I said that, but okay.”

“So what do you do?”

“Well I thought it was obvious. I’m a consultant.”

“Right. You don’t look like a consultant.”

“Well, before that I was a contractor.”

“You mean like, bridges? Buildings? Stuff like that?”

Nick chuckled. “Yeah, I guess sort of, in a roundabout way.”

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“Born in Kansas. But I woudn’t know. Don’t remember the place. Pops was Army. Followed in his footsteps. Got out after six years. Got an engineering degree. Been a contractor ever since, until recently.”

“What did you build?”

“Well technically, I didn’t really build anything. I spent most of my adult life in North Africa, Iraq, Afghanistan, and parts of Southeast Asia.”

“Doing… engineering?”

“I lasted one day in an engineering office. I fucking hated it. Pardon my French. I was on a plane to Dubai the next day, on the way to various contractor assignments.”

“Doing, like… what?”

“You’re a foreign policy major. I’m sure you can connect the dots.”

“Ohhhh. That kind of contractor. You mean like a mercenary.”

“Well that’s a harsh term.”

“So… why did you decide to become a consultant?”

“Simple. Work dried up. Afghanistan is back in the hands of the Taliban. Most of the jobs available now are just glorified security guards protecting business executives. So here I am.”

“So what are you doing for our company?”

“Trying to help your boss get some big jobs. But, he seems to be having some self-confidence issues.”

“He’s a pretty by the book type of guy. He doesn’t really like to take risks. I mean I don’t know a lot about the business end, but that’s what some of the other guys tell me.”

“Hmm. I see. That’s good to know.”

“But he um… I don’t know if I should really say this.” Ashlyn was starting to feel the effects of multiple Cosmopolitans.

“Tell me” Nick said.

“I think he’s fooling around with a female engineer. He tried to come on to me once.”

“Hmm, well that’s even better to know.”

“So, wait… this whole thing is over… you just want to get some dirt on my boss?”

“Well, no, I mean intel on your boss is a big bonus, but I was hoping to more closely examine the patterns of… levers lace.”

The crackling of the fake log began to take on a repeating pattern, as you listened to it sufficiently. He himself would have preferred to have a television mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed, but to each their own. It seemed to actually cast some radiance from it. Then it dawned on him. Brilliant. An infrared space heater, in the form of a burning log.

“So, Nick, where did you learn about levers lace?”

“I’ve had girlfriends before. In Dubai. Singapore. Frankfurt. And they liked to shop – at really upscale malls. Oh, I could tell you about Coach purses too. But, lingerie makes for a little bit more… interesting and personal topic of discussion.”

It was nine thirty-four in the morning. The Daily Herald Press day editor received a typewritten letter inside a typewritten envelope postmarked from Ogden, Utah that a group named ‘The Soldiers of Aryan Sovereignty’ declared war on the ‘kikes and niggers’ of Blum, Rothschild and Gottlieb blaming them for the misrepresentation of a prison gang leader named Wolf Rauch, landing him a life sentence for a jailhouse slaying conviction and that their law office would be ‘decimated.’ Maybe, just maybe, if he had telephoned the law office first and warned them of the bomb threat, an evacuation could have possibly been made saving ten lives. But the 911 call, which was routed to the local police, who in turn simultaneously phoned the law office and dispatched the bomb squad, in reality only cost two minutes at most. Could that two minutes have made a difference?

Probably not, because at exactly nine thirty six in the morning, a very powerful blast took nearly half of the four story business center down. The timing wasn’t sheer luck. Somebody was obviously tapped in and listening for the call from the newspaper. The blast was centered in a storage room inside Blum, Rothschild and Gottlieb’s suite. Ironically, only two of their employees were killed – an office manager, and a paralegal. All of the attorneys were in court that day. The neighboring businesses were not so lucky. Delsun Group’s regional office was completely destroyed, and they lost five engineers, four more were critically injured, and four admins received light injuries and concussions. Tech Solutions was relatively lucky. The owner was the only one present at the time, and he got away with non-life threatening injuries. They also had the foresight to keep all of their books and records, which were all electronic, off site. The other two firms were not so lucky. Their accounting records and employee files were safe. Case files and project files – a complete loss. The FBI and local police didn’t know it at the time, but two years later, when key suspects were located and arrested, insufficient evidence linking them to the crime could be found to bring them to trial.

It had been three weeks since the ruthless attack. It made big news, and was pretty much the only item in the local news for the past three weeks. Larry Burns sat in his vinyl upholstered chair which was probably designed and manufactured in the 1970’s, literally cowering from the thought of the decimation of his most hated rival. Wasn’t that the shit. Oh they got the Salt River Bridge job. They were lucky. No, luck wasn’t really part of it. They actually did have the job wired. Larry really, truly regretted proposing on it, because it detracted a lot of effort that could have been applied to more accessible pursuits. He knew a snake oil salesman when he saw one, that Nick Foals. He should have trusted his judgement. He was about to head home for the day, and then he got the call.

“Hey Larry. This is Chip Silva from County Procurement. Got a minute to talk?” the voice said over the phone.

“Yeah, I guess. I was actually just about the head home. What’s up?” Larry replied, with a tone of resentment in his voice.

“Well, basically, here’s what’s going on. Delsun Group, as you are of course aware, was awarded the contract for the Salt Water Bridge.”

“Yes Chip. You told me yourself.” Larry sighed.

“Anyway, they are completely unable to fulfill their contract due to the horrible attack on their office building. And you guys were the only other firm to submit a proposal. The County is dead set on going forward with this project, since we will lose our funding deadline if we go through another procurement. We discussed this with legal, and they advised us that if we can reach an agreement with you guys, the project is yours. Of course, if you want it.”

“What? Oh? Really. Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. This is no joke. Your fee is in line, your scope is in line, the quals are sufficient. Really, all you have to do is execute a contract. So… are you up for it?”

“Yes. Yes Chip, absolutely. That’s… okay man that is terrible news for the guys at Delsun, don’t get me wrong on that. I kind of feel bad.”

“Larry, I don’t have all day, do you want the job or not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Be at Thursday’s council meeting. It’s just a formality. The contracts are already drawn up. County counsel will sign off at the meeting.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Congratulations, Larry.”

There was that one time. That one time when Larry got to deliver a winning speech to his team over at Misso Associate when they won a dam project. He isn’t one for speeches, and would be more comfortable delivering an invocation than a motivational speech. But it was his team, and they won it fair and square. He won it. That is exactly how he felt today. This is the project that will place Burns and Foster on the map. If only Foster were around to revel in the exuberance. Ashlyn spent a few extra hours of her own time planning and coordinating the catered meal at the office. The staff deserved it. They worked hard, in uncertain times. They hadn’t had so much as a Christmas dinner in the last three years. But moving forward, it was no joke. They had to deliver. But they were hungry, and they were ready. Tom Flyss, the chief engineer, already had the basic design of the structure in his head.

There was one extra guest to the party. Larry had missed him at first, but he just kind of appeared. And he even had the audacity to put on one of those stupid looking conical paper hats, that were frankly there just for show and nobody was expected to wear one under a state of relative sobriety. It wasn’t a drunk fest. It will probably turn in to one, but it wasn’t one yet.

“Hey, uh, Ashlyn. What the hell is… that guy doing here?” Larry whispered as the rest of the group proceeded to eating, drinking and carousing.

“I invited him here.”

“What? Why, pray tell?”

“We are seeing each other, Larry. We had this conversation before.”

“Nick Foals? You are seeing Nick Foals? No, Ashlyn. We most definitely did not have this conversation before.”

“Well we’re having it now. And by the way, he’d like to talk to you.”

Larry looked in horror. “All right. Fine. I guess I deserve to talk to the guy. He didn’t do excrement for us, but I’ll… hey I’m in a great mood. Yeah, no negativity. It’s all good. I’ll be in my office.”

Larry sat back in his seat. He really was in a good mood. He was in a good enough mood to forgive a damned snake oil salesman, and tell him it’s all well and good, and that he is forgiven for not delivering.

A few minutes later, Nick walked in his office, shut the door and took a seat. “Hey Larry, congratulations on the Salt River project.”

“Thank you, Nick. Ashlyn said you wanted to talk to me. Something on your mind?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. And it’s… an embarrassingly simple matter. One that, well, I feel uncomfortable to have to bring up. But, Larry… I want my money.”

“Your money? What? We didn’t get the job!”

“Excuse me? Larry… for God’s sakes… what exactly are you and your staff celebrating today? Correct me if I am wrong, but you are celebrating that you got the job. I mean, am I wrong?”

“Technically, yes. But, we had an agreement. And that agreement was.”

“…was that if you got the job, you would pay me. Well, you got the job.”

“Yeah, but Nick, understand, just like in the Delany Overcrossing project… I mean come on, we didn’t win that for anything you did.”

“Oh, Larry. I am so disappointed. But I was, in fact, instrumental in you winning the Delany Overcrossing project. But that is here nor there. You got it. If we had a contractual, handshake agreement that you would pay me if you got it, then you would have paid me…. Right?”

“Well, again, it was by misfortune that we got that project. Just like it was by a severe, horrible misfortune that we got this project. And God bless their poor souls.”

Nick smiled and narrowed his eyes. “Larry, you are a smart man. I think. Nobody leads a successful engineering firm that isn’t smart. Give me the benefit of the doubt. Luck, God, fortune, misfortune… it had nothing to do with your winning this project. And that is what you did, you won the project. You’re doing it, right? It will launch your company, right?”

“Nick, are you trying to tell me something?” Larry asked, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

“You’re sweating now, just a little bit. I’ve seen that sweat before. It’s the sweat of a man that, for the first time in his life, thinks that just maybe, that there may be a little bit of blood on his hands.”

“Huh? I… I don’t understand.”

“Are you messing with me, Nick? Because I feel like you’re trying to insinuate something.”

Nick laid back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head. “I have it on good authority that you like to dance a little bit on the side of… shall we say, unsanctioned means and methods?”

Larry turned red. “I don’t know where you are going with this.”

“Just how did Cecilia Mecuna manage to jump her way from junior associate to senior project manager in six months, despite the fact she doesn’t even manage any projects?”

“That is… none of your business. And I am becoming uncomfortable with this conversation. In fact, it is over.”

“Give me a check for twenty five thousand and it is over. Or better yet, cash. In fact, make it cash.”

“Or what?”

“You’re going to lose that nice fat job of yours. And probably go to prison on federal conspiracy charges. You see, I can disappear to Indonesia, New Caledonia, or the Balkans if I want. And… at some point I will. But for now, I need to up my retirement fund. Twenty five grand is getting you off cheap.”

“You set me up you bastard.”

“No I didn’t. That PM that got whacked so you could get the Delany project? His blood wasn’t on your hands. You didn’t ask for that. But you should have been able to figure it out. And you know what Larry? I think you did, deep inside. You could have walked away from my deal on the Salt River project. But you didn’t. So you, my friend, are at a crossroads. Right now you can give me the peanuts I ask for… well, demand, and go on and enjoy a wealthy, prosperous life, or not.”

“Damn!” Larry Burns watched the ball hook to the left and disappear in to the rough, probably never to be found. “Shanked it. Hey guys, I’m cutting out. Play on without me.”

He sat on a stool in front of the clubhouse bar. It was barren that day – most of the regular crowd were drawn to spectate in a Master’s event just a few hours away by car. The bartender started to speak, then stopped, and poured him his usual drink. Then he turned back and spoke. “Hey Larry, I gotta run an errand, shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes or so. Pour you another one before I go?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“You look bothered by something. Everything okay?”

“Fine. Go on. I’ll be okay.” Larry watched the bartender leave through the back door, then pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

It was answered a short while later. “Hey Larry” Nick Foals responded. “How are things going?”

“Good, good. Listen – another project has come up. Big. Light rail. And um, I could use a consultant like yourself.”

“Okay, okay. Who’s the competition?”

“Strafford and Bridgewater. But… but I’ve got some rail guys. We can do the job. We might be able to take the job, but I need to be sure. I need that extra edge.”

“Music to my ears, Larry. We always need fresh work.”

“Cool. Figure about twenty five for… assistance?”

“Twenty five… what?”

“Thousand. Twenty five thousand.”

“Quarter of a million.”

“Quarter of… whoa, whoa… Nick. That’s a little bit out of my range. How about a hundred grand?”

“Don’t lowball me, Larry.”

“Okay. Two hundred grand. That’s the offer on the table. Take it or leave it.”

“That’s the offer on the table, huh?”

“That’s right Nick.”

“I’ll get back to you on that, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

The remainder of the foursome finally filtered back in the clubhouse, and all took seats at the bar. “Let me guess” the tall man said, “came back here to transact more business? It’s all about work these days for you. No fun.”

“I’m playing with the big boys. Gotta keep a hard line. Gotta keep them reeled in. Next two rounds are on me.”

It sounded like an opera baritone singer, bellowing out vocals in a language unintelligible through the din of the restaurant, but it was most likely Italian, being that they were at an Italian restaurant. Gina Guzman wiped the remains of a messy lasagna with her folded cloth napkin. “Paper towels are so much more practical. That’s what we would have used in the Philippines.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t find a decent Philippine restaurant here in this town” Larry replied. “Hey, it’s your third year with our firm, and… our second anniversary. So let’s make something of it. I got us a room.”

“Okay babe. Give me a minute. I need to make a call.”

A room. Larry can afford a room. A nice room. But nice rooms leave a bigger paper trail than cheap rooms. There is comfort in that, plus who gives a flying crap if there are rolled doilies on a plush bedspread when preoccupied in the heat of passion. Gina could understand, and was like minded. It had been a little while since they both got out. Her brownish skin and peasant looking appearance belied the fact that she graduated from a big name university with honors. Just as her vest came off, her cell phone rang.

“Oh shoosh. I better take this. Hold on.” She clicked on the answer icon, listened for five seconds, then her face turned ashen. She feigned a service interruption and immediately terminated the call.

“What’s wrong?” Larry asked.

“It’s my husband. He’s on the way over here.”

“Oh jeez. Just great. Really great. Now what?”

“I don’t know babe. I’m outa here.” Gina grabbed her jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m taking a cab to my friend’s place. It’s where I’m supposed to be right now.” She rushed out the door and ran towards the street.

Larry was in the final stages of dressing when there was a knock on the door. It didn’t appear to be an alarming knock. But, it could only be one person. He stood by the door, very still. There was a second knock. “Larry, it’s Nick. I need to talk to you. Let me in.”

Larry opened the door. Nick quickly shut it. “Have a seat Larry.”

“Hey look Nick, now is really not a good time to talk. Any other time. Tomorrow… first thing, I promise.”

Nick pulled out a black automatic pistol, with a threaded barrel. “On the contrary, this is a perfect time to talk. Larry, I’m going to ask you once again, take a goddamned seat.”

“What the hell, Nick? What are you doing with a gun?”

Nick proceeded to screw on a silencer. “You know there is an angry guy after you, right?”

“Yeah, but how do you know that? Did you come… to protect me?”

“Well, I decided to accept the offer.”

“Oh good. Let’s settle this in the morning then, all right?”

“Oh… no, Larry. Not your offer. You see, I told you. Don’t lowball me. I don’t like that. Strafford and Bridgewater, on the other hand, were willing to pay the price to get you out of the way.”

“What? Is this a joke?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“This… this is unfair!”

“Unfair? Okay, let’s go through this. One, you called me. You didn’t need to call me, but you did. Two, I gave you a price. You didn’t accept it. Three, you put an offer on the table. A lowball offer. I reviewed your offer, Strafford and Bridgewater countered and matched my needs, and now here we are.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go… three hundred.”

“Sorry Larry, I gave my word. I accepted. You see, unlike you, I can actually be trusted.” Nick quickly drew a Weaver stance, took aim, and fired two nine millimeter rounds into Larry’s forehead. Larry slumped back in his seat with his mouth wide open, as if fully surprised.

Stan Bridgewater stroked his thick walrus mustache which helped hide the massive folds of skin on his face. He sat behind a massive mahogany desk that was probably brought over from an ancient French castle. On the other side was Nick Foals. They were both facing a wall mount flat screen television display.

And in late breaking news, a man was killed in a police shootout this morning in an apprehension attempt. Last night, local engineering firm owner Larry Burns was shot and killed inside of a motel room over an apparent love triangle gone wrong. The key suspect, Manny Guzman…

Bridgewater smiled, picked up a telephone receiver and hit a speed dial. “Go ahead and send the wire. As instructed.” He placed the receiver back in its cradle. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Foals. You know what I really hate doing? I really hate lowballing jobs. Now that rail job is mine.”

“You’re singing to the choir, my brother.”