Chapter 8: What Arthur Calloway Actually Wanted
Three days later, I went to see Arthur.
His office was on the fourteenth floor of a building twelve blocks from the Calloway property.
Clean lines.
No clutter.
A window that looked out over the part of the city where the fire had been — you could see the boarded upper floors of his building from where he sat.
He stood when I came in and shook my hand properly.
"How's your wife?" he said.
"Seven and a half months now.
Getting impatient."
He smiled at that.
"Sit down."
His assistant brought coffee.
Arthur waited until she'd closed the door before he spoke.
"I want to be straightforward with you about what I'm offering and why," he said.
"I don't believe in burying the reason inside a job title."
"I appreciate that."
"I've been in property development for thirty years.
I've worked with a lot of people.
Contractors, inspectors, managers, lawyers.
You learn to read people quickly in this industry, or you don't last." He turned his coffee cup once on the saucer.
"What you did across the street — going back in a second time, for people you didn't know, when your own situation was already difficult — that's not something you can train into a person."
"I didn't think about it," I said.
"I just went."
"I know.
That's exactly what I mean." He looked at me steadily.
"I'm rebuilding the Calloway property.
Full renovation.
New suppression systems, new electrical, new everything.
It'll take fourteen months.
During that time and after, I need someone to manage tenant relations and on-site coordination.
It's not glamorous work.
A lot of phone calls.
A lot of showing up when things go wrong."
"I've never done property management."
"You've never needed to.
You're organized, you're calm under pressure, and people trust you on sight.
I can teach you the rest." He named a salary.
I kept my face still.
It was more than double what I'd been making at the restaurant.
More than double the combined total of both my shifts.
"Why me?" I said.
"Genuinely.
You could hire someone with experience."
Arthur was quiet for a moment.
"My son was in a car accident four years ago," he said.
"A man pulled him out before the fuel line went.
Never gave his name.
We tried to find him for eight months." He looked out the window.
"We never did."
The room was quiet.
"I'm not saying you're him," Arthur said.
"I'm saying I know what it means when someone runs toward something instead of away from it.
And I know what it costs them afterward." He looked back at me.
"You lost your job.
You have a pregnant wife and a young son and you spent last night worrying about a threatening text message from a man who is currently being questioned by the police." He paused.
"Let me make one thing right.
Even if I can't make the other thing right."
I thought about Emily at the stove that morning.
Kevin's footsteps on the ceiling.
The red toy car in Thomas's careful hands.
"I'll take the job," I said.
Arthur nodded once.
May you like
He didn't make it into a moment.
He just reached across the desk and we shook hands again, and then he opened a folder and we started talking about the building.
