the shit-kicker blues

He’s not a big bloke. Sixty-ish, grey haired and bookish looking. Good handshake but soft hands, pink-skinned, perfectly pressed shirt. Thin but not a drop of muscle on him. Looks organized. Carries his papers in a leather briefcase, parks his pretty car in among the work trucks, looks around the job like he owns the joint. I’ve heard of him. Done all his time in construction working for the men who hold the money. Has made a name for himself as a shitkicker. Knows the contract. Knows the clauses down to forty-two point four point two A. The worst kind of bloke.            
           
He’s here to argue money with me. Comes with his team of young law grads, all looking slippery as fuck, too well-dressed for anywhere but a gay-bar. Sits down across from me in the meeting room, smiles a smile like I’ve-got-you-son and we get to it. Fires his first shot. Says “We don’t think this is the clients problem”. I lean back in my chair, say “got no issue with that mate, just need you to tell me who’s it is then, cos it sure as fuck aint ours”, and we’re off, him working his angles, tricking and playing, setting his long set-ups. Waiting for me to fall in the traps.            
           
We work at it three hours. No one else speaking. Come back at him hard when he comes hard, come back at him soft when he does the same. Talking and talking. The heavy machinery outside the window shaking the ground, four thousand tonnes a day cut and placed.            
           
The meeting grinds on. Can see his young blokes getting bored, already lost, knowing they won’t get a word in. I half-lose my shit a couple of times, tell him straight I think he’s playing games. Comes at me again. New hour, new angle. I wonder how good his bladder is. Keep talking; plans, diagrams, engineering reports, the contract.            
           
Hour five he sits back, curls his lip, says “It always amazes me that the contractor thinks nothing is ever their problem”. I lean forward, look straight into him, “yeah well sometimes the contractor is right”. He laughs, writes something down. I lean back again. Wonder what kind of man he is. Figure vain is the answer. He’s got too much pride to be wrong. Decide to work that angle. Say “mate I know what this must be like for you, sitting here having to fight us, having to fix the mistakes of the guys who set up the contract. Don’t know how you do it, working out the fuck-ups made by some weakminded civil servant”.  He smiles again, no fool, knows my game. “just here to support the client’s interests”.            
           
We get to the end, stalemated on technicalities. Everyone gets up to leave. I walk outside, stand by the fence, having a smoke. He comes out of the toilets, walks up to me, squinting in the sun. I'm bigger than him, unshaven. I nod out at the job site, “is this really your thing, all this? Does it fire you up, building shit, or is it just money and contracts?”. It shakes him. First chink I’ve seen. He looks at me, re-gathers, “yes, you’re right, I’m just the money man, here to do a job”. I don’t look at him. “Yeah well some of us give a fuck about it, mate. Must be 50 of ‘em out there in the paddock right now, in all that gear, and their bonus is riding on me getting you to do what’s right, so It was good of you to come”. Flick my smoke through the fence, turn my back, walk away, growl "fucking cunt" loud enough for him to hear.