Roger wore his tool belt like a gunslinger, about as low around his hips as it could go without sliding down his legs into the dirt.
He wore a T-shirt tied around his head and talked strings of unintelligible slang—whose meaning I could only guess at—although I was pretty good at it. Or maybe he just agreed with everything I said I thought he said. But he was an ace at robot control, and he had an instinctive feel for managing the jobsite. Roger and I and the robots were the crew building a 77-floor hotel in midtown, and, despite the generous air-conditioning in the job trailer, we were sweating our butts off.