Fifth Avenue, Pittsburgh. The PNC Bank Tower.
Peter Hoffman parked his second-hand Ford pickup truck in a VIP spot in front of the tower.
If this had been yesterday, the security guard would have already come over, knocked on his window, and told him to get lost.
But today, the uniformed guard just glanced at the license plate before respectfully pulling open the car door for him.
Peter clutched the blue folder under his arm, feeling like he was holding a piece of red-hot charcoal.
Inside was the letter of intent signed by Leo Wallace.
A letter of intent worth twenty million US dollars, but for now, it was just a worthless piece of paper.
He walked across the marble-floored lobby, the sharp click of his leather shoes echoing.
He was surrounded by financial elites rushing about, discussing exchange rates, futures, and hearings in Washington.
Peter used to dread coming here. The air was too thin, making a dust-covered contractor like him feel suffocated.
