Immediately, I was impressed with his physique. He appeared to have died in his sleep (or perhaps while working out) because he'd arrived in a tight t-shirt and sweatpants. He wasn't massive, but he was clearly muscular, and he moved smoothly enough to surmise that he'd learned how to use those muscles.
"Jorge Campos," I said solemnly, opening his file on my computer.
He was also the first person who seemed relatively unafraid. He only nodded when I said his name as though I were taking attendance.
"So you inherited your father's building when he died and managed to grow his business into six different apartment buildings across western Santiago," I summarized.
"Yes," he said. Actually, he said, "Si," but I'd understood him in English, as I had the Bangladeshi, the Russian, the Swede and the Kenyan. I'd thought for a moment that knowing every language was one of my Devil superpowers, but judging from Gus's ability to understand, I'd guessed that maybe there was simply no language barrier in Hell.
"And you managed to do that by cutting costs drastically--costs like maintenance, heating, and occasionally plumbing, all the while managing to cleverly skirt around the city's ordinances," I concluded.
A small, proud smile flashed across his face for a fleeting moment. Then he said, "That's correct."
I smiled broadly. "Well aren't you a scumbag!" I exulted.
He appeared confused. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"This is now a job interview," I said. "Let's talk, Jorge."