Chapter 4: Her Rules

On Monday morning Gus walked me to a desk by the window with my name already on a brass plate.

"Boyle," he read. "Spelled right. She had them redo the first one."

"Who spelled it wrong?"

"Facilities. Margot doesn't forgive a wrong letter."

He set a sandwich on my keyboard.

"Roast beef. You'll need it. Don't tell her I fed you, she thinks I'm a bad influence."

"Are you?"

"I'm a very good influence. She's just never been in the mood."

The firm had put me in a furnished apartment on Twelfth Street, six blocks from the tower, with the rent coming out of my first pay.

It had a bed, a kettle and a view of a parking structure.

It was the nicest place I had slept in a month.

By noon I had met sixteen people and could name two of them.

At two, Margot stopped at my desk with a folder against her chest.

"Two rules," she said.

"I thought I'd get a handbook."

"The handbook is two rules. One, no surprises. If a drawing is wrong, I hear it from you before I hear it from anyone else."

"And two?"

"Don't thank me in front of people. I hate it. It makes them think I do favors."

"Do you?"

"No."

She said it flatly and looked at me, and I couldn't tell if it was a warning or a joke.

"Understood," I said.

"Good. Come to my office at six. Bring the Lakeshore block. I want to see how you think."

I spent the afternoon on the Lakeshore block, a nine-story housing job with a lobby that had been redrawn by committee six times.

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