Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Afternoon
The man fixing sandwiches at Murphy’s Deli looked sideways at Waverly when she ordered an Italian sausage and said, “Is this for Sean Waterfield?”
Yes.
It was.
“Tell him he’s lucky, this is the last one left. Tell him I could have sold it ten times but was saving it for him,” the man said.
“I will.”
“I’m Murphy,” the man said. “Sean always gives me a 2-bit tip, 4-bits when I save him the last one. Did he tell you about that?”
Waverly wrinkled her forehead.
“No.”
“He’ll confirm it when you get back,” Murphy said.
“Okay.”
“You look like you’re not so sure.”
“No, it’s okay, I trust you,” Waverly said.
Back at the office, Waterfield was nowhere to be seen so Waverly walked into the guts of the place like she owned it. He turned out to be in a corner cubical with windows on both sides, hovered over a drafting table and marking a drawing in red pencil.
“Got your food,” Waverly said.
He took the bag, set it down and said, “There’s something wrong with this. What is it?”
This referred to the drawing, which was the size of a poster board and depicted the front view of a stately columned building reminiscent of ancient Rome or Athens. At the top in perfect letters were the words, New York Museum of Modern Art.
Waterfield was right, there was something wrong.
What it was, though, eluded her.
Waterfield broke the silence. “I’m thinking that maybe the windows are maybe just a tad too small. Another possibility is that it might be better if the front stairs had a broader footprint, extending another ten feet to each side. This area up here on the upper corner might be a bit too plain but I’m not sure how to jazz it up without making it too busy.”
He pulled the sausage out, took a bite and chewed as he watched her face.
Waverly looked for what was wrong.
It wasn’t coming to her.
She pulled the change out of her pocket and handed it over. “Murphy said that was the last Italian he had and he saved it for you. He said you give him a 50-cent tip when he does that.”
Sean wrinkled his face as if bitten.
“Got me,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Murphy, he got me,” Waterfield said. “We have a little bet going. He’s winning.”
“So he was leading me on?”
Waterfield smiled.
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong with this design.”
Waverly refocused on it.
Then she said, “I guess the thing I don’t understand is that if it’s a museum of modern art, why does it look like something ancient instead of something modern?”
Waterfield hesitated.
Then he said, “It’s in the same era as the other art buildings on the same grounds. It’s meant to match.”
“There’s no law that says it has to, right?”
“If you mean zoning laws the answer is no, but the general rule is that you try to blend in new architecture with the existing architecture.”
Waverly shrugged.
“In that case you’re asking the wrong person,” she said. “I would have made it modern.”
Waterfield popped the cap off the RC, took a long noisy swallow and looked out the window as if staring at everything and nothing.
The window was open.
A pigeon landed on the ledge and strutted with an eye on Waterfield’s sandwich. He broke off a piece of bread and held it in his hand.
The bird hesitated.
Then it darted in, bagged the prize and flew off.
The corner of Waterfield’s mouth turned up ever so slightly.
“You’re a dangerous woman,” he said.
The words took Waverly by surprise.
“How am I dangerous?”
“You’re dangerous because you’ve only been here five minutes and you’ve already set this project back two months.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. And thank you for that.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I want to take you to supper tonight.”
She smiled.
“We could go to Murphy’s and stiff him on the tip,” she said. “Get even.”
“Do you see what I mean about you being a dangerous woman?”
She shrugged.
“I won’t deny it.”