Sold on a Monday: A Novel

It was dim of Ellis to hesitate. No reporter with an iota of sense would have turned down the famed Herald Tribune.

Sure, his decision would have been easier without the hindrance of his conscience. Lily had been right about the source of his guilt, of his success being built on the hardships of others, but that was only the half of it. The Tribune editor’s raves, particularly about the photo of the Dillards, had reminded him of the truth. Or, rather, the lie.

He’d longed to tell this to someone, and not just anyone. To Lily Palmer. How the picture of those kids was meant to be a single rung on the rise of his career. How instead, although it shouldn’t, that photograph suddenly felt like the whole ladder.

There was something about her that told him she’d understand, an underlying connection. At least he had thought so until Clayton’s interjection made the situation all too clear. In that moment, reflexive pride had spurred Ellis to decide about the job. Once the words were out, he couldn’t very well take them back. Even if he could, why should he? The move to New York was just what he needed. Before long, any memory of Lily and the Dillard kids would fade far into the distance.

Ellis told himself this as he geared up to phone the chief to make it official. He braced for a rant over a perceived show of disloyalty or ingratitude. While the man did mutter over the inconvenience, he ended up wishing Ellis well, even tinged with sincerity.

It couldn’t have hurt that the actual Society editor was finally set to return in the coming weeks. Plus, a day rarely passed when a writer—aspiring or seasoned, man or woman—didn’t swing by the Examiner on a hunt for an opening. As the saying went, only first-ranked reporters were irreplaceable—until they were replaced.

Ellis’s father would reinforce as much with relish, if given the chance. That was precisely why Ellis prevented him the opportunity. After all, it was a time of celebration. When it came to sharing his news, he’d deliberately called during the workday to reach only his mother. Oh, sweetheart, we’re just so proud of you, she’d said, bubbling with excitement. For an instant, he almost believed the plurality in her claim.

Within four days of accepting, he’d packed up his belongings—a minimal task if ever there was one—prepared his clunker for the drive, secured an unseen apartment in Brooklyn, and off he went.

Of course, one peek at his tenement would have quelled his mother’s enthusiasm. For yet again, a single toilet accommodated an entire floor of renters, the walls were as thin as gauze, and tailed critters enjoyed occasional visits. But much improved over the last, his room had a real desk and chair, a bed mostly free of lumps and creaks, and a kitchenette with a sink that ran hot and cold water. Hell, a person could spin with arms spread wide and not risk scraping a single wall. And as a perk, with immigrants of all varieties as neighbors, if Ellis ever got the itch, he could take up just about any foreign language he pleased.

In truth, he could afford a better place. His starting salary was sixty bucks a week, a decent sum compared to his meager Society pay. But he planned to be smart, save up for a car engine before his old one petered out. Only then would he splurge a little—buy a new hat with a silk band maybe, or a snazzy gabardine suit. Items that would fit right in at the Tribune.

Like everything in New York, the paper was snappier in both speed and style. At least, it seemed that way the first afternoon he stepped into their fancy building and rode the elevator to reach the city room, a vast space teeming with smoke and intensity. Of all the Mondays to begin, he’d chosen a doozy. Al Capone had just been found guilty of tax evasion. Thomas Edison had gone to meet his maker. Thirty thousand Hitlerites had paraded through Germany. And, to top it off, while plowing through Manchuria, Japan was working to bar America from joining the League of Nations.

In short, Ellis’s arrival didn’t cause many ripples.

“Mr. Walker.” He repeated himself for the third time, finally snagging the city editor’s attention. A cluster of reporters had just dispersed from the man’s desk in the center of the room, having confirmed their assignments for the day.

“What can I do for you?”

“Sir, I’m Ellis Reed.” An expectant pause. But Stanley Walker simply checked his wristwatch while rising from his seat. His wiry frame stood a few inches below Ellis’s height of five nine. His black hair held reddish tints and a light wave.

“You got a tip? Make it quick. On my way to a meeting.” His light Texan drawl conflicted with his staccato pace.

“I… No… You hired me. Last week. To work here?”

A look of bewilderment crossed the man’s clean-shaven face as he pulled on his navy suit jacket, which smelled of cigars. Around them, the familiar ticking of typewriters melded with radio chatter and layered conversations. “What’s your name again?”

A prickling spread over Ellis’s scalp from sudden fear that this had been a mix-up. “Reed. From the Examiner.”

“In Pittsburgh?”

“Philly.”

Mr. Walker snapped his fingers. “Right, right. The feature writer.” He smiled, showing a flash of discolored teeth, then swiftly lowered his lips as if by habit. “Been one of those mornings. You understand.”

“Completely.” Ellis shook the man’s hand with relief. “Again, sir, I appreciate the trouble you went to in finding me. You haven’t made a mistake.”

“I sure as hell hope not.” Another tight smile rendered the remark difficult to read. Then he introduced Ellis to the assistant city editor, parked at the next desk, requesting he help Ellis settle in.

“I’d be obliged to,” Percy Tate replied. Yet the moment his boss slipped out, Mr. Tate’s attitude noticeably sharpened as he rattled off the basics—from the building layout and department heads to the standard tasks and daily schedule. His delivery was so brisk that Ellis missed half the details. He dared to ask for a repeat of a point and instantly saw his mistake in the man’s hardened face. Everything about him—his eyes and nose, his build and demeanor—resembled a watchful owl. Just biding his time until he swooped in for the kill.

“Hey there, Mr. Tate,” another man said, stepping in. His boyish face conflicted with his deep voice. “If that’s the new guy, I can take it from here if you’d like.”

Ellis had obviously failed to hide his befuddlement.

Mr. Tate tore away without hesitation.

“I’m Dutch.” The fella offered Ellis a handshake, a genial though sly glint in his eyes. A heavy-lead pencil rested behind one ear, poking through his slicked, chestnut hair.

“And I’m…not sure what I did wrong.”

“Ah, don’t mind old purse face.” He flicked his hand in Mr. Tate’s direction. “Wasn’t much better when I first got here.”

Ellis managed a smile. “Thought it was something personal.”

“Well, maybe a little,” Dutch admitted. “A pal of his has been vying for a spot here for some time now. Could be sore about that. It’ll pass.”

Comprehending the issue, Ellis nodded. Not a great way to start off, but even more motivation to prove his worth.

“Now,” Dutch said, “how’s about a tour?”

• • •

Thanks to Dutch—Pete Vernon being his given name—Ellis quickly learned about navigating the labyrinth of floors, the late-night hours of a morning paper, and the key staffers to approach or avoid. As a married father of a toddler boy, with another babe on the way, Dutch kept his after-work mingling to a minimum. But he still slipped in a tour of Bleeck’s, the speakeasy next door on Fortieth Street.

It was there that Mr. Walker regularly took his lunches, accompanied by a glass or two of scotch. Not that even the paper’s higher-ups would object. Particularly since the Tribune’s owner was known to frequent the same joint in the evenings, putting away more than his share of Prohibition dew—apparently doing the same throughout the day in his large corner office. Fortunately for everyone, his wife was shrewd enough to handle many of the paper’s business dealings. In fact, three years earlier, she could very well have been a driving force behind promoting Mr. Walker from the night staff.

According to Dutch, the visionary city editor had been tasked with infusing new life into the Tribune. Right off the bat, he replaced the deadweight of aristocratic progenies with a few veteran reporters, but mostly fresh, eager writers to pen stories of “women, wampum, and wrongdoing,” as Mr. Walker liked to put it. In other words, he preferred spotlights on the feel and culture of the city to stale accounts of politics and economics.

It made sense then why Ellis had been recruited. Nevertheless, gaining his footing was more challenging than expected.

A few weeks in, and still adjusting to the paper’s hours—often concluding well past midnight—he was at his desk one afternoon, about to drift off, when a portly reporter known as Dobbs smacked Ellis’s shoulder with a scrolled-up page.

“Got a hot tip, but I’m jam-packed for the day. All yours if you want it.”

Ellis scrambled to sit up and accepted with gratitude. So far, he’d largely been a legman, dispatched to gather serviceable quotes or supportive details for another reporter’s stories. The rest of the time he served as a newsroom mutt, charged with a long list of menial tasks. The unwanted scraps.

This was his chance for more. Shedding the fuzziness of sleep, he strained to read Dobbs’s notes about an elusive ship. The floating speakeasy, called the Lucky Seagull, had apparently been spotted on the outskirts of the harbor in the twilight hours. If located, it was just the kind of subject that could earn Ellis a byline.

Not if, he decided, but when.

• • •

Ellis spent the next three days investigating the ship’s whereabouts. Each night, he trolled the chilly docks, a miserable task in November. Several dockhands confirmed rumors of such a vessel but had no other knowledge. Growing desperate, Ellis bypassed skepticism and paid far too much for a boat ride with a soused, smelly fisherman who swore to have spied the Lucky Seagull half a dozen times.

By dawn of the fourth day, Ellis had nothing to show for his efforts, save for a brutal head cold.

Though dreading to report back, he finally returned for the one o’clock news meeting. The group assembly was a daily occurrence around Mr. Walker’s desk. Between coughs and sneezes, Ellis disclosed his lack of findings. He was halfway through when stifled laughs from the surrounding journalists made clear he’d been duped.

Once the gathering broke up, Dutch offered a sympathetic look. “Sorry about all that. If I’d heard, I would’ve warned you off.” He gave a shrug. “On slow days around here, putting cubs on impossible assignments, it’s like an initiation. Try not to take it hard.”

“Sure. I get it.” Ellis wiped his nose with a tissue and smiled to simulate his amusement.

After all the years he’d worked at the Examiner, it jarred him to be referred to as a cub. True, when it came down to it, his publishing success amounted to little more than a handful of features. Or really, some might say, to a single memorable photograph.

In fact, the truth of that blasted picture still lurked in the recesses of his mind. A new job in a new city, even in another state, had done nothing so far to wipe the Dillards from his memory. Through his long hours spent shivering on the docks, they’d seeped into his consciousness. He could still see them on that dingy porch, a backdrop to a borrowed sign. Like driftwood, they just kept floating back. The same went for thoughts of Lily Palmer.

A waste of time, he told himself. All of that was in the past.

Discounted by the likes of Mr. Tate, and perhaps now by Mr. Walker himself, he would charge forward with even more resolve.

And so, as the weeks rolled on, Ellis made feverish attempts to land a notable story. Always there was a reason for rejection: not enough meat, already well-covered territory, great theory but lacking ample evidence to take it to press.

In the meanwhile, he continued to justify his salary by covering basic city assignments, snatching a column inch here and there. Same as most, it was a duty at the paper that largely went unnoticed until marred by an error, like misspelling a star vaudevillian’s name. Or reversing the ages of a mother and son who’d survived a house fire. Or in the caption of a photo, mistaking an ambassador’s wife for his daughter.

Each instance earned Ellis a warning, the last two sterner than the first.

As a direct result, he became hyperdiligent when recording any information, confirming facts at least twice to prevent another blunder. This was precisely how he knew, without a doubt, that he’d correctly transcribed the time Dutch had given him for a council meeting at City Hall. Ellis was sent out to grab a comment from the mayor about a controversial zoning dispute. Yet he arrived to discover that the event had ended hours earlier and the mayor had left for a trip.

Straightaway, Ellis phoned Dutch, who apologized for the gaffe. Ellis therefore had no cause to prepare a defense when returning to the paper, where he was promptly beckoned to the city desk.

“Dutch told me about the mix-up,” Mr. Walker stated. He was never one to yell, unlike old Howard Trimble, but a thread of frustration tugged at his drawl. “We needed the mayor’s response to corroborate. Now we can’t run the damn piece.”

“Sir, I’ll track him down. I’ll get a quote by tomorrow—”

“Dutch’ll handle it.”

From the assistant city editor’s desk, Mr. Tate shot Ellis his usual owlish glower.

Mr. Walker leaned back in his chair. He shook his head with a firm look. “Bottom line, Mr. Reed. This cannot happen again.”

Equally stunned and bewildered, Ellis silently grappled for an explanation. But then he caught eyes with Dutch across the room. When the guy dropped his gaze, the situation gained clarity. He had pinned the blame on Ellis.

In any competitive business, let alone in New York, a man had to look out for himself. Especially in times like these. Ellis just never expected this from someone he considered a friend.

“I understand,” he replied simply, in no position to argue.

All things considered, which of them would Mr. Walker have believed?

• • •

Four or five. No—six. Gently swirling the whiskey in his glass, Ellis tried to recall the number of shots he’d downed since planting himself in a corner booth at Hal’s Hideaway. True to its name, the dim bar was nestled deep in an alley with a nondescript door, just blocks from Ellis’s flat in Brooklyn. Entry required a special knock, which he’d gleaned from the janitor of his apartment building. The elderly man claimed to enjoy a nip of “rye gag” at Hal’s on occasion.

On the low stage, a trio played the blues to a half-filled room, where a mix of tables and booths afforded decent privacy. But what Ellis favored most was that the place wasn’t Bleeck’s, a joint full of Tribune staffers who surely viewed him as a chump, thanks to that damn backstabbing Dutch. The guy actually had the guts to approach Ellis before day’s end. Ellis had walked away, not hearing a word.

Folks in Allentown voiced warnings about his kind. The sneaky, greedy, double-crossing types. Ellis hadn’t listened. And now here he was, on the brink of hightailing it home, washed up. A bum.

Lily was a smart one indeed. Given a choice between him and ace-in-the-hole Clayton Brauer, she’d picked the winner.

Ellis threw back his drink. No longer blazing fire down his throat, it melted away another layer of frustration. He’d need two more shots to dull the pangs of betrayal. Four, maybe, to drown out the sense of defeat.

Squinting toward a waitress—his vision had transformed her into twins—he waved to signal a refill. She nodded, then attended to other patrons. No rush on her part.

Ellis sank into his seat, eyelids growing heavy. He tried to lose himself in the notes of “Embraceable You,” but voices behind him kept seeping over the high-back booth. The group’s volume had been growing with every round of drinks.

With the state Ellis was in, he had half a mind to tell them to keep it down. But he was catching enough of their words—about a recent warehouse raid and a new member of their outfit—to know better. He’d be wise to turn a deaf ear, but the same nosiness that had doomed him to become a newspaperman compelled him to listen closer.

“We bloody need to do somethin’.” The man spoke with a brogue, implying ties to the Irish Mob, a large faction in the borough. “We look like a bunch of dolts and killers, the lot of us. The boss is right. People see us as alley rats, and we’ll never get the respect we deserve.”

“Yeah, so? Whaddya have in mind?” This one’s accent was clearly local.

“What, I gotta have all the answers?”

They were fretting over public perception, Ellis realized. Not an original concept, even in the underworld. Mobsters, at least the savvy ones, were businessmen, after all.

Ellis recalled an article. After the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, when Capone’s men gifted the competition with a spray of bullets, the bootlegger’s suave image suffered. Soon after, Capone himself began funding soup kitchens, as highlighted in the paper, to regain the public’s favor.

An idea now formed in Ellis’s head, a solution to more than a single dilemma. Sure, it came with a voice of reason, but it was tamped by a desperate desire to reverse his luck. More than that, a primitive urge to battle his way back. He envisioned himself as Jack Dempsey in the ninth round of a title fight. Pinned to the ropes. Refusing to go down.

Before Ellis could weigh the risks, he came to his feet.

At the next table, dizzy from standing too fast, he struggled to bring the men into focus. Two of the figures were seated together, their faces indiscernible. A third, with a scar on his jawline, stared straight at Ellis.

“What the bloody hell are you lookin’ at?”

“I’ve got a proposal.” Ellis aimed for assertive, trying not to sound shellacked. “A fairly easy way to solve your problem.”

The brawnier of the seated pair jumped in. “Our problem, huh? So, you listening in on us? That it?”

Despite his mental haze, Ellis knew to skip to the point. “See, I’m a reporter at the Herald Tribune. And if you’re looking to better your—”

“Take this eejit outside,” the scarred Irishman ordered.

The guy who stood up topped Ellis by a good foot, plus a solid seventy pounds. As he gripped Ellis by the arm, tight as a tourniquet, the error in Ellis’s judgment became strikingly apparent. But so did his need to blurt out the rest.

“I’m offering a trade that your boss is gonna love.”

The hold on Ellis’s arm remained, but the men were exchanging looks. He’d at least piqued their interest. But was it enough to save him from a one-way trip to the dump?

After a steely pause, a gleam entered the Irishman’s eyes. “Take a seat.”