Sold on a Monday: A Novel

According to Dutch’s pal at the Los Angeles Times, Alfred Millstone had appeared in the papers here and there over the years. As vice president of the American Trust Company in Long Beach, the mentions would be expected. All of them were trivial except for one: a funeral announcement.

Two years ago, the Millstones’ only child perished in a car wreck. According to reports, no sign of foul play. Then recently, over in New Jersey, the president of Century Alliance Bank took a trip off a bridge—as many a man had since Black Tuesday—and Mr. Millstone had crossed the country to fill the opening.

It now made sense to Ellis. Ruby and Calvin were part of the couple’s attempt to heal, to move on. Start fresh.

In a much smaller way, this was what Ellis, too, had hoped to do by coming here today.

The building was a typical two-story bank in Hoboken, with a tailor shop to one side and a barber’s to the other. To arrive before closing, Ellis had to slip out of the Tribune early, this time steering clear of Mr. Tate. After his mother’s visit and the news from Dutch, his chances of productivity were shot. And the drive to Century Alliance, just across the Hudson, had been too much to resist.

Inside, framed photographs of the branch’s pooh-bahs hung on a wall beside the entrance. Ellis’s heart stalled a beat at the engraving beneath the top portrait:

ALFRED J. MILLSTONE, PRESIDENT

The man was much like the cabbie had described. He had kind eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, a gently sloped nose that led to a blunt end, and a thick mustache, dark and tidy like his hair. Not the sort of person you’d imagine trading a stack of dollar bills for two barefoot kids on a farm.

Ellis turned to scan the room, seeking the real-life version of the banker among the smattering of faces. A security guard, stocky as a bulldog, cleared his throat while eyeing Ellis. A message. Snoopiness was no more welcome here than behind a peep tent at a carnival.

“Afternoon,” Ellis said. “I just came in to see—”

The guard pointed sharply toward the tellers’ stations. Another hint taken.

Ellis joined the shortest line, behind three bank patrons, and observed the area with more subtlety. Offices for management appeared to be up the stairs. He’d head there to find out, but the guard was still watching.

Soon enough, it was his turn with a clerk, a young woman who, unlike the guard, seemed rather ecstatic to be working in a place stocked with a hefty portion of the city’s cash. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?”

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Millstone, if I could.”

A hitch in her smile. “Oh? Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. I was considering opening an account. With a substantial deposit.”

“Ah, that’s grand. One moment, please.” She stepped away to confer with an older woman, caught in passing with an armful of files. The teller returned with a semi-frown. “Unfortunately, Mr. Millstone is tied up in meetings for the rest of the day. However, our manager would be happy to assist you. If you’ll wait here, I’ll let him know—”

“Actually,” Ellis broke in with a smile, “I’d prefer to come back. Mr. Millstone was referred by a trusted friend, you see.”

She assured him that she understood, and Ellis retreated to his car, where he camped out like a PI. He’d parked just half a block down, ensuring a clear view of the entrance across the street.

When working for the Society page, every so often he’d been tasked with following a celebrity to nab an intriguing picture. A chore he’d despised. Sure, not enough to deter him from later tracking a senator and his harem of mistresses. But this here was different. This wasn’t for his career; it was personal. He needed to know for peace of mind—for Geraldine—that the man who’d taken the kids was as good and upstanding as one would hope.

The bank had been closed for nearly twenty minutes, the sun sliding low in the sky, before a mustached man stepped out of the doors. Ellis sat up. In a charcoal-gray suit and a matching hat, Alfred Millstone adjusted his grip on a cane that appeared more for style than necessity.

Ellis exited his car, prepared with any number of questions: directions to City Hall, recommendations for a show or restaurant. As a reporter, he was never short on queries. He was in the midst of crossing the street when a taxi pulled up to the banker, as if scheduled with no need to be hailed.

A truck blasted a honk. Ellis stumbled back a step, barely missing the vehicle, its cursing driver determined not to swerve.

Welcome to Jersey.

Mr. Millstone had just shut the cab door, about to leave.

Ellis could always come back another day, but a new plan came to him. One that could lead to far greater assurances. Before he could weigh the decision, he hightailed it to his car and rushed to follow.

At a discreet distance, he trailed the taxi to a neighborhood roughly three miles from the bank. A string of impressive Victorian homes lined the north side of the street with intermittent trees. The south side hosted a small park.

When the cab stopped, Ellis pulled over and turned off his engine.

Mr. Millstone soon climbed out. He tipped his hat to the driver and trekked up the short rise of stairs and into the house. The paint was mint green, the trim and porch stark white. Two chimneys topped the steeped roofs, and an intricate gable added more charm. By all appearances, the outcome looked pretty decent for the kids.

Assuming they were there. Ellis hadn’t yet verified that fact. But one peek through the window could end the mystery—his worries, too, if he saw them doing well. Perhaps a meeting with Mr. Millstone wouldn’t be needed after all.

The thought was enough to propel Ellis.

He got out of his car just as a paperboy bicycled past, tossing rolled editions to front doors. The kid drew from his shoulder bag like an expert archer handling a quiver. When a woman walking her pup disappeared around the corner, leaving the street vacant, Ellis ascended the steps. On the porch, a wire basket of empty glass bottles awaited a dairyman’s delivery.

Ellis looked cautiously through a narrow gap in the lace curtains. In a parlor room on a large Persian rug, a young girl sat before a floor-model radio. She wore a sailor dress, black Mary Janes, and a red bow in her hair. No ponytail or overalls. But it was her. Ruby Dillard. Bright and clean as a new penny.

On an antique love seat, a slender woman in a fashionable day dress held an open book on her lap. Contentment curved her lips, seemingly more from watching the girl than from listening to the radio. In the background, a white-manteled fireplace and Tiffany lamps adorned the room. The whole scene befitted a cover of the Saturday Evening Post.

Through the window came the soft sound of laughter. A young boy’s giggles.

Calvin.

Relief drifted through Ellis, his spirits lifting, until a light creak shot from behind.

He swung around to find the front door opened. Alfred Millstone was reaching for the evening paper, the startle clear on his face.

“Mr. Millstone. Good evening.” Ellis felt just as jarred, but also embarrassed by his audacious plan to lurk. What the hell had he been thinking?

“Who-who are you?” the man stammered.

Ellis needed an explanation fast.

Then he thought: Why not tell the truth? This was indeed the person who’d relieved Geraldine of her burden. He might want to know that she’d passed, that he’d done a good thing, in case he had doubts.

“Sir, I’m Ellis Reed…with the Herald Tribune.” Ellis held out his hand in greeting.

Mr. Millstone turned markedly stern. “A reporter?” He made no move to accept the handshake. “What is it you want?”

There was irony here—that a newspaper was welcome at the home, while a newsman plainly was not. He and Ellis’s father could well be instant pals.

But then what did Ellis expect? After all the bank runs following the market crash, a double hit-job on folks’ savings, reporters hadn’t portrayed banks, or their executives, in the best light.

“You answer me now, or I’ll phone the police.” Mr. Millstone’s high forehead shone with a slight flush, triggering Ellis’s gut to intervene.

It told him to leave well enough alone, that there was no good reason to press on. Hadn’t he disrupted enough lives already? He could simply toss out an excuse for his presence and be on his way.

“Sir, I’m…working on a piece. For the paper. A profile.”

The man’s eyes tightened behind his glasses. “On?”

“Well…you, Mr. Millstone.”

What sounded like a western, with horses’ hoofbeats and yippee ki-yays, projected from the radio. Its burst of gunshots reverberated through the silence on the porch.

Ellis needed to elaborate to prevent a police summons that could end in a similar way. “As I’m sure you know, after Black Tuesday, trust in the banking community’s been set back a bit. A personal profile on prominent bankers like yourself could help remedy the situation by rebuilding relationships with your customers.”

Obviously, Mr. Millstone wasn’t going to agree—a good thing. Ellis just needed to provide an easy out. “If you’d rather not, that’s certainly fine. We could—”

“When?”

Ellis blinked. Shit.

“I presume you have a deadline in the near future.”

Ellis mentally scrambled, mustering a look of gratitude. “How’s tomorrow?”

Mr. Millstone’s demeanor lightened the smallest amount. “Fine. Two o’clock.” Then he stressed with a pointer finger, “At the bank.”

“Yes, of course. I look forward to it.”

A quick sniff, and Mr. Millstone bid good night. Then, as if suddenly recalling his purpose for coming out, he snatched up his evening paper and shut the door.

Ellis exhaled in a quiet rush. “Well done, dimwit,” he muttered to himself.

When he turned for the steps, he noted the window. The view of the parlor, along with the children, was gone. Someone had drawn the drapes.

• • •

The phone was ringing as Ellis approached his apartment. He unlocked it and rushed inside to pick up the handset on the entry table. He’d barely said hello when a woman answered.

“Ellis? Oh, thank heavens you’re there.”

He hesitated, pleasantly surprised by the voice. “Lily…yeah. I just walked in.”

“I’ve been calling and calling—at work, then your apartment—but I couldn’t reach you.”

At her urgency, he brought the mouthpiece closer. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

“She came to the Examiner to find you. I barely caught up to her, just leaving the building. There’s more you need to hear, but she wants to tell you herself.”

“Wait a sec. You’ve got to back up.” None of it was making sense. “Who is…she?”

Now Lily was the one who hesitated. After a breath over the line, she replied.

“Geraldine Dillard.”