White Collar Girl
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
White Collar Girl
“An unforgettable novel about an ambitious woman’s struggle to break into the male dominated newspaper world of the 1950s.”
—Sara Gruen, New York Times bestselling author of At the Water’s Edge
“White Collar Girl has it all—a plucky girl reporter, a colorful cast of newsroom characters, a gripping mystery, and, best of all, a terrific depiction of the 1950s.”
—Melanie Benjamin, New York Times bestselling author of The Aviator’s Wife
“A thoroughly enjoyable dive into 1950s Chicago . . . part historical drama, part mystery, part romance, and all cleverly told. An intriguing page-turner!”
—Susan Meissner, author of Secrets of a Charmed Life
“This story had me from the first sentence. . . . With spare, elegant sentences, Rosen plants the reader in the middle of midcentury politics and family tragedy.”
—Jeanne Mackin, author of A Lady of Good Family
“With verve, pace, and style, White Collar Girl conjures . . . a world you will not want to leave.”
—Priya Parmar, author of Vanessa and Her Sister
“Impeccable storytelling makes White Collar Girl as insightful as it is exciting.”
—Shelley Noble, New York Times bestselling author of Whisper Beach
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF RENÉE ROSEN
“A lively, gutsy romp of a novel that will keep you turning pages.”
—Karen Abbott, New York Times bestselling author of Sin in the Second City
“Prepare to lose yourself in the unforgettable story of a quintessential flapper.”
—Tasha Alexander, New York Times bestselling author of Death in the Floating City
“With Dollface, Renée Rosen crafted an unforgettable portrait of Prohibition-era Chicago; in What the Lady Wants she does the same for the city during its Gilded Age.”
—Jennifer Robson, international and USA Today bestselling author of Somewhere in France
“Rosen skillfully charms, fascinates, frustrates, and moves her readers in this turn-of-the-century tale.”
—Erika Robuck, national bestselling author of The House of Hawthorne
“What the Lady Wants is a story that opens with the Great Chicago Fire and keeps on smoldering to the end.”
—Suzanne Rindell, author of The Other Typist
“Once again, Renée Rosen brings Chicago history alive . . . captivating with a surprisingly contemporary twist.”
—Stephanie Lehmann, author of Astor Place Vintage
“A story Boardwalk Empire fans won’t want to miss.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Quirky and heartfelt.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A heartfelt coming-of-age story, told with the perfect combination of humor and drama.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
Also by Renée Rosen
What the Lady Wants
Dollface
Every Crooked Pot
NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
First Printing, November 2015
Copyright © Renée Rosen, 2015
Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Random House, 2015
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Rosen, Renée.
White collar girl: a novel/Renée Rosen.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-698-19256-0
1. Women journalists—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 2. Reporters and reporting—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 3. Chicago (Ill.)—Social life and customs—20th century—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.O83156W48 2015
813’.6—dc23 2015016495
Designed by Tiffany Estreicher
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Praise
Also by Renée Rosen
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Readers Guide
About the Author
To John Dul. At last.
Acknowledgments
• • •
When I started writing White Collar Girl I knew very little about the Daley machine of the 1950s and had never set foot inside a newspaper office. Thankfully, I met many kind and generous people along the way who helped bring me up to speed. Without them, I could not have written this book.
Thank you to Eric Charles May, who is not only a former reporter but also a very talented author. Meeting him was really the jumping-off point for me. It was through Eric that I met Dorothy Colin, a former Tribune reporter who offered further insights. Elizabeth Taylor, former Time Magazine correspondent and the current Literary Editor of the Chicago Tribune, was enormously helpful and provided encouragement early on. Her book, American Pharaoh, which she coauthored with Adam Cohen, is a fascinating look at the Daley machine. It was through Elizabeth that I was able to interview Barbara Mahany, a writer and former Chicago Tribune columnist. My friend Julie Anderson introduced me to Mark Damisch, a critically acclaimed classical pianist, lawyer and former mayor of Northbrook who gave me a crash course on the inner workings of Operation Greylord. As mentioned in my author’s note, Rick Kogan gave me a tour of the Tribune and led me to Shirley Baugher, a historian for Old Town who shared many stories with me and her many books, which are listed in the back. Thank you also goes to Claire Dolinar for the guided tour.
Two people who went above and beyond for me are Charles
Osgood, a former Chicago Tribune staff photographer who not only read and vetted the book for me but who introduced me to Marion Purcelli. Marion inspired more aspects of this book than I can count. Her generosity with her time, her knowledge and sensitivity to the writing process are forever appreciated. Yes, she is the girl with the attaché case and so much more.
Where would we be without friends? Thank you to Julia Lieblich, Marianne Nee, Tasha Alexander, Andrew Grant, Nick Hawkins, Amy Sue Nathan, Kelly O’Connor McNees, Karen Abbott, Javier Ramirez, Stephanie Nelson and the Sushi Lunch bunch.
Extra-special thanks go to Joe Esselin, Mindy Mailman, Brenda Klem and Sara Gruen—your friendship and support know no bounds and for that I’m forever grateful—I love you all.
To my team, starting with my amazing agent, Kevan Lyon, who has taken such good care of me and my books and has the ability to make me think I’m her only client. Thank you for all that you do and continue to do on my behalf. To her assistant, Patricia Nelson, thank you for all your feedback and the countless early reads of this manuscript. To Claire Zion, my dream editor, I couldn’t ask for a better collaborator or champion. Thank you for your faith in me. I’m beyond thrilled about our future projects together. To Jennifer Fisher, thank you for your fresh eyes on the manuscript and insightful critiques. To Jessica Butler for her tireless efforts to get my books noticed. To the Penguin Random House marketing and sales teams, especially Stefan Moorehead and the one and only Brian Wilson—so very grateful to have you in my camp. You’re the best.
To my family, Debbie Rosen, Pam Jaffe, Andy Jaffe, Jerry Rosen, Andrea Rosen, Joey Perilman and Devon Rosen—you have celebrated every step of the way with me and I thank you all for your love and encouragement.
And lastly, to John Dul. Thank you for coming into my life and taking this journey with me. I love you so.
“A newspaper is an institution developed by modern civilization to present the news of the day, to foster commerce and industry, to inform and lead public opinion, and to furnish that check upon government which no constitution has ever been able to provide.”
—Robert R. McCormick
Chapter 1
• • •
Chicago 1955
It was Voltaire and me. I stood inside the Tribune Tower and stared at his quote inscribed in the limestone: “I do not agree with a word that you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”
The elevator cars were dinging as people rushed past me to fill them, but I stood still. I needed a moment to absorb where I was and what I had to do. I thought about Milton’s passage engraved out front: “Give me liberty to know, to utter and to argue freely according to my conscience, above all other liberties.” I savored every word, letting them dissolve like something sweet on my tongue. This was a pledge, a vow I’d taken to protect and uphold.
The elevator operator held the door for me. My sweaty palms left marks on the handrails, on everything I touched. I was nervous. Excited, too. But more than anything, I was burdened by the weight of generations riding on my shoulders. It was time for me, Jordan Walsh, to carry on the family tradition. My father had been a war correspondent during World War II and before that during the Spanish Civil War, working alongside Ernest Hemingway. My mother was the daughter of a newspaperman and during the war in Europe she, too, took a job as a reporter at the City News Bureau. My brother, Eliot, named after my mother’s favorite poet, T. S. Eliot, had worked at the newly formed Sun-Times.
Eliot was the real reason I was at the Tribune. All my life he’d been the push behind me, convincing me to climb the giant oak in our backyard and ride the Bobs or the Silver Streak at Riverview Park. Just because I was a girl didn’t mean I couldn’t keep up. He made me believe I could do anything he could do, including becoming a reporter. Eliot had been a rising star at the paper when he was killed. A hit-and-run accident that took him far too soon. All he wanted was to be a reporter, and now it was up to me to live out that dream for both of us. That was the promise I’d made to him at his funeral two years ago.
I stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor and entered an enormous open room. A sea of desks, one butted up right against the other, clustered beneath the fog of cigarette and pipe smoke. I passed by the John T. McCutcheon Injun Summer poster on the wall and entered deeper into the echo chamber. The linoleum floor amplified every click of the typewriters, every clack of heels walking about the room. I was surrounded by telephones ringing, portable radios murmuring, dozens of people talking and shouting. I stood invisible while conversations volleyed across the room:
“Did you get confirmation?”
“Still working on it.”
“We need another quote.”
Pages were ripped from the typewriters and waved in the air, followed by cries of, “Copy. Cop-py.” Young boys scrambled up to snatch and deliver the stories to the horseshoe in the middle of the room. That was where the four key editors sat. They were stationed along the rim with the slot man on the inside, in the center, so he could dole out the assignments. Every inch of that horseshoe was covered with newspapers, books, telephone directories, overflowing ashtrays and stained coffee cups. It wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning and the frenetic energy in the room suggested that everyone was already behind schedule, running out of time. Welcome to the Chicago Tribune city room. It was the picture of chaos. And I loved it.
I spotted Mr. Pearson, the features editor, standing over his desk, still wearing his fedora and overcoat as he typed away. He hadn’t even taken a moment to sit down. I hovered nearby and cleared my throat. He didn’t look up. Instead he remained over his typewriter, pecking away, two-finger style.
To most people Mr. Pearson might have appeared rude, but I understood newspapermen. As a young girl I had spent many a day in the city room with my father, keeping quiet, waiting while he banged out a story. I longed to have my fingertips up against the deadline, my mind so consumed with facts that I couldn’t be bothered to take off my coat for fear that some detail might escape me.
I was acutely aware that time equaled the creation of news. Every second of every day something was happening out there—maybe something sinister or uplifting, criminal or joyous. To me news was a living, breathing entity. The facts and circumstances were like cells that divided and subdivided. Inevitable and unstoppable. A story was always taking shape, evolving, and it was up to people like me to discover it, dig down in the muck and pull it out, roots and all.
Mr. Pearson was still typing, and I waited patiently, thinking how this was a good time to work at the paper. There was a new boss in town, and Chicago was in the spotlight. Richard J. Daley had just been elected mayor, and he had promised to bring big changes to the city. He would revitalize the Loop and build expressways. He had plans for expanding O’Hare Airport and for expanding the city, too, with buildings going up at record speeds and more cranes sweeping the skyline every day. Yes, it was an exciting time to call myself a member of the Chicago press.
“Who are you?” Mr. Pearson asked at last without looking up.
“Jordan. Jordan Walsh.”
“Who?”
I was deflated. He didn’t seem to have any recollection of our interview less than two weeks before. “I’m the new reporter. Remember? You hired me. To cover . . .” My voice trailed off when he raised his eyes, keeping his index fingers poised on the typewriter keys.
“Marie— Where the hell is she? Mrs. Angelo?” he called out. “Mrs. Angelo—Mrs.—”
“I’m right here. I’m coming.” I heard the clunk, clunk, clunk of heels before my eyes landed on an attractive older woman, probably in her mid-fifties. She was short and had brown and silver-flecked hair that flipped up at her chin. “I’m right here,” she said. “You don’t have to holler.”
“Come show Robin here—”
“It’s Jordan,” I corrected him.
He didn’t care. He removed his fedora, revealing a full head of wavy white hair that didn’t match his dark eyebrows
, thick as caterpillars. “Show Robin here to her desk,” Mr. Pearson said over the sound of his resumed typing. “This is your new society writer.”
Mrs. Angelo shook my hand, firm as any man would, and introduced herself. She was the society editor and one of only a handful of women on the floor.
“Come with me,” she said. “I’ll get you situated.”
She walked me around the floor, weaving in and around desks and down hallways. There was so much to take in, and by the end of our tour, I was discombobulated and couldn’t remember which doorway led to the lavatories, the photo lab, the wire machine room or the morgue, where the archived articles were laid to rest. There were so many department desks, too, each one piled high with newspapers, books, telephones and other clutter. I couldn’t recall which one was the financial desk, the telegraph desk, the cable desk or the city desk. And that was only the fourth floor.
“Oh, and don’t worry about the Robin part, kid,” said Mrs. Angelo as she walked me along. “He called the last girl Robin, too, and her name was Sharon. Robin was two girls before that.”
“What happened to them? Did they move on to the city desk?”
She looked at me in surprise and then laughed. “You young girls are all the same. You come in here, fresh out of school, thinking you’re going to be the next Nellie Bly.” She shook her head. “I train you all, and what happens? You get disillusioned, get married, and then you quit.”
“That’s not my plan.” It wasn’t. I didn’t even have a boyfriend. And yes, I was going to be the next Nellie Bly.
• • •
After Mrs. Angelo assigned me to a desk, she called over to a voluptuous platinum blonde seated next to me. “Hey, M—M, finish taking Jordan here around. I have to get ready for a meeting. In the meantime”—Mrs. Angelo handed me a stack of forms—“fill these out when you have a chance.”
Mrs. Angelo went back to her desk across the room and M took over. She introduced herself as Madeline Miller but said everyone called her M. She was stylish, wore one of those double-breasted shirtwaist dresses that accentuated her cone-shaped breasts. She was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, and bore a striking resemblance to Marilyn Monroe. Judging by the penciled-in beauty mark on her cheek, I realized this was no accident. She also wore enough perfume to rival the cigarette, cigar and pipe smoke in the room.