Sold on a Monday

by Kristina McMorris

  • • •

  The ceremony—aside from the stained glass, marble columns, and vaulted ceilings at St. Patrick’s Cathedral—was fairly standard as marital masses went. It was the reception that boasted all the extravagance of New York high society. In the Waldorf Astoria, the grand ballroom swirled with a sea of tuxedos and formal gowns, of colognes and perfumes and haze from expensive tobacco. Conversations and laughter competed with the strings of an unseen quartet.

  Save for the pretension, Lily couldn’t refute it was an impressive affair. Six-arm candelabras flickered at the center of each round table. Spread over pressed white linens were identical displays of gold serving ware, crimson petals, and perfectly folded napkins. Gloved waiters served crystal flutes of champagne—the presence of two congressmen, as Clayton pointed out, apparently precluding the event from any legal hassles.

  “May I?” Clayton slid Lily’s chair out for her. By candlelight, in his white jacket and black bow tie, his hair slicked with pomade, he looked undeniably dashing.

  She smiled politely and took her seat, joining the table of his New York press friends and their wives. With Clayton at her side, it occurred to her just how much like a couple they appeared, putting her ill at ease.

  She welcomed the diversion of the bride’s father giving a formal toast with a dose of wit, apt for an oil tycoon. He made only one playful jab about his son-in-law marrying up. Then the men at Lily’s table plunged into their journalistic gabbing. Between drags on their cigarettes, they lobbed tales of wrathful editors, newsroom politics, and off-the-record scandals. They described run-ins with the infamous William Hearst and ribbed one another about which of their papers deserved the top spot.

  Their wives also shared a common history, made clear by their gossip and updates on mutual friends. When the topic of their children finally emerged, Lily perked up at the chance to contribute. But then she recalled how any mention of Samuel would require an awkward explanation. Thus, she continued to nibble on her quail and sip her champagne, feigning intrigue over the words curling around her.

  Not until later, as she rose to excuse herself to the powder room, did she feel the full effects of her drink, magnified by the warmth of the ballroom. Rarely one to indulge, she lingered in private to collect her bearings and remembered the ultimate mission of her evening.

  Various women passed behind her as she stood before an ornate oval mirror. Once steadied by a few deep breaths, she started back for the reception. At the ballroom entrance awaited Clayton, their overcoats draping his arm.

  “There you are.” His tone was more anxious than relieved.

  She sifted through her muddled thoughts, wondering just how long she had been in the ladies’ room. “Are we leaving?”

  “There’s been a robbery. It’s a jewelry store off Times Square. A fatal shooting, maybe. Might even be Willie Sutton, escaped from the pen. That’s the word we just got.” He motioned to other newsmen collecting their belongings from the coat-check girls. When Lily was slow to react, he added, “Of course…if you want to stay, we can.”

  The distracted thrill in his eyes said he was already there, on the scene, formulating a story. Although she knew this was his job, his eagerness to race toward a dead body as if it weren’t a real person who’d be mourned by loved ones made her cringe inside.

  “No, that’s fine,” she said. “I have an early train. I should be calling it a night anyway.”

  “Ah, good. Then I’ll just take you to your hotel first.”

  Her hotel—the location for a talk that obviously would have to wait.

  He held her coat open for her. As she slid her arms in, she realized she still needed her purse. Had she left it in the lavatory? Or was it under her chair? Or perhaps…

  “Lily?” Clayton was yards away when he discovered she hadn’t followed. He returned with the impatience of a track star summoned back for a false start.

  She dreaded to announce, “I still need to grab my handbag.”

  Now he looked as if his race had been canceled.

  “You should go on. I can walk myself back.”

  He scanned her face. “Are you sure? Because I can wait.” His willingness was there, despite his body already angling toward the exit.

  “And miss the scoop? The chief would throw a fit. Really, you go. My hotel’s only two blocks away.”

  He nodded with relief and smiled. “All right. You travel safely.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek before hustling toward his friends already on their way out.

  Suddenly it came to her: she had stored her valuables under her chair.

  She didn’t waste a second before weaving her way through the ballroom to reach her now-vacant table. There was her purse, just as suspected. Right then, someone repeatedly clinked a glass to quiet the guests, and the quartet halted within a measure.

  Out of courtesy, Lily reclaimed her seat to wait out the toast. At the front of the room, the groom presented a speech directly to his bride, who stood daintily beside him. She blushed in a white gown that far surpassed the elegance of a typical wedding suit.

  Lily didn’t catch half of his words. She was far more captivated by the adoration in his voice, its raw vulnerability. He was surrendering not only his heart but his entire self. And his bride was no less willing, based on the connection of their gaze, so intimate that at one point Lily felt intrusive for watching.

  Then the couple engaged in a kiss, publicly appropriate yet wholly tender, triggering an unexpected feeling in Lily. A romantic longing she had nearly forgotten existed, an ancient magnet pulling at her heart.

  The room of guests applauded, the quartet resumed its playing, and champagne continued to flow.

  Lily opened her handbag. Withdrawing her gloves, she revealed the envelope inside. It held a letter for Ellis Reed, regarding the children from his first feature. Forwarding address: New York Herald Tribune. She had planned to swing by the post office at Penn Station before boarding her morning train. It would be more efficient, she had concluded, to mail it in New York.

  But now she had to wonder. Had there been another reason for bringing the missive along? She thought of her last discussion with Ellis, back at the Examiner, the unspoken trust, their faces mere inches apart. Once again she considered the words they had never shared. The misunderstanding, the cool parting. Perhaps her traveling here had been part of a greater purpose, one she had known unconsciously yet avoided seeing.

  To deliver the letter in person.

  Chapter 13

  “If ya wanna follow me, Mr. Reed.” The platinum blond sounded all Bronx but looked pure Hollywood. She smiled coyly before swiveling in her red gown, a glittery number designed to accentuate the curves. The same applied to the brazen uniforms of the cigarette girls circling the room with their trays of goods.

  As the hostess led the way across the checkered tiles, Ellis kept his gaze at a proper level. He was acutely aware of the couple trailing behind. Thankfully, from a glance over his shoulder, he found his mother looking upward in awe. Clutching her husband’s elbow, she was gawking at the enormous crystal chandelier that threw gem-like sparkles over the candlelit supper club.

  The Royal was a real oasis, aside from its entrance off an alley. It had peaked in popularity sometime in the early twenties, people said, but still drew a top-notch crowd. Ellis could understand why. It was nothing but class here, with silver domes over plates and waiters in black tails. Onstage, a colored band in white tuxedoes played snappy tunes with a piano, a bass, and an array of polished horns. Fitting for a Saturday night, the place teemed with glitzy dresses and Brooks Brothers suits, not unlike the one Ellis had donned. A navy gabardine three-piece with a silk tie and kerchief. He’d bought the spats just for tonight, aiming to look his best.

  “Would this be to your liking, sir?” The blond gestured to one of the half-moon booths that ran the length of the wall, just as Ellis
had requested. The majority of the regular tables and chairs were set in a U formation, cordoning an area for couples now dancing the Lindy Hop. A booth, thanks to partial dividers of long white curtains, lent more privacy and, Ellis hoped, a special touch for the occasion.

  “This is great.” He smiled and slid the gal a whole dollar tip before inviting his parents to sit first.

  “Enjoy your evening,” the hostess said before sauntering away.

  Once settled in, Ellis removed his fedora, cream with a silk band, and rested it at his side. His father had done the same with his old brimmed hat.

  “Like I was saying,” Ellis told his parents, “I hear nothing but raves about the place. Fellas at the paper say it’s got the best prime rib in town.” As his father’s favorite dish, the steak had been a key factor when Ellis made the reservation. “So, what do you think, Pop?”

  The music melded with his father’s mumbled reply.

  “It’s a lovely choice, sweetheart,” his mother jumped in with a bright smile.

  After weeks of her coaxing, the couple had finally made the trip to New York, a city Ellis had come to consider his home.

  And to think, just four months ago, sulking at Hal’s Hideaway over his editor’s warning, Ellis had thought for certain he was on his way out. But with the help of far too much whiskey, he’d managed to make a deal with members of the Irish Mob. On the legitimate side, their boss owned a fur shop in Midtown. Ellis had suggested the guy run a charitable promotion: donating his proceeds from a weekend of sales to the Children’s Aid Society. A newsworthy story Ellis could pitch.

  Just like that, a batch of furs fell off a truck and floated down a river—according to the insurance filing anyhow—and boom! Money was raised for the kiddies. In exchange, Ellis received a solid tip about a congressman who had the gall to skim off veterans’ benefits. Cautiously separated by a week, both stories found a cozy spot in the Tribune.

  Then came a bonus.

  Compliments of his Irish contact, Ellis received a list of several other crooked politicians, with sufficient clues to their shady deeds. Incredibly, this one required no return favor. Since the fingered officials were in the pockets of Russian, Jewish, and Italian mobsters—in other words, not the Irish ones—exposing their dirt was repayment enough. Ellis never directly tied the lawmakers to the underworld, as he had no desire to take a dive into the Hudson quite yet, but inadvertently it was a win-win.

  In a nutshell, he’d taken his lumps and come back swinging. Jack Dempsey would have been proud.

  Still, not pushing his luck, Ellis had expanded his network to the less daunting of society. For an extra buck here and there, switchboard operators and hotel bellboys shared juicier scoops than just about anyone. Not to mention local firemen. Close observers of their territories, and with loads of downtime in the firehouse, they readily shelled out tidbits for free.

  Before long, Ellis’s biggest challenge became writing pieces fast enough. He’d reported on everything from graft in city licensing and racketeering in the housing industry to a senator’s simultaneous upkeep of three mistresses.

  An impressive feat, that one.

  In truth, Ellis’s articles lately had been heavier on flash than substance, but sometimes you had to fill the gaps until the next big break. Just last week, for instance, a widow was hoping to identify the murderer of her husband, a notorious rumrunner from Queens, and Ellis had covered the séance. They couldn’t all be worthy of a byline—although, incredibly, he’d already earned two. Neither of them had graced Page One, where so far his articles had appeared unsigned, but all were now money in the bank—quite literally, thanks to some finely aged scotch.

  He’d presented the bottle as a Christmas gift, a risky dent in his savings, while daring to ask the Tribune’s owner for a raise. He’d aimed for eighty bucks a week, hoping for seventy. But after several shared highballs in the middle of the day, they somehow landed at eight-five.

  The best part? Ellis finally felt like an official “man of Park Row,” and tonight his parents would share the same view. At least, that was the plan.

  “You sure you don’t want something more…festive?” he asked, referencing their goblets of water. “Maybe some sherry to go with your dinner, Ma.”

  The waiter stood like a sentry at attention. Any drink was game after he’d pocketed Ellis’s early tip with all the slickness of a politician.

  “The night’s on me,” Ellis reminded his mother.

  Looking tempted, she glanced at the last of Ellis’s gin martini, served in a teacup—as were all libations here as a precaution for a raid. But before she could decide, her husband answered for them both.

  “We’ll stick with water.” His eyes, bare of glasses tonight, were unwavering. His openness to an occasional nip at home apparently didn’t extend to public settings.

  Ellis’s mother smiled and nodded at the server.

  “Very well, then.” He angled toward Ellis. “And for you, sir. Would you care for a refill while you peruse the menu? A double perhaps.” No doubt he detected the need for one as a way to reduce the tension that had spiked since he’d presented the leather-bound menus. Specifically after Ellis’s father confirmed that the listed prices were in dollars.

  “That’d be splendid.”

  The waiter dashed off. Part of Ellis wanted to join him. He had to remind himself that his father was far outside his realm of comfort. That much was evident from how he kept tugging at his collar, fighting his tie like a noose.

  You ever see me in that getup, means there’s been a funeral, he’d replied when asked by Ellis, as a kid, why he never wore suits like passersby on the street. If I ain’t paying my respects, I’ll be the one in the box.

  The fact he was now wearing the one suit he owned, simple and black and solely on Ellis’s account, was a gesture not to be missed.

  “I gotta say,” Ellis offered up, “you both sure look swell tonight.” He gestured with his teacup. “And that brooch looks beautiful on you, Ma.”

  Beaming with pride, she patted the silver stemmed rose. “Thank you, Ellis.”

  At his new flat in the Bronx, before they’d all walked to dinner, he’d pinned the gift to the plum cardigan layered over her matching dress. All the while, his father had moved stoically around the place—not a mansion by any stretch, but finally an apartment Ellis wasn’t embarrassed to show. He’d rushed to furnish it just days before their visit, despite their predictable decline to stay overnight.

  His father was now surveying the club with the same unreadable gaze. “You eat like this all the time?”

  To appease the man’s frugalness, Ellis was about to say no. But why lie? He’d proudly earned the money, one paycheck at a time.

  “Once a week or so, I guess.”

  “So you’ve already saved up for a new engine, huh?” There was no subtlety to the doubt in his tone.

  “Actually,” Ellis said, “I’ve been wanting to tell you. I changed my mind on that.”

  Confusion tightened his father’s features as he waited for an explanation.

  “Just figured it was time to stop wasting dough on the old clunker and start fresh. Maybe get a new Ford Roadster. Buy it straight off the line.” This would mean no more mechanical help from his father, surely a relief to them both.

  “A roadster,” his mother said, concerned. “Those are awfully speedy, aren’t they?”

  “Not to fret, Ma. I won’t do anything foolish.”

  His father huffed. It was a brief sound but sharp with condescension. Then he dropped his attention to his menu, scrutinizing the prices. Judging.

  And right then it became painfully clear: since the start of their evening, he’d been doing nothing else.

  Ellis simmered with frustration, yet he willed it not to rise. The night could still end up pleasant enough. Particularly with more gin.

  He
downed the rest of his cocktail, ready for that double. “So,” he said, picking up his menu. “What have we got here?”

  In his periphery, he glimpsed a nearby cigarette girl who was scanning the club, waiting for buyers to signal their interest. Although neither parent was a smoker, Ellis had known his father to enjoy a rare cigar with pals from the plant.

  Perhaps some puffs could mellow his mood. They certainly couldn’t hurt.

  “Hey, miss!” Ellis raised his hand, his voice lost to the tide of conversations and notes of a sax. He was about to try again when his father muttered something indiscernible, but loud enough to convey derision.

  Ellis turned to face him, just as his mother spoke in a firm hush. “Jim. Please.” As in, not here. Not tonight.

  His father hedged before closing his mouth. He returned to the menu, his solid jaw twitching as if struggling to contain his words. None of them good. Undoubtedly all for Ellis.

  “You got something to say, Pop?”

  His father’s eyes snapped up, then quickly narrowed. He’d plainly caught the challenge in Ellis’s question.

  His mother broke in lightly. “Let’s just decide on our meals, shall we?”

  Ellis didn’t stray from his father’s hardening gaze. And why should he? He’d grown tired of remaining quiet, of backing down. The only time he wasn’t invisible, he was doing something wrong.

  “Well, go on. I’m a man now. I can take it.”

  His father shook his head, another dark laugh. “That’s what you think you are, huh? A man. Because you’ve figured out how to burn through your money?”

  Ellis’s mother touched her husband’s arm, but he pulled back and swept a glower over Ellis. “Look at you, parading around in your fancy suits and hats. Your new apartment. You pass around bucks like penny candy, trying to be some big shot.”

  Ellis’s simmer was turning to a boil. He didn’t deserve any of this, particularly from a guy who barely knew Ellis at all. Had hardly ever bothered. Back in Philly, he used to worry that his initial success from the picture of the Dillards had flagged his father’s suspicions. Now a revelation dawned.