Sold on a Monday

by Kristina McMorris

  Either way, her window of time was narrowing, limited by the departure of the last return bus. The sun had just dipped behind the roofline of the town, an area reminiscent of Maryville. Already, most of the businesses lining the street were closing for the night.

  Purse tucked under her arm, Lily marched over to the ticket clerk. “Pardon me, sir. I was hoping you could point me in the right direction.”

  Making her case at the orphanage without Ellis’s support and testimony was going to be a challenge. Nonetheless, she would go it alone.

  • • •

  The walk stretched for more than a mile. Soreness in Lily’s arches told her as much. Had she anticipated the hike, she would have worn more comfortable shoes. She just hoped the overcast sky would withhold its moisture a while longer.

  Following the directions by memory, she continued past a group of children playing stickball in an empty lot. On the porch of a nearby house, an elderly man slept on his rocker. Next door, a woman was beating dust from a rug.

  Lily debated on interrupting to confirm the accuracy of her path. But as she neared another road, she spotted an old brick warehouse fitting the clerk’s description.

  McFarland Tanning Factory was painted in white faded letters. Rows of windows dotted both levels. The orange glow of the sun blocked hints of what lay inside.

  Only when she approached the front door did she find proof of the building’s transformation. Over the entrance hung a sign that solidified Claire’s heartbreaking tale.

  WARREN COUNTY HOME FOR CHILDREN

  Since the market crashed, Philly’s many abandoned warehouses had become common refuges for squatters. But imagining such a place full of youngsters all alone in the world caused Lily an intake of breath.

  Girding herself, she tugged twice on a dangling chain, ringing a bell. After a wait, likely shorter than it seemed, a small square in the metal door swung open, revealing a single eye.

  Lily felt a sudden need for a password, as if negotiating entry into a discerning underground club. She cheerfully raised a gloved hand. “Good evening.” Before she could say more, the viewing square slapped shut. She appeared to have failed the test until a low screech suggested the release of a bolt, and the door opened.

  The woman had skin the color of molasses and wore a simple brown dress that hung loose on her stout frame. The stains on her apron and the frizzy locks sprouting from her headscarf denoted a long day of physical work. “You here for Mr. Lowell?”

  “I’ve come in hopes of taking home a particular child. If Mr. Lowell is the person to speak with, then I certainly am.” Lily pinned on a smile to up her chances of making it past the entry.

  “Well, c’mon then.” The woman waved her in and reset the bolt. Its metallic screech prickled the roots of Lily’s chignon. Securing children inside for their safety was obviously a practical measure—yet equally suited for a prison.

  Lily was escorted down a hall, past doorways that afforded glimpses of two classrooms with bookshelves, blackboards, and American flags. A third room appeared to be for playing, equipped with building blocks and other small toys piled near a wooden rocking horse, its mane of yarn frayed from use.

  Aside from the building’s faint scent of leather, the interior barely resembled a factory. In fact, for an orphanage, it seemed a rather pleasant setting.

  At the fourth and final door, the guide held up a finger, a signal to wait. She poked her head into the room, her speech indecipherable from behind.

  Lily caught the sounds of children somewhere in the vicinity. She strained to listen—not that she would know Calvin by ear—and battled a desire to sneak off in a search.

  “Please, come in.” The man’s greeting turned her toward the office. “I’m Frederick Lowell, the director here.” He rose from his desk, its surface eclipsed by papers and folders, much like the chief’s but set in neat stacks. On the wall to the right, a corkboard even displayed scraps and notes in an organized fashion.

  As Lily entered, Mr. Lowell gestured toward a pair of visitors’ chairs, and the escort disappeared. “Do make yourself comfortable,” he said.

  She thanked him while they took their seats, and noticed a framed photograph above the window behind him. The woman in the portrait, perhaps the founder of the home, stared down with beady eyes. “I appreciate you seeing me unannounced, especially so late in the day.”

  “Well, I admit, we do usually meet by appointment, which should explain my rather shabby appearance.”

  Lily smiled and shook her head to dispel the claim. His reference to a lack of suit jacket, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, were easily offset by his smart plaid bow tie and peppered hair, kept as sleek as his pencil mustache. Except for a crooked nose from being broken at least once, he was rather handsome for his age of around sixty. “Sir, the reason I’m here today is to seek out a child.”

  “Yes. Mildred said as much. That’s just the kind of news I look forward to hearing. Of course…I presume you and your husband have thought this well through.” The ending inflection implied a need for confirmation. But it was the entirety of his statement that revealed his misconception of her intent, as well as her status. Her travel gloves, after all, concealed the absence of a ring—like the one from Clayton.

  Strangely now, her single motherhood failed to spark the tiniest bit of shame.

  “I’m afraid I need to clarify. You see, just yesterday I learned that the son of a friend was brought here by mistake. I’d be more than willing to present you with a long, detailed explanation if needed, but the short of it, Mr. Lowell, is that he belongs with his real mother.”

  The director showed no amazement at all. A signal of understanding, Lily prayed, versus that of a common occurrence. “And which boy might that be?”

  “Calvin Dillard.” She suddenly realized a new name could have been forced upon him, as had been done with Ruby. “That was his birth name, rather. He was dropped off two months ago. I have a picture right here.” She unclasped her purse to produce his photo from the newspaper when the director flitted his hand.

  “No need for that. I’m very familiar with young Calvin.”

  “So, you…do have him?” Lily worked to restrain her hopes, an impossible task with Mr. Lowell’s mouth curving upward.

  “Yes,” he said. “Well…we did. Until he was placed in a home.”

  The ground, solid just a moment before, opened beneath Lily. She felt herself falling through. Why ever are you smiling? she screamed in her head, unable to utter a word.

  He reined in his expression, as if hearing her thoughts. “I assure you, he’s with loving, God-fearing people. Their two sons are grown and gone on to other adventures, leaving the couple in the perfect position to raise another child.”

  The description brought Lily no comfort. The Millstones had sounded just as impressive until she took a closer look.

  “I do recognize your friend’s situation as unfortunate, of course.” He shifted to a sympathetic tone. “To be quite frank, it’s one that often brings unwanted children to our doorstep. While a mother’s change of heart isn’t unreasonable, it simply strikes too late at times.”

  Lily scrambled to recover her voice, hindered by resonance to her own past. “But that’s not it. That isn’t what happened.”

  He lifted a brow, a sign of intrigue. “You’re saying…your friend’s son was stolen without her knowing?”

  “Not…exactly, no. But she was ill when she gave him up, and now… This is all a mistake.” She could hear her own franticness, which only intensified as she grasped the condemning nature of her own argument. “Please, if you’ll allow me to explain.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but then his gaze shot to the doorway. “Yes, Mildred?”

  “Sir, there’s squabblin’ in the dining room. You said if Freddy got to actin’ up again—”

  “Yes, yes. I’
ll handle it personally.” The director was already on his feet when he returned his attention to Lily. “I do wish I could have been more helpful to your friend. Please tell her that Calvin is now in very good hands.”

  Lily stood up, tempted to block him from leaving. “Mr. Lowell, if you could just let me know who adopted him. Perhaps they would understand.”

  “Our records are strictly confidential, for the sake of the parents as much as the children. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Couldn’t you make an exception, this one time? I’m begging you.”

  His lips became a firm line, his nostrils flaring in annoyance, perhaps over the delay or from having to repeat himself. There was no longer a dash of handsomeness about him. “I don’t ascribe to exceptions, and I believe those of strong moral fiber should not either. As I was saying, Mildred will kindly see you out.”

  Short of grabbing his leg, Lily could think of no way to stop him as he whisked past her and out the door. The only thing keeping tears from pouring rivulets down her face was the shock she was still absorbing.

  And the sight of the files.

  On his desk.

  Within reach.

  “Miss?”

  The address was for Lily, an ushering toward the exit. She detected urgency from Mildred. Upon returning, her boss wouldn’t appreciate discovering his order unheeded.

  Lily acquiesced—what else could she do?—and trailed the woman out.

  But she would be back.

  And somehow, she would find the information she needed.

  Chapter 35

  As a newspaperman, Ellis was fully aware how often bodies were fished out of the Hudson. One of the uglier effects of Prohibition. He’d seen the photos too gruesome to publish: the bloated limbs, the tattered skin, the empty sockets.

  In the back seat of a Packard now, he batted away visions of himself as a lifeless heap. It was harder to do on a wordless ride with two Mafia types up front. Neither had given hints of destination or purpose. Just patted him down before trapping him inside.

  To stave off panic, Ellis remained a reporter. He observed and deduced, forging a distance from the situation.

  When Sylvia had voiced her ultimatum, she didn’t specify a deadline. Maybe today was the day, and her husband’s buddies were tasked with ensuring the right answer. Maybe they were about to eliminate the need for an answer at all.

  “Any chance of clueing me in, gentlemen? I could save us time if you told me what you wanted.” It was worth another try. But the pockmarked man kept right on driving. The heftier one just puffed on his cigarette with the windows closed. Ellis suppressed a cough, relying on tolerance from the paper’s daily haze.

  A glance out the window said they were still in New York. The Bronx, in fact. And it dawned on Ellis that they were heading to his own apartment. Not a bad idea, if the plan were to stage an accident. A fatal slip in a bathtub, a tragic fall from a window.

  At least his parked car across from the paper would serve as a telling clue.

  Unless it was moved.

  Ellis pushed down a swallow. The air turned thick as sludge.

  Then came a jolt. A tap to the brakes slowed them just enough to cut a left into an alley, and the car rolled to a stop. Both escorts opened their doors and stepped out.

  “Let’s go,” the driver told Ellis.

  Yesterday, a guard had used the same order to prod Ellis from his cell. Being back in jail had striking new appeal.

  Out of the car, he noted a door at the top of a metal staircase. He’d been here before…

  “Move.”

  Ellis was shoved from behind. His knees weakened from anticipation as he trudged up the steps. The driver, just a few feet back, was taller than Ellis had first guessed.

  The stocky man remained by the car, lighting a fresh cigarette. His choice not to join them provided only minimal relief. No doubt the driver was also armed and equally comfortable pulling a trigger.

  Inside, Ellis led the way into an unlit hall. The door slammed. The scene went black as pitch. Darkness closed in around him, a tunnel awaiting a hurtling train.

  “Go.”

  Ellis plodded forward as best he could, avoiding another push that could land him on his skull. His vision was adjusting. When he reached a coat-check table that led to a draped doorway, recognition fully set in.

  This was the Royal. The supper club where he’d taken his parents. Same as then, the dining room glowed beneath a large chandelier. Only this time, the place was as quiet and still as a graveyard. Ellis was glad to not find himself in a dank, abandoned warehouse, though not overjoyed.

  As he continued over the club’s checkered tiles, the driver stayed on his heels. Their footsteps echoed off the high ceiling. Chairs, turned upside down, were balanced on tables now bare of linens. No candles or dinnerware. No witnesses in sight. Only terror creeping in.

  There was little worse, Ellis decided, than suspense from the unknown. He wheeled around and stopped. “If you’re gonna take me out, get on with it. Otherwise, tell me why we’re here.”

  The driver stared back, emotionless, before a crashing noise rang out. It traveled through the swinging door of the kitchen, on the wall to the right. A cook had dropped some pans, Ellis figured—until he heard the muffled groans, broken up by the sounds of skin hitting skin. Meat being tenderized. Someone was taking a beating.

  No need to guess who’d be next.

  “Ellis Reed.” The voice came from behind. At the end booth, partially obscured by a white privacy curtain, a man sat snipping a cigar.

  Anxiety shot through Ellis, filling every limb. Max Trevino looked no less formidable in person than he did in the papers. His neck was as thick as his shoulders, set off by an expensive, tailored suit. His black hair was slicked, fringed with gray. He had the dark eyes and bearing of a typical Sicilian.

  “Have a seat, kid.” Max directed him with a wave of a cigar cutter.

  Ellis managed the remaining steps to reach the table. As he edged himself into the booth, the driver stood guard no more than two skips away.

  “You know,” Max said, “I’ve been familiar with your work for quite some time.”

  “I’m…flattered, sir.”

  “You shouldn’t be.”

  Potential replies spun through Ellis’s head. He opted for silence.

  Max stoked his cigar with a gold lighter and exhaled an earthy cloud. “A few stories of yours caused trouble for my ventures a while back. As a businessman, I like things to run smoothly. A well-oiled machine. You understand, yeah?”

  Ellis considered his old tip-offs from the Irish Mob. Several resulting articles had exposed crimes by politicians whose pockets were often padded by other competing gangs. Apparently, some of that padding came from Max.

  “Hell, what am I thinking? Course you do,” Max said. “After fifteen years of your old man’s factory work, I bet he’s taught you all about that.”

  The remark, flaunting his knowledge of Ellis’s father, was jarring even without the noises in the background. Another punch, another groan. From a room stocked with knives.

  Ellis struggled to keep his tone even. “What is it you want, Mr. Trevino?”

  “This. To talk.” The levity in the reply was almost convincing.

  “What about?”

  “Family. Importance of protecting it. I can tell we see eye to eye on this already.” Max pulled several puffs from his cigar and reclined into the cushioned seat, his implied threat hanging amid the smoke. “Thing is, I hear you and another reporter—a lady friend of yours—have taken quite an interest in my sister’s affairs.”

  His sister?

  Right then, Ellis recalled something Alfred had said back at the bank. How family in New York had long been the attraction to moving out East. “You’re Sylvia’s brother,” Ellis realized.

&n
bsp; His editor’s warning had been more about her than Alfred.

  Max raised a dense black brow. “Don’t play dumb, kid. I ain’t got patience for people wasting my time.”

  The assumption was fair. Any decent reporter would have made the connection by now. Ellis had just been too busy with the Dillards, and Samuel, and yeah, time in the clink.

  “I’ll do my best not to.”

  Max studied his face, scanning for sarcasm. Ellis didn’t dare flinch. “As I was saying,” Max went on. “If you happened to dig up something interesting, I think we ought to discuss it. Off the record, as it were.”

  It was clear that little in Max’s life was meant for the record.

  “Eh, Mr. Trevino,” a man called over, having emerged from the kitchen. He had to be three hundred pounds, an equal mix of fat and muscle, and was wiping his hands on a towel. Its red smears were decidedly not from tomato sauce. Ellis tried not to picture the condition of the face, or whole body, that had taken the pounding. “I think we’re done in here. Need anything else?”

  “Not sure yet,” Max said. “How ’bout you stick around a while?”

  “Happy to.” The mountainous goon flicked a glance toward Ellis. “I’ll just be tidying up,” he said before disappearing through the swinging door. If not for more moans from the kitchen, the comment would have sounded like code for the disposal of a stiff.

  A task possibly still on the agenda if Ellis wasn’t careful.

  Max returned his focus to the table. “So?” he prompted, picking up where they’d left off.

  Ellis steadied his hands, his breathing. Any hint of dishonesty could prove detrimental. Not just to him and his parents, but even to Lily, whom he suddenly feared he might never see again. “Sir, I’ve got nothing but good intentions involving your family.”

  Though darkly quiet as he smoked, Max was listening.

  Ellis kept mindful of the man’s time and values and mentally scrambled to simplify the summary. “There were two kids, you see, with a sign. But the picture I took, it was only for a feature.” He moved right along to an unplanned sale that divided a family. No need for dates or names or any other detail that weighed down the basics. Then he leapt to his worries over a mother, now cured but alone, and the well-being of the children. “Your sister too,” he was quick to add.