Sold on a Monday: A Novel
Sold on a Monday: Part 1 – 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.

Fists on his knees, Ellis leaned forward. “You know what? I was trying to treat you and Ma here to a nice night on the town. If this is all making you jealous, it’s not my fault.” He caught his mother’s faint gasp.

His father stared at him. “What’d you say?”

“That’s right. Because I’m actually making something of my life.” Once his words flew out, there was no pulling them in. The implied comparison hung in the air as his father sank back in his seat. His mother watched, hand held to her mouth.

After a long moment, his father nodded heavily, as if conceding. That single gesture stung Ellis with shame. And yet, the feeling was dulled by an odd rush of relief. A hope of finally achieving some sort of understanding.

“Maybe you’re right about that,” his father said. Then his voice turned cold. “’Cause I obviously failed if this is how my only son turned out.”

The ending was a punch to the chest. Having let down his guard, Ellis felt the knuckling of each and every syllable—but not just for himself. For a brother who’d long been written off as if he’d never existed.

“You mean the only son who lived.”

“That’s enough,” his mother cut in.

In that instant, the world ceased beyond their booth. They had become a trio of statues, limbs unmoving, barely breathing. All Ellis could hear was the thundering of his own pulse.

Slowly, as if coming to, his father picked up his hat. He stood from the table, eyes distant, almost foggy. With an expression still carved from stone, he started toward the exit.

Ellis’s mother came to her feet, preparing to follow.

“Ma…” Ellis didn’t know what to say. Regardless of who was right or wrong, better or worse, he despised the idea of hurting her. “I’m sorry.”

She turned to him, her face sullen, and patted his shoulder. “I know, sweetheart. I know,” she said and kissed him on the cheek.

As Ellis watched her trail after his father, the waiter swooped in with a full teacup. A tad too late.

Maybe right on time.

“Will it be a table for one, sir?” The look on his face indicated he’d witnessed the couple’s hasty departure.

“I suppose…” Ellis was still trying to absorb all that had happened.

“I’d be happy to take your entrée order if you’re ready. Or I could give you more time to decide.” When Ellis didn’t respond, the waiter took the latter for an answer. But in the midst of stepping away, he paused. “Of course, sir, if you’re open to a change of plans, I do have a suggestion that might be of interest. Something to end the evening on, perhaps, a higher note.”

Ellis couldn’t imagine anything improving this cruddy night of his. But then, he was in no rush to head home, where the quiet would inevitably force him to dwell on his family and his father and their ugly sparring of words. “Such as?”

Rather than elaborate, the waiter signaled to the blond hostess, who smiled knowingly before coming his way.