Sold on a Monday: A Novel
Sold on a Monday: Part 1 – Chapter 3

Through the lumpy mattress, the bedsprings voiced a throaty creak.

Ellis tugged the pillow off his head and squinted against sunlight pouring through his window. He’d left it open to relieve the heat. City noises and the stench of fumes and sewage made for an unfortunate trade-off. He rolled toward his two-bell tin clock on the night table that doubled as a desk, blinking hard to clear his vision.

A quarter after ten. Fifteen minutes past deadline.

Shit. He must have shut off the alarm in his sleep. It was no wonder, what with the bickering couple upstairs keeping him awake half the night.

He clambered to rise, his sheet already pooled on the rough wooden floor, and cursed his urge to piss, requiring time he didn’t have. In a few steps he reached the door—the lone benefit of an apartment the size of a broom closet—and joined the line for the bathroom, stretched halfway down the hall. Another downside of the nation’s massive unemployment. Two years ago at this hour on a workday, hardly anyone but mothers, tots, and the elderly would have been home.

“Come on, already,” he muttered. A scuttling mouse was the only one who budged.

In front of Ellis, a trio of middle-aged women ceased their conversation. Their pointed glares delivered a revelation: he had nothing on but his drawers.

“Jesus. Sorry.” He reflexively covered himself. Though his average build had gained decent muscle through the years, in that moment, he reverted to the puny kid he’d been before puberty ran its course. A moderate stickball hitter with no hope of making the majors, a track runner whose confidence, and thus speed, always left him a few paces shy of a trophy.

On the upside, the need to relieve himself had subsided. Enough to wait anyhow. He hightailed it back to his flat, the women’s gripes over his indecency and language echoing down the hall. At his washbasin, he splashed his head and body with day-old water, then threw on his laundered work clothes from the rope that halved the room. Shoving his article into his worn leather satchel, cradled like a football due to its missing handle, he dashed out the door. Someday he’d commute in style, not fretting over the price of gasoline. Until then, he’d sprint to catch the teeming trolley.

On board, passengers fanned themselves with folded newspapers or brims of their hats. Ellis noticed he’d forgotten not only his fedora, but also to tame his hair with tonic. The black waves were a short yet unruly bunch. Another reason to avoid a grand entrance today.

The rails squeaked and the bell clanged as the streetcar rolled on, slow enough to catch headlines shouted by paperboys.

“Lindberghs landing in Japan!”

“Young bandit slain, detective shot!”

“Runaway bride reunites with groom!”

Through the lingering haze—from mills and factories that coughed and sputtered, straining to stay alive—City Hall came into view. Limestone and granite formed the majestic building. Atop its clock tower, a bronzed William Penn scowled over the unacceptable hour.

Ellis hopped off at his stop, barely avoiding a horse-drawn truck. He hustled down Market Street, weaving his way through pushcart peddlers and shoe shiners. He didn’t slow until he’d entered the stony, five-story home of the Examiner. It was no Evening Bulletin, but with more than twenty years under its belt, it was still a respectable contender for nightly readership.

After a quick visit to the closest bathroom, Ellis boarded the elevator, joining two men from the proofing room. “Third floor,” Ellis said.

The stooped lift operator completed his yawn before initiating the ascent, and the proofers rambled about dames they’d met the night before, a couple of shopgirls at Wanamaker’s. The operator opened the door a foot above the third floor—more often it was a foot below, remarkably never level—inviting in the sharp scents of coffee and ink and a sea of cigarette smoke.

Ellis stepped down into the city room, the nerve center of the paper. In the middle of the desk-filled maze, editors of the four major departments were rigorously working in their seats. Thankfully, no sign of his direct boss, the managing editor, Lou Baylor. The stout man’s bald head, often flushed from stress, made him easy to spot. Closer to deadline, he became a jittery ball of red.

Ellis slid right into the midmorning din. Rising chatter, from both the staff and portable radios, competed with trilling phones and clacking typewriters. Copy boys zipped about, everyone playing catch-up from the weekend. A perpetual race with no ultimate finish line.

A few strides from his desk, Ellis felt a tug on his elbow. He swung around to replace Lily Palmer, a coffee mug in her grip.

“Goodness, Mr. Reed. Where have you been?”

“I…just… My alarm. It didn’t ring.”

The gal was a beauty, though not in the typical Jean Harlow way. She wore her auburn hair neatly pinned up. And her nose, slender like her lips, was dusted with light freckles. Today, though, he noticed her eyes the most. Not for their green-and-copper coloring but for their spark of urgency.

“Chief’s been asking for you. You’d best get in there.”

Ellis scanned the wall-mounted clocks spanning four time zones. The local hour read 10:42. Had word of his gaffe already gone all the way to Trimble?

At most papers of this size, the editor in chief would leave the managing editor to wade through the daily weeds. But as the oldest son of the retired founder, Howard Trimble rarely encountered an issue too minor to address, particularly when it warranted reproach.

Ellis dreaded one of those searing rants now. “Sure. Just need a minute to put my things—”

From the chief’s office in the far corner came a bellow. “Can I get some coffee here, or do I gotta do everything myself? And where the hell’s Reed?” Trimble’s door was only half-open, but he could likely be heard all the way to the basement, where even the printing presses would be challenged to drown him out.

Lily sighed and arched a brow. “Shall we?”

Ellis nodded—as if given a choice.

Together, they made their way across the room, past lines of desks bookended by pillars of newsprint. In her low heels and straight black skirt, Lily walked without speaking. Ever graceful yet on the primmer side, she was never one to make idle conversation, though her silence now seemed daunting.

And then came the glance, an odd look. Maybe she knew something he didn’t.

“What is it?”

“Mmm? Oh…nothing.”

“Miss Palmer.” Ellis stopped her a couple yards from the door, where she hesitated.

“You…look like you had a rough night is all.”

He suddenly saw himself for the mess he’d become—face unshaven, mop unkempt, suit slapped together. Dapper as a hobo from an alley.

At least he had on more than his drawers. He shrugged a little. “Undercover story,” he offered.

She smiled, the joke of it sadly obvious. Then her lips lowered as she turned for her boss’s office. Ellis smoothed his hair, spiked and still damp, and followed her inside.

On the low file cabinet by the open window, the blades of a mechanical fan ticked with every rotation.

“It’s about damn time,” the chief barked from his seat. A tad round in the middle, he was rarely seen without a bow tie and spectacles on the edge of his nose. With eyebrows as thick as his beard, he resembled a kindhearted grandfather—until he opened his mouth.

Ellis perched on the visitor’s chair. He propped his satchel against his shin, anchored for a tornado. As usual, the desk before him appeared to have been hit by exactly that. Letters, folders, scraps of notes. Memos, circulars, clippings. The mound was almost thick enough to bury a body.

A former writer’s, for instance.

“Don’t forget about your eleven o’clock,” Lily was saying to the chief, handing off the mug. “Also, your wife phoned. She wants to know where you two are having dinner on Friday.”

The chief halted midsip. “Christ. I forgot to make reservations.”

“In that case, I’ll tell Mrs. Trimble it’s the Carriage House. They can seat you at seven.” Lily didn’t miss a thing. “I’ll let the maître d’ know it’s your anniversary so they’ll have flowers and something…special for the occasion.”

The reference to alcohol was only lightly veiled, as it wasn’t unusual to trade a generous tip for wine or champagne at even top-notch restaurants. For all its good intentions, Prohibition had swelled not only the public’s desire to drink, but also corruption by mobsters now living the high life. A full week didn’t pass without a headline about the likes of Max “Boo Boo” Hoff or Mickey Duffy or the Nig Rosen gang.

“Well then…good.” The chief’s tone actually bordered on pleasantness. But a moment later, he waved Lily away, and his hard gaze angled to Ellis.

“So,” he said. “Reed.”

Ellis straightened in his seat. “Yeah, Chief.”

As Lily passed, her eyes seemed to say Good luck. Then she swung the door closed, rattling the glass pane, and the chief set down his coffee with a small splash. “Apparently, you’ve been taking some interesting pictures.”

Thrown off, Ellis struggled with the implication. “Sir?”

“How ’bout you explain this.” From a folder, the chief tossed a photograph onto the desk. It was of the boys on the porch, their gut-wrenching sign propped out front. The chief must have seen the other photos too. As the matter became clear, a weight dropped to the pit of Ellis’s stomach.

“Chief, these were just… I had to kill time after the Auxiliary event. It was hot out there, and my engine…”

There was no reason to go on. Nothing was going to justify using a camera and film owned by the paper to take personal pictures, only to develop them with company supplies.

The chief leaned back and thrummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, either contemplating or gearing up. It seemed best for Ellis to stay quiet.

“You’ve been working here…what, four years now?”

“Five.”

A technicality. Ellis winced at the unwise correction, but then his own words sank in.

Five years wasn’t eternity, though still a respectable chunk of time. After first toiling away in the morgue—an apt nickname for the windowless, dust-ridden archives room—fittingly followed by a stint of punching out obituaries, Ellis had pleaded for a promotion. I’ll cover anything, he’d said. As timing would have it, one of the paper’s two Society writers had just quit after getting hitched.

Ellis had pushed his male ego aside. The job was a bridge. Plus, it helped to know he’d be reporting directly to Mr. Baylor, who’d been picking up the slack since the Society editor left to care for her mother. Howard Trimble was never a bigger fan of efficiency than when it cinched the paper’s purse.

That was two years ago. Despite subsequent requests for a shot at real news, Ellis was no higher in the chain. Mercifully, most assignments that required detailed descriptions of cake and chiffon belonged to his matronly Society colleague. But that still left Ellis with an endless series of gallery exhibitions and uppity galas, occasional celebrity sightings, and—his personal favorite—charitable fundraisers hosted by elites who ignored street beggars every day while strolling to shop at Gimbels.

If anyone deserved to gripe, it was Ellis.

He raised his chin, bolstered by pride. “That’s right, it’s been five years. And all the while, I’ve put in a hundred percent. Working near every weekend at any event I’m assigned. Never complained once. So, if you’re hitting me with a reprimand, or want to can me over a few lousy pictures, you go right ahead.”

Logic fought to rein him in; it was hardly a good time to be out of work, and Lord knew he’d never crawl back to his father for help paying the rent. But the hell with it.

There was no emotion in the chief’s face. “You done?”

Ellis fended off any inkling of regret and issued a nod.

“Splendid.” The man’s tone remained level but taut. Like a wire that reverberated with every syllable. “’Cause the reason I’d called you in here was about writing a feature. A family profile to go with this photo of yours. If that isn’t too much trouble.”

The ticking fan seemed to suck all the air from the room.

Ellis forced a swallow and resisted the urge to loosen his collar. Humility shrank him to the size of a jockey. Switching gears, he attempted to act natural. Deliberate. Less like a jackass.

“Sure thing, sir. Swell idea. I’ll get right on it.”

The chief said nothing.

Ellis jumped to his feet and grabbed his satchel, almost forgetting the photograph, and turned to leave before the offer was quashed. He barely made it through the door when a smile overtook his face. All the banal pieces and hollow events, the years of patience and fortitude—they’d finally proven worthwhile. Or could, rather.

Through the bedlam, he marched toward his desk, bridling his enthusiasm. No feature was guaranteed. The actual piece would still require approval. Everything about it had to be stellar. Strong quotes, pointed observations, all of it supported by facts. He was already planning his drive to the farmhouse when he reviewed the picture. The two brothers, helpless and scruffy, stared with their crystalline eyes.

Ellis’s feet slowed as the scene came back.

The idea of interviewing those boys, or even their parents… Something about it felt wrong.

He tried to bat away the notion—reporters like Clayton Brauer wouldn’t hesitate to charge after a good scoop—but the truth clung to Ellis: these weren’t politicians or movie stars or anyone else who’d invited the spotlight, people fully prepared for widespread judgment. And that judgment could be loud and critical, to put it mildly, should an ugly truth belie the family’s plight. Say, if the father was a drunk who’d gambled away the rent, or the mother had simply tired of her burdens. Depending on the story, the kids could suffer the most.

Ellis preferred not to take that chance. He just needed an alternate tack, free of harmful particulars. But he needed it soon. Wait too long and the chief’s interest would wither, along with the offer.

Ellis checked the clock. There was still time before the chief’s next appointment, though not much. Before second thoughts could take hold, he strode back to the corner office. He formed an appeal as he went, acutely aware of the risks.

The chief’s attention had moved to a pile of paperwork. He spared the quickest of glances at Ellis, who eased in with a disclaimer. “You know, Chief, there’s just one wrinkle. See, I’m not so sure this family would appreciate me bombarding them with questions.” He got no further before a response flew back.

“Then jot down where the house is. I’ll assign another writer.”

“What? No. I didn’t mean…”

A light knock sounded, and Lily poked her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Chief, but the commissioner’s here for your meeting.”

The chief regarded his watch. “Yeah, yeah. Send him in.”

She nodded and left the room.

Panic briskly climbed through Ellis. His big break was slipping away. “All I’m trying to say is that, well…this picture’s about more than one family.” Over his shoulder, he could see Lily and the commissioner closing in. He pushed onward, despite the chief’s look of growing irritation. “After all, there’s folks hurting everywhere. The bigger story is why this stuff’s still happening. Other than the crash, that is.”

During the lengthy beat that followed, Ellis clutched his satchel under his arm, the photo still in hand, waiting.

Finally, the chief shook his head, as if disapproving of his own judgment. “Fine. Write it up.”

Ellis sighed, relief washing over him, but he knew better than to stay and celebrate. “Thanks, Chief. Thanks a million.” He nearly backed into Lily, who’d just arrived with the commissioner. Ellis moved aside to allow them passage before returning to his desk.

Mind abuzz, he’d nearly forgotten about his Society piece. He retrieved the article and paired it with a quilting shot from the darkroom. After turning them in, luckily without backlash, he sank into his chair.

On a typewriter two desks over, Clayton Brauer’s pointer fingers were engaged in rapid-fire hunt and peck. True to his ancestry, the guy had fair features and broad shoulders and the precision of a German machine. As always, a half-burned cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth with a hint of smugness.

In the world of news, the vast majority of even hard-hitting stories went unsigned, a standard practice for any reputable paper. But thanks to flashy accounts of crime and corruption, the credit By Clayton Brauer had appeared in the Examiner—even making it onto Page One—more times than Ellis cared to tally.

Obviously, Ellis’s feature wouldn’t be a front-pager, but he was a hell of a lot closer to a coveted byline. More than that, to finally writing a story of import.

Ellis scrolled fresh copy paper into his Royal. Seeking inspiration, he again studied the photo. There were a variety of slants to consider. His fingers hovered over the keys, waiting for the words to come. Something provocative. Something newsworthy.

Maybe even…creative.