His starting salary was sixty bucks a week, a decent sum compared to his meager Society pay. But he planned to be smart, save up for a car engine before his old one petered out. Only then would he splurge a little—buy a new hat with a silk band maybe, or a snazzy gabardine suit. Items that would fit right in at the Tribune.
Like everything in New York, the paper was snappier in both speed and style. At least, it seemed that way the first afternoon he stepped into their fancy building and rode the elevator to reach the city room, a vast space teeming with smoke and intensity. Of all the Mondays to begin, he’d chosen a doozy. Al Capone had just been found guilty of tax evasion. Thomas Edison had gone to meet his maker. Thirty thousand Hitlerites had paraded through Germany. And, to top it off, while plowing through Manchuria, Japan was working to bar America from joining the League of Nations.
In short, Ellis’s arrival didn’t cause many ripples.
“Mr. Walker.” He repeated himself for the third time, finally snagging the city editor’s attention. A cluster of reporters had just dispersed from the man’s desk in the center of the room, having confirmed their assignments for the day.
“What can I do for you?”
“Sir, I’m Ellis Reed.” An expectant pause. But Stanley Walker simply checked his wristwatch while rising from his seat. His wiry frame stood a few inches below Ellis’s height of five nine. His black hair held reddish tints and a light wave.
“You got a tip? Make it quick. On my way to a meeting.” His light Texan drawl conflicted with his staccato pace.
“I… No… You hired me. Last week. To work here?”
A look of bewilderment crossed the man’s clean-shaven face as he pulled on his navy suit jacket, which smelled of cigars. Around them, the familiar ticking of typewriters melded with radio chatter and layered conversations. “What’s your name again?”
A prickling spread over Ellis’s scalp from sudden fear that this had been a mix-up. “Reed. From the Examiner.”
“In Pittsburgh?”
“Philly.”
Mr. Walker snapped his fingers. “Right, right. The feature writer.” He smiled, showing a flash of discolored teeth, then swiftly lowered his lips as if by habit. “Been one of those mornings. You understand.”
“Completely.” Ellis shook the man’s hand with relief. “Again, sir, I appreciate the trouble you went to in finding me. You haven’t made a mistake.”
“I sure as hell hope not.” Another tight smile rendered the remark difficult to read. Then he introduced Ellis to the assistant city editor, parked at the next desk, requesting he help Ellis settle in.
“I’d be obliged to,” Percy Tate replied. Yet the moment his boss slipped out, Mr. Tate’s attitude noticeably sharpened as he rattled off the basics—from the building layout and department heads to the standard tasks and daily schedule. His delivery was so brisk that Ellis missed half the details. He dared to ask for a repeat of a point and instantly saw his mistake in the man’s hardened face. Everything about him—his eyes and nose, his build and demeanor—resembled a watchful owl. Just biding his time until he swooped in for the kill.
“Hey there, Mr. Tate,” another man said, stepping in. His boyish face conflicted with his deep voice. “If that’s the new guy, I can take it from here if you’d like.”
Ellis had obviously failed to hide his befuddlement.
Mr. Tate tore away without hesitation.
“I’m Dutch.” The fella offered Ellis a handshake, a genial though sly glint in his eyes. A heavy-lead pencil rested behind one ear, poking through his slicked, chestnut hair.
“And I’m…not sure what I did wrong.”
“Ah, don’t mind old purse face.” He flicked his hand in Mr. Tate’s direction. “Wasn’t much better when I first got here.”
Ellis managed a smile. “Thought it was something personal.”
“Well, maybe a little,” Dutch admitted. “A pal of his has been vying for a spot here for some time now. Could be sore about that. It’ll pass.”
Comprehending the issue, Ellis nodded. Not a great way to start off, but even more motivation to prove his worth.
“Now,” Dutch said, “how’s about a tour?”
• • •
Thanks to Dutch—Pete Vernon being his given name—Ellis quickly learned about navigating the labyrinth of floors, the late-night hours of a morning paper, and the key staffers to approach or avoid. As a married father of a toddler boy, with another babe on the way, Dutch kept his after-work mingling to a minimum. But he still slipped in a tour of Bleeck’s, the speakeasy next door