It was there that Mr. Walker regularly took his lunches, accompanied by a glass or two of scotch. Not that even the paper’s higher-ups would object. Particularly since the Tribune’s owner was known to frequent the same joint in the evenings, putting away more than his share of Prohibition dew—apparently doing the same throughout the day in his large corner office. Fortunately for everyone, his wife was shrewd enough to handle many of the paper’s business dealings. In fact, three years earlier, she could very well have been a driving force behind promoting Mr. Walker from the night staff.
According to Dutch, the visionary city editor had been tasked with infusing new life into the Tribune. Right off the bat, he replaced the deadweight of aristocratic progenies with a few veteran reporters, but mostly fresh, eager writers to pen stories of “women, wampum, and wrongdoing,” as Mr. Walker liked to put it. In other words, he preferred spotlights on the feel and culture of the city to stale accounts of politics and economics.
It made sense then why Ellis had been recruited. Nevertheless, gaining his footing was more challenging than expected.
A few weeks in, and still adjusting to the paper’s hours—often concluding well past midnight—he was at his desk one afternoon, about to drift off, when a portly reporter known as Dobbs smacked Ellis’s shoulder with a scrolled-up page.
“Got a hot tip, but I’m jam-packed for the day. All yours if you want it.”
Ellis scrambled to sit up and accepted with gratitude. So far, he’d largely been a legman, dispatched to gather serviceable quotes or supportive details for another reporter’s stories. The rest of the time he served as a newsroom mutt, charged with a long list of menial tasks. The unwanted scraps.
This was his chance for more. Shedding the fuzziness of sleep, he strained to read Dobbs’s notes about an elusive ship. The floating speakeasy, called the Lucky Seagull, had apparently been spotted on the outskirts of the harbor in the twilight hours. If located, it was just the kind of subject that could earn Ellis a byline.
Not if, he decided, but when.
• • •
Ellis spent the next three days investigating the ship’s whereabouts. Each night, he trolled the chilly docks, a miserable task in November. Several dockhands confirmed rumors of such a vessel but had no other knowledge. Growing desperate, Ellis bypassed skepticism and paid far too much for a boat ride with a soused, smelly fisherman who swore to have spied the Lucky Seagull half a dozen times.
By dawn of the fourth day, Ellis had nothing to show for his efforts, save for a brutal head cold.
Though dreading to report back, he finally returned for the one o’clock news meeting. The group assembly was a daily occurrence around Mr. Walker’s desk. Between coughs and sneezes, Ellis disclosed his lack of findings. He was halfway through when stifled laughs from the surrounding journalists made clear he’d been duped.
Once the gathering broke up, Dutch offered a sympathetic look. “Sorry about all that. If I’d heard, I would’ve warned you off.” He gave a shrug. “On slow days around here, putting cubs on impossible assignments, it’s like an initiation. Try not to take it hard.”
“Sure. I get it.” Ellis wiped his nose with a tissue and smiled to simulate his amusement.
After all the years he’d worked at the Examiner, it jarred him to be referred to as a cub. True, when it came down to it, his publishing success amounted to little more than a handful of features. Or really, some might say, to a single memorable photograph.
In fact, the truth of that blasted picture still lurked in the recesses of his mind. A new job in a new city, even in another state, had done nothing so far to wipe the Dillards from his memory. Through his long hours spent shivering on the docks, they’d seeped into his consciousness. He could still see them on that dingy porch, a backdrop to a borrowed sign. Like driftwood, they just kept floating back. The same went for thoughts of Lily Palmer.
A waste of time, he told himself. All of that was in the past.
Discounted by the likes of Mr. Tate, and perhaps now by Mr. Walker himself, he would charge forward with even more resolve.
And so, as the weeks rolled on, Ellis made feverish attempts to land a notable story. Always there was a reason for rejection: not enough meat, already well-covered territory, great theory but lacking ample evidence to take