It might be too much to ask. We haven’t talked in a while.”
“What are you after?” This was the perfect opportunity for the guy to hear him out, then to tell him to stick it.
“You still got contacts in California?”
“A few.”
“Thing is, I’m trying to track someone down. A banker from Long Beach. Name’s Alfred Millstone.”
Dutch didn’t react. A bad sign.
But then, as if realizing there wasn’t more to the request, he snatched the pencil from behind his ear. “Millstone, huh?”
“That’s right. Alfred J.”
Dutch scribbled in his notepad.
Ellis was about to thank him, but Dutch seemed to head it off, a faint smile in his eyes. “I’ll make some calls,” he said.
Simple as that. It was the start of amends long overdue.
• • •
Hunched over his typewriter, Ellis corralled his focus. No chatting or trips to the coffeepot. No making or taking calls. Within an hour, he managed to scrape together a basic piece about a current battle between Democrat and Republican lawmakers over a bill to legalize beer. He was tempted to suggest they break out barrels of the stuff at their next session; they might get along well enough to finally get something done.
The article wasn’t a showstopper, but it would do until Ellis’s verve for the job returned. All around him, juicy headlines were waiting to be nabbed. Just this week, the City Trust Company case had been tossed out of court, letting sizable crooks off the hook. Meanwhile, down on West Forty-Seventh, two couples had been booked for counterfeiting banknotes after stuffing $2,500 worth in their mattresses. Then there was the Presidential primary, with Franklin D. Roosevelt taking the lead.
Unfortunately, none of that felt as important as it should.
“Here he is, ma’am.” A copy boy had guided a visitor over and promptly sped off.
Ellis had to do a double take. “Ma. What are you doing here?”
“I thought it would be nice…to surprise you.”
Ellis was as befuddled as she appeared to be, though for different reasons. Clutching her pocketbook with gloved hands, she was absorbing the churning of activities and voices and noise that Ellis barely registered anymore. In a simple yellow dress and a cream cardigan, she was a canary caught in a storm.
He rose to greet her, but then braced himself. “Did Pop bring you?”
“He’s at the plant. He’ll be working late, repairing a machine. I took the train.”
Ellis tried to mask his relief. He wondered if his father had any inkling of her excursion. She rarely traveled alone.
“Well, it’s good to see you.”
“I would’ve called ahead, but…I was just hoping we could talk over coffee.”
Her strategy became clear. She suspected Ellis would delay a planned confrontation if given the chance. And she was right.
He regarded his editor’s desk at the center of the city room. Mr. Walker was out for an early lunch, a luxury not meant for everyone. Yeah, reporters could come and go as needed, so long as they were pulling their weight. And lately, Ellis was slacking. What was more, any of his scoops with real teeth—for pieces that mattered—were becoming a vague memory.
Simply put, it wasn’t a wise time to sneak off for a social visit.
But still. This was his mother.
“Sure thing,” he told her. “Lead the way.”
• • •
At a café on Thirty-Ninth, they ordered coffee and crullers. The place was only half full, eliminating the need to yell to be heard. Ellis expected her to ease in with small talk—about neighbors or train travelers or tasty recipes she’d recently discovered. Instead, she got straight to the point.
“Ellis, I came here today because there’s something you need to know. Regardless of how it might seem, your father is genuinely proud of you.”
Oh boy.
“Ma, look. I appreciate you coming all this way, really. But it’s pretty dang obvious how Pop feels—”
“I am not finished.”
The last time he’d heard her speak so firmly, he must have been in high school. His muttered cursing over doing chores had earned him a scolding and a bar of Ivory to the mouth. He could still taste the suds if he really thought about it.
“Sorry. I’m listening.”
She nodded and clasped her now-bare hands on the table. “Back when your father worked at the coal mines, there were accidents on occasion. Far too often, they involved children. And yes,” she said, “I know that you were inspired by the reporters who wanted to help. But, sweetheart, not all of them were in it for a noble cause. There were some, your father said, who would pay