for an afternoon drive, enticed by the moderate spring weather.
Within seconds of pulling up to the bank, he was parked and sprinting toward the entrance. A drop of sweat slid from his hat.
“No running,” the guard inside growled, slowing Ellis to a brisk walk.
He maintained his pace up the stairs, glad nobody stopped to question him, and introduced himself to the lone secretary stationed outside three executive offices. She had a graying helmet of hair and wore a blouse with a puffy bow below her chin. On the door closest to her desk, the frosted-glass pane was marked Alfred Millstone.
The woman made a show of peering over her bifocals at the oversize wall clock—he was twenty minutes late, according to its Roman numerals—before she perused a scheduling book. Ellis remembered her. Via the teller downstairs, she was the one who’d declined his prior request to meet with Mr. Millstone. Now it was sorely evident she might turn him away again, on principle alone.
He was about to explain himself when she rose from her chair. “This way.”
Gratefully, Ellis followed her into the neighboring office. There, Mr. Millstone sat at a mahogany desk that neatly displayed a pencil holder, prism paperweight, files, and more. He was packing tobacco into a sleek wooden pipe—not his first time that day, based on the smell that blended with the scents of ledger ink and old East Coast money.
“Mr. Millstone.” Ellis extended his hand, which the man accepted this time, even rising from his wingback chair.
“I was beginning to wonder if I’d see you again.”
“I apologize, sir.” Ellis was doing so much of that lately that one would think he was trying to set a record. “Before I could go, my editor needed me for some pressing items.”
“Well, bosses can be troublesome that way, can’t they?” The reply held a hint of levity as Mr. Millstone nodded at his secretary, who yielded a partial smile before closing the door. “Please, sit down.” He indicated a visitor’s chair facing his desk, and they both settled in. “The truth of it is, Mr. Reed, I owe you an apology as well.”
Ellis paused while pulling his notepad and pencil from his coat pocket. He hadn’t anticipated this bit. “How so?”
“A good number of people are still enduring rough times, as you know. When you’re a banker, and a stranger comes knocking, it can make you a little nervous.”
“I imagine so.” Ellis gave a reassuring smile, and Mr. Millstone’s eyes warmed behind his glasses. Then he lit his pipe, stoking the tobacco with a series of puffs as Ellis waited.
“So,” the man said, snuffing out the match, “what can I tell you today?”
How about an update on the kids you bought in Pennsylvania?
Ellis stored the thought. As with cracking any big story, he’d work his way in gradually.
“Well, for the profile, Mr. Millstone—”
“Alfred will do.”
“Alfred.” Not a shock. Bigwigs often figured a personable exchange meant a more favorable article. “To start off, I was hoping to hear a little about your job here as president.”
“Sounds innocent enough.”
The choice of words was a bit curious, all things considered. But as soon as Ellis opened his notepad, Alfred launched into a description of his daily tasks, followed by a list of his overarching duties. He presented himself as a genial gentleman, just as the cabbie had said, though with a spark of passion over his occupation. So much so, he took only momentary breaks, solely to stoke his pipe, while delving into the importance of banking in the community, stressing the necessity of efforts to help honest, hardworking citizens succeed.
Ellis had to scribble to keep up. When he flipped to a fourth page, Alfred stopped and shook his head. “By golly, I did ramble on, didn’t I?”
He’d probably gone for a solid fifteen minutes, but now wasn’t the time for him to go quiet.
“It’s refreshing, actually. With a person of your stature, it can be hard to pry out more than a sentence or two for a quote. Unless it’s election time.”
Alfred laughed a little. He returned to his pipe, its sweet, woodsy scent filling the room, and Ellis glanced down at his notepad.
“Let’s see now,” he said as if referring to prepared questions. As if details of Alfred’s life weren’t already embedded in his brain. “I’ve heard you hail from the West Coast. Is that right?”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“California, was it?”
“You’ve done your homework.”
Ellis smiled. “Requirement of the trade.”
Alfred nodded, amused. “It was the Los Angeles area.”