Lily would typically shy away from entering a place like this on her own, and at such a late hour in an unfamiliar town. Vital to her search, however, Jack Bleeck’s was the preferred haunt of the Herald Tribune. At least according to a grandfatherly bellman at the Waldorf Astoria, who had lit with pride over his extensive knowledge of the city.
Hopefully, the bartender at Bleeck’s could say for certain.
“Sure, I know Ellis. Comes in all the time.” His answer, over the din of the crowd, fluttered Lily’s hopes until he added, “No sign of him tonight, though.” But then he told her to wait there, that some scribes from the Trib were hunkered down in their usual corner and might have a clue to Ellis’s whereabouts.
The bartender guessed well. At the paper, one of the reporters had apparently overhead Ellis’s plan to take his folks to a spot called the Royal. No other details, but it was enough.
Lily bid her thanks and, with little thought, hurried to hail a cab. She was compelled by the sense of running down a lead. Or, if being honest, by the prospect of seeing Ellis.
In the weeks following his abrupt move to New York, her mind had often wandered as she worked at her desk. She would imagine herself on some corner in Philly, or eating lunch at Franklin Square, where their paths would cross in a vision cut short by the chief’s bellowing of her name. A few times, she even came close to phoning the Tribune to alert Ellis when a letter arrived about one of his old features. But the excuse would have been shamefully transparent, she feared, dooming their conversation to an awkward end. Plus, as the months went by, there was Clayton to consider.
Yet here she was now, in the neighborhood as it were, impulse trampling logic. It was a tendency of hers that historically led to trouble. Still, she succeeded in barring the thought until the doorman of the Royal, stationed atop the alleyway stairs, permitted her entry and shut the door, sealing her in. It was then that she observed the guests at the end of the sconce-lit hallway. In the coat-check area they were arriving or leaving as couples.
And it occurred to her: What if Ellis had brought a date? This was assuming he had even made plans here tonight. What a ridiculous gamble.
Lily gripped her purse, debating on turning back. But then she recalled the letter. She had come this far already. What could a glimpse possibly hurt?
Retaining her coat, she proceeded through the entrance framed in burgundy velvet drapes. The main hall held an elegant world of diners, waiters, and candlelight. It resembled the wedding reception in that way, but with less stuffiness and livelier music.
“Good evening, miss.” A shapely blond woman in a glittery dress stepped out from behind her black podium. “You meeting someone?”
“Yes. Well…possibly. I’m looking for an old friend. I’ve been told he was here. Or might be, rather.”
The woman appeared dubious. In a place like this, celebrity patrons surely drew nosy fans. “I’d have to check with the table first. Make sure it’s not a problem.”
“Of course.” Lily should have been more specific. “I normally wouldn’t intrude, but I’m only in town for the night, and I was really hoping to at least—”
“What’s the name?” The hostess was already gazing down at the reservation book.
“Reed. First name: Ellis.”
“Ah, sure.” The woman looked up, her tone promising. But then she shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid his dinner guests wrapped up early, and Mr. Reed had another engagement.”
He was gone. It took Lily a moment to grasp this, to accept the finality of her efforts.
She glanced at the bustling supper club. If only she could have come sooner, or knew where he went next. She regarded the hostess. “Mr. Reed didn’t happen to say…” Oh goodness, she was being irrational now. “Never mind. Thank you all the same.” She managed a partial smile before treading toward the draped entry.
Really, the outcome was a blessing. Come morning, she would be back on a train, common sense restored. Any memories of some youthful romantic yearning would soon dissolve into the practicality of her life.
“Wait a sec.”
Lily slowed. She turned to find the hostess closing in with a gauging look. “Just promise me you aren’t some old steady aiming to spy on the guy.”
Lily was puzzled at first, then adamant. “No. Definitely not. Just a friend.”
The woman gently smiled, her lips red and glossy. She tipped her head. “Then follow me.”
- • •
In a blink, Lily became a mouse in a maze. She scampered behind the hostess, winding through the kitchen, where cooks were stirring and frying and plating food for frenzied waiters. A mixture of spices rode the air scented with boiling carrots and sizzling steaks.
“Through here,” she said when Lily paused, questioning the destination. “A shortcut.”
To what, Lily had no inkling. But she hazarded to follow her guide into the storage room. Behind stacked barrels marked as flour waited a narrow staircase. Apprehensive, Lily trailed down the steps. A single light bulb hung overhead.
At the base stood a metal wall. The woman knocked and waved at a small hole, and magically the barrier slid open. A brawny Italian allowed them passage. Lily had just edged past him when a swirl of voices caught her ear.
The hostess held open a black curtain, split down the middle. “Welcome to Oz.”
Lily crept onto the astounding scene. Suited men and dolled-up women were sidled up to tables of cards, craps, and roulette. They held cocktail glasses and cigarettes on long black filters. Smoke rose from the corners of their mouths.
From reports of raids in the paper, Lily had learned a great deal about backroom gaming halls. She had just never envisioned stepping into one herself.
“You all right from here?” the hostess asked.
Lily intended to voice her thanks, but might have only nodded before the curtain dropped, leaving her on her own. She had to remind herself why she had come.
As she ventured through the room, dealers in bow ties and vests conducted the festivities. Cheers and laughter flowed in waves. Phones sat on a table near a wall chalked with betting odds. To the side, a bartender prepared drinks at his post.
While flapper fashions had largely disappeared from the street, viewed as too garish since the market crashed, rolled stockings and fringed dresses cut above the knee still flourished in this underground haven. Lily could have passed as a schoolmarm in comparison, yet that didn’t stop several men from leering.
It was difficult to imagine the Ellis she knew attracted to such a place.
Ironically, this was her last thought before she registered his familiar features. His hat at a jaunty angle, he stood at the head of a craps table, where he downed a swig of liquor. A waitress swooped in to relieve him of his glass as the surrounding players submitted their bets.
Ellis tucked a cigar stub into his mouth and scooped up the dice. From the corner of the table, a stylish woman called something to Ellis, prompting him to hold the dice out for her. She blew on his hand for luck, seductively enough to make Lily blush.
At last he rolled.
“Snake eyes!” declared the dealer. The crowd collectively groaned, and a cane-like stick was used to rake all the cash into a mound.
Lily had sacrificed so much, devoted such effort, to save every penny she earned. Her teeth clenched at the display of sheer flagrancy and waste.
Ellis lifted his gaze, passing right over her before cutting it back. He removed his cigar and stared as if doubting his own vision—who knew how many drinks he had consumed? Then a smile crossed his face, his delight undeniable. She had clearly become the only other person in the room.
And yet, this moment bore no resemblance to the reunions she had pictured.
He strode the full distance to where she stood, as she made no effort to meet him.
“Lily! How did… What are you doing here?” His blue eyes brightened, emanating with shades of the sincerity and warmth she actually remembered.
She worked to align her thoughts. “I was in town and heard you were here.” She was on the verge of opening her purse. She could simply hand over the letter. It was her primary reason for finding him, after all. But now…now there was more she wished to know.
“Is there a quieter place we could talk?”
He smiled wider, not catching the clip of her tone. “I’ll get my coat.”
- • •
The apartment building sat only three blocks away. On another day, with any other fellow, Lily would never have agreed to such an intimate setting. But Ellis was as eager to show her his new home as she was to gauge him further. She wanted to know just how far he had strayed from the man she knew. Or suspected she had known.
On account of the sprinkling rain, they had walked briskly from the Royal, providing little chance to speak until they arrived.
“I haven’t done much to the place yet,” he warned her, opening the door of his flat on the third floor. “Just moved in a couple weeks ago and been too busy to really jazz it up.”
She brushed raindrops from her hat and shoulders before following him inside, where he illuminated a standing lamp with a tug of its chain. After closing the door, he set his hat beside the phone on a small entry table. “Could I take your coat?”
“I’ll keep it on. Thank you.” She had no sense yet of how long she would stay.
He removed his own overcoat, doffing his suit jacket at the same time—a struggle due to the liquor, she guessed. “I know it’s not the best of neighborhoods,” he went on. “But it’s got a real kitchen and bedroom. Even its own bathroom and toilet and…” His sentence broke off. “Too many details,” he muttered.
While he stored the garments on a coat tree, Lily stepped toward the sitting room. The beige walls smelled faintly of new paint. An oriental rug lay below a sizable brown davenport and maple-wood coffee table. On a square stand in the corner was an RCA radio, sleek with its arched body of polished wood. Although no single item blared with extravagance, the residence as a whole seemed somewhat lavish for a relatively new reporter, considering the steep prices of the city.
Ellis came closer. His necktie was loose and casual.
She pinned on a smile. “You’ve done awfully well for yourself.”
He smiled back, tinged with uncertainty. After a brief lull, he asked, “How about a drink?”
She nodded. “Water, please.”
“Drink of the night,” he said under his breath.
She tilted her head, not understanding.
“Water it is,” he confirmed lightly and retreated into the kitchen.
Lily padded across the rug and set her gloves and handbag on the coffee table. On the wall to her right, picture frames of various sizes created a collage of sorts. No—more of a shrine, it seemed upon closer inspection. For highlighted at the top, hung at eye level, were two articles featuring Ellis’s byline. A slew of unsigned but sizeable clippings, presumably also by him, took up the second and third tiers.
She skimmed the topics: salacious affairs, a scandalous divorce, a séance for a mobster’s widow. The others, mostly of political corruption, at least possessed more merit than sensationalism. But of them all, not a single piece resembled the deeper human stories he had once prided himself on writing. The stories that had made Ellis different.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said, arriving with two glasses. “What brought you to New York?”
She accepted the water, turning away from the wall. “A wedding.”
He went still. “You…got married?”
She realized how it could have sounded. “No. Not me. A friend of Clayton’s.”
Ellis’s shoulders relaxed, but just as swiftly an air of tension returned. He clinked his glass on hers. “Cheers,” he said, which Lily echoed.
As she drank her water, Ellis swallowed a gulp of amber liquid, its potency obvious from its scent. Evidently he hadn’t had his fill. Unlike her sips of champagne earlier, nothing about his behavior tonight indicated a rare occurrence.
He gestured toward the davenport. “Want to sit?”
She politely agreed but assumed the far end. He followed suit by taking the opposite side and set his glass atop his knee. Streetlamps threw slices of light through the partially open blinds of the room’s lone window. Down below, motorcars rumbled in passing.
Lily thought to bring up the letter then, her excuse for seeking him out.
“So,” he said, “where is that beau of yours?”
She had to reconcile the reference. Her instinct then was to correct his assumption. But for now, she had no idea where she and Clayton stood. And honestly, after observing Ellis at the Royal, she felt no obligation to explain.
“There was a robbery during the reception. Near Times Square. He rushed off to cover it.”
Ellis looked incredulous despite his heavy-lidded eyes. “And he left you there?”
The question took her aback. “I… Well, yes, but…I told him he should.”
After a moment, Ellis nodded. “Okay.”
The single word in and of itself was just fine. His tone, however, rang of disapproval.
“It was a big story,” she contended. “Some were saying it might have been Willie Sutton. Maybe a fatal shooting too.” She expected a glint in Ellis’s eyes, maybe envy from missing out—what journalist wouldn’t be interested?
But he just raised his glass for another swig, his mouth hinting at a smirk. “Suppose it makes sense. After all, that’s typical Clayton Brauer, right?”
She suddenly felt defensive on Clayton’s behalf. And for herself. She resented the inference that when it came to courting, she would let herself be tossed aside—something she had vowed to never do again. Still, she strove to remain casual. “Oh? And how is that exactly?”
Ellis appeared surprised by the need to clarify. “C’mon, you know his type.”
She waited for the answer.
Finally, he leaned toward her, as if divulging a secretive insight. “Need help from the guy? Better yell ‘fire.’ Yell ‘murder’ and he’ll grab a pen.” Ellis chuckled while reclining into the cushions and swirled his drink.
Whether or not truth underlay his remarks—in fact, gratingly, she knew it did—Lily wasn’t nearly as entertained. “But you’re wrong about him. I go to Maryville every weekend to…help with my parents’ deli.” She barely caught herself. “And he’s repeatedly gone out of his way to drive me there, wanting nothing in return.”
“Wow. Nothing, huh? That’s…impressive.” It might have been just another wisecrack, an attempt to be clever, but there was an edge in his humor tonight that didn’t sit well.
Then she considered the source, the hypocrisy on full display.
“I’d be careful if I were you, Mr. Reed,” she said with a thin smile, “judging other reporters for what they’ll do to get ahead.”
At her less-than-playful jab, Ellis’s humor receded. He turned tentative, deciphering. “Meaning…?”
She shrugged. “Meaning, no topic appears out-of-bounds for your shot at a byline these days. Unless I’m missing something on this self-congratulatory wall of yours.”
He threw a glance toward the frames and straightened a little. His drink was no longer moving. “Nothing wrong with being proud. I worked hard for those.”
“And by ‘those,’ I presume you’re referring to all the meaningful stories ‘with heart’ you were hired to cover.”
“What I’m writing,” he told her, “is important.”
“Oh, I can see that—with such titillating pieces on mistresses and mobsters. Although…after tonight, I can safely surmise how and where you’re getting your biggest scoops.”
That one touched a nerve. It was plain on Ellis’s face and in the curtain of silence that dropped between them.
She had gone too far. She knew this. The question was why. In reality, they were no more than distant friends, good acquaintances even. After months apart, how did she feel the right, the need, to state her disapproval?
He stared at her, unflinching. Given his current condition, it was up to her to promote a truce.
“I’m sorry for that. Truly. I shouldn’t have—”
“No. Go on.”
She stalled at his coolness.
“I’m sure as a secretary at the Examiner, you’ve got all kinds of great career advice.”
Lily just sat there, stunned. Though he couldn’t have foreseen their full impact—or perhaps somehow he did—his words pierced holes straight through her pride.
Her mind told her to march out, or lash back at minimum, but the whole exchange left her short on will. Her lone thought was that coming here had been a grave mistake.
Slowly, she set her glass on the table and gathered her gloves and purse. On her feet, she pulled out the envelope she had come all this way to deliver. Now she simply wanted it out of her possession, her duty fulfilled.
“This is for you.” She placed the sealed letter beside her glass, eliminating any chance for their fingers to touch.
Ellis’s features were softening. Awareness, maybe even regret, was setting in. But she refused to meet his eyes.
“It’s about the children in your first feature,” she said, regaining her defenses, her clarity. “If you even remember who they are.”
There was so much more she could say, about what she had learned of that photo. About the damning secret he harbored. About how pictures, like people, so often were not as they appeared.
Instead, before Ellis could speak, she walked out the door.
