The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Eighteen





WEST SIXTY-FOURTH STREET, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1930



RITZI woke sometime after midnight and ran for the bathroom. She barely made it to the toilet before she threw up. Her stomach knotted and clenched and purged as she heaved forward, on and off, for fifteen minutes, and then she lay on the floor, her cheek pressed to the cold tile. When the spots no longer floated in her peripheral vision, she pushed herself up and knelt before the sink, cupping water in her palms. She rinsed out her mouth and splashed her cheeks. Then she sat with her back to the wall and pulled her knees to her chest. Ritzi laid her forehead on her arms and groaned.

“How far along are you?” Vivian stood in the doorway, a crimson robe cinched around her impossibly thin waist.

“Just sick. That’s all.”

“I’m not stupid, Ritz.” Vivian stepped into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. “You look like shit.”

“Seems to be the general consensus lately.”

“How long have you known?”

Ritzi wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Debated whether to tell the truth. Relented. “Awhile.”

“Crater?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Does he know?”

She snorted. “Yeah. He took it real well.”

Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “How about Owney?”

“He’d kill me.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized how true they were.

“You’ll have to leave the show.”

“No.” Ritzi shook her head and immediately regretted it. Spots floated at the corners of her eyes again, followed by a throb in her temples. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a long breath through her nose to quell the nausea that tugged at the back of her throat. “The show wraps December thirteenth. I can make it until then.”


“What about the next one?”

“I can hide it.”

“Unlikely.”

“I’m not showing.”

“You look green all the time. You’re dizzy. And from what I hear, you’ve been tossing your lunch in every alley and trash can around Manhattan.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not the only chorine I’ve placed, Ritz. And you’re not the hungriest, by a long shot. There’s a string of girls lining up to take your place. One miss. That’s all it will take, and you’ll be replaced.”

“Then I won’t miss.” She forced herself up and stumbled back to her room. Vivian followed, unconvinced.

Ritzi reached for the cigarettes on her nightstand.

“How can you smoke those in your condition?” Vivian curled her lip in disgust.

She fumbled with the lighter. “Calms my nerves.”

“Every smell turned my stomach when I was pregnant. Eggs. Ashes. Pee. You name it.”

“You’ve got a kid?”

“Rose,” Vivian said, settling next to her on the bed. “She’s twelve now.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I haven’t seen her in seven years. Lost custody of her when I went to prison.”

Ritzi lowered herself to the edge of the bed. Gave Vivian such a look of disbelief that she laughed.

“An a*shole cop on the vice squad got me on a trumped-up charge. I worked for Polly Adler back then.” She shrugged. “It was good money, but I like management better. Three years in a women’s prison upstate taught me the nuance of extortion. Losing Rose was the worst part of it. Felt like someone ripped my soul out. I wasn’t a perfect mom, but I did keep her away from the johns. No way I’d have let her end up like us.”

“No. I don’t guess you would.” Had it come to that? Was Ritzi in the same category as the notorious madam Vivian Gordon? Vivian, with her client list a mile long and a little black book reportedly holding the names of almost every influential man in Manhattan.

In all the time they’d lived together, Vivian had never been so forthcoming with personal information. Her face softened, was almost kind, as she looked at Ritzi’s stomach. “I’m getting Rose back, though. Soon. And when I do, I’m done with all of this. I suggest you make plans as well. It’s going to get ugly.”

“What are you talking about, Viv?”

“I’ve made an arrangement with Samuel Seabury to testify before his grand jury. Names and dates. I’m going to tell him about every bribe and every shakedown and every tip-off. The judicial scandal alone will keep him busy for months.” Vivian picked at the quilt. “That’s the trade. I tell him what I know, and he arranges for the state to return Rose to my custody.”

“Are you crazy?” Ritzi hissed. “Do you want to get killed? Do you have any idea who will come after you if you testify for Seabury?”

“I’ve arranged my safety net with Seabury.” Her smile was full of sympathy. “Listen. You’re a sweet girl, Ritz. And I like you. But I don’t plan on ever seeing you again after that. Make sure you have somewhere to go.”

Ritzi took a long, shaky drag on her cigarette and closed her eyes. She set a hand on her stomach. Pulled it away quickly. “What do I do about this?”

Vivian motioned her to follow. “Come with me.” She led Ritzi down the hall and into her bedroom.

Ritzi stood in the doorway, cigarette dangling from her hand, while Vivian rummaged through a small secretary desk in the corner. She had never been in this room. It was larger than her bedroom and decorated much more simply than she would have expected. Cream bedspread. Dark furniture. A hand-braided rug in the middle of the floor. Dark curtains. Not a single picture on the walls. Vivian never brought her Johns home and made sure that Ritzi didn’t either. The apartment was a safe zone. No men allowed.

Vivian scribbled something onto a scrap of paper. “Here.” She thrust it at Ritzi.

“What’s this?”

“You’ll need a corset. It’s gonna hurt like hell. And they don’t come cheap.”

Ritzi looked at the address. “How long can I wear it?”

“If you can hold on until the end of February, I’ll help you get out of this hellhole. But you’ve got to wait until then. I can’t risk losing my chance to get Rose back.”

RENAISSANCE CASINO AND BALLROOM, HARLEM, THURSDAY, JULY 31, 1930

Ritzi had never seen anything like it. So many people in one room, laughing and gambling and huddled in groups at the bar, crowded around the craps tables cheering with each roll of the dice. She couldn’t breathe for the smoke. Liquor on the breath of everyone within a three-foot radius.

Crater grabbed a lowball glass from the tray of a passing cocktail waitress and shoved it in her hand. “Here.”

Ritzi sniffed the clear liquid. Her nostrils stung with the odor. “What is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’d like to know.”

Crater gave her the look he reserved for the times he thought her especially unreasonable—lips folded in on themselves, eyes pinched. But he humored her and sniffed the glass. “Moonshine. Probably.”

“It smells like piss.”

“That’s how they make it in Appalachia.”

She handed it back to him. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

He lifted the glass out of her hand and took a swig. Didn’t even wince. It must have gone down like pipe cleaner. “Let’s go to the craps table. I feel lucky.”

Joseph Crater was a terrible gambler. Bad with the money and mean when he lost. She, on the other hand, had remarkable skill with numbers—not that you could ever really beat the house, but all those years helping her father with the farm ledgers paid off when it came to taking a calculated risk. It was something Crater depended on her for.

“Which table?” Crater asked, waving a finger between the only two in the casino.

Each table could easily accommodate twenty-four people, with a much larger crowd gathered round if the dice were hot. That’s what the one on the right looked like—a mass of bodies shoved up against the green-felt-covered table. Cheering. Jumping. Slapping backs and congratulating one another. The other, at the far end of the room, sat nearly abandoned, its dealer, boxman, and stickman glancing across the room with envious expressions, waiting for new players able to roll something other than the dreaded seven.

“That one.” Ritzi pointed to the empty table.

Two years ago, Crater would have argued, would have said that she’d lost her mind and was intent on losing his money. But he’d learned better.

“Remember,” she said, patting his arm. “It’s always the player.”

“Looks like it could be the dice this time. Lead weighted, I’d wager.” He gave one last wistful glance at the crowded table and then led her to the open one.

“They’re broke,” she whispered. “And drunk. Now’s the time to make our luck.”

The stickman pushed the dice to the shooter and did his best to keep the tempo going. He looked grateful as Crater and Ritzi stepped up to the table.

“Comin’ out. Bet those hard ways. How about the C and E? Hot roll comin’, play the field! Any mo’ on yo?”

“Don’t forget your penny,” she reminded Crater.

He found one in his pocket and tossed it under the table for good luck. In reality, it was a wasted penny, but the point was to appear knowledgeable. Never toss both dice in the air at once—only amateurs did that. But one made you look like a pro. It was all about looking the part. Raising the bets. And, ultimately, making money. Ritzi picked his numbers, blew on his dice, and gave her sultry smile to any man who made eye contact.


Within ten minutes, Crater was up twelve dollars. A buzz built in the air around them like static. Stragglers drifted to their table. The cocktail waitresses circled, making sure the booze was plentiful.

Crater foisted another drink on her. “Maybe you’ll like the rum better.”

She smiled and brought it to her lips. Dipped her tongue in the amber liquid. “Not bad.”

Ritzi set the glass down on the edge of the table near his elbow. The next time he went to roll, it went crashing to the floor and splashed onto her feet.

“I’ll get you another. Hold on to it better, though.” He was enjoying himself too much to be angry. “Okay?”

“Sure.”

Over the next hour, he tried to force a variety of liquors on her. It was their routine, the prelude to a raucous night in a random hotel room, where she would muster a faked orgasm, and then tears after he passed out. It was a routine she’d long since wearied of.

As usual, Crater could manage his drinking, hovering somewhere between a heavy buzz and being completely soused. Until he started losing. Then the liquor and the anger competed for dominance.

He started rolling sevens ten minutes before midnight and kept going until he’d lost over half his winnings. Left with only a hundred dollars and his wounded pride, he pushed her toward the whiskey.

Ritzi humored him, plucking out the ice cubes with her fingers and crunching them between her teeth.

Crater yanked the glass out of her hand. “Why so damned uptight? Drink it already.”

Hurry up. Get drunk. Get easy. Don’t make me work for it because I’m a lazy shit and I just wanna f*ck and go to sleep, she thought. That’s what you really mean.

Without giving a single thought to the consequences, she threw her answer at him. “Because, damn it, I’m pregnant!” Even though she screamed the words, they were lost in the din. He read her lips, though. And that was enough.

He waved the dealer away, stuffed his remaining winnings in his suit pocket, and grabbed her wrist. “Outside. Now.”

She stumbled after him, one hand lifting the hem of her dress and the other trying to tug free of his pincerlike grasp. They stood together in the small glass chamber of the revolving door, and for that one suspended moment she saw murder in his eyes—a flash of pure hatred and disgust. But then the door finished its rotation and they were out in the open air and there was something else hidden beneath the dark glass of his eyes. Fear. Surprise.

“Say it again.” He squeezed her tighter, fingers digging into the flesh of her arm.

“I’m pregnant.”

“How?”

Such a stupid question. She didn’t answer.

“Is it mine?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve been married for thirteen years and we don’t have children.”

Something in the air that night made her bold. “Then the fault isn’t yours.”

“I don’t care if I knocked you up. That’s not my kid.” Crater dropped her arm and stepped away. “You’ll get rid of it. Soon. Or I’ll tell Owney.” He buttoned his dinner jacket and smoothed the lapel. “I’m going home. To my wife. Get your own cab.”

And she did. It was after one in the morning when Ritzi got home. She was exhausted and furious, and for the first time she truly understood what Stella must feel like. Profound anger sat like a flame in her belly, radiating heat throughout her body.

She knew what she had to do.

Ritzi listened at Vivian’s bedroom door to make sure she was asleep and then crept into the living room. She lifted the receiver from its cradle and asked the operator to connect her to the personal residence of George Hall.