The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Twenty-Seven





MOROSCO THEATRE, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1930



“WHO’S that?” Ritzi asked Lola, one of the girls on the chorus line.

Lola stepped closer to the mirror and applied a coat of fuchsia lipstick. It made her black hair and green eyes stand out in lovely contrast. “Name’s Mary Anne.”

The new arrival hung toward the back of the dressing room and tried to get into her costume without help—a hazing of sorts from the regulars, how they broke in the rookies. Her skin was pale and her hair typically blond. Large blue eyes. Cute smile.

“Who’s she filling in for?”

“She’s not filling in. Elaine didn’t show last night. You know the rules.”

Ritzi peered at the girl suspiciously. “That’s not like Elaine.”

“Maybe she spooked. She’s been in the papers a lot lately, poor thing.” Lola pointed at a column on the day’s front page. “It’s all anyone in this city can talk about. That judge.”

Oh, I knew him. Period. George Hall quoted the exact words Elaine used in the alley that night. The innuendo was clear. She’d been intimate with Crater and was willing to talk about it. A stupid lie just to make the paper. Elaine had been harassed by reporters for weeks after that, her name paired with their seedy theories in every paper in New York.

“Did Shorty say anything about Elaine? She’s been around Club Abbey a lot lately.”

“He’s the one that brought in Mary Anne. I doubt he cares. She’s one of Owney’s new discoveries.”

Ritzi took a seat next to Lola in front of the mirror and pinned her hair back with a pile of bobby pins. She set the feathered cap on her head and did not mention Elaine again. She had her theories, but they weren’t something she would share with Lola. Instead, she set herself to work getting ready for that night’s performance.

Ritzi’s corset hung on the back of her chair, and she was about to ask Lola to help lace her up when the door to the dressing room swung open and slammed against the wall. Owney Madden loomed in the doorway, and behind him the stagehands and crew gaped at the women in various stages of undress as they shrieked and ran for cover.

“Good God, Owney. Can’t you knock first?” Ritzi crossed her arms over her swollen breasts.

“I’ve seen it all before.”

“Well, they haven’t, okay? No need to give everyone a free peek.” She looked over his shoulder at a row of young men craning their necks at the view.

He shut the door and leaned against it. “Don’t be such a prude, Ritz. Everyone knows what you are.”

The chorus line stilled to a hush. Those still in a compromising state slid into dressing gowns or tugged clothing over their heads. They stared at Owney and Ritzi.

“What would that be, exactly?”

“Cheap.”

There was a stir of gasps behind them. Ritzi saw Lola plant her hands on her hips and stare daggers at Owney. But she did not come to Ritzi’s defense.

“Everyone out,” he said, and pointed at Ritzi. “Except you.” He opened the door and held it for the chorus line. The girls filed out one by one. A few gave Ritzi a sympathetic look, but most rushed to escape Owney’s wrath.

His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets as he circled the dressing room, looking for something.

Owney lifted her corset from the back of the chair. He motioned her over. “You really think this fools anyone?”

Ritzi cinched the belt of her dressing gown a little tighter. “I’ll get Lola to help me.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” He unlaced the back of the corset and held it out with both hands, elbows stiff.

When her robe landed on the floor in a light puddle, she sensed his eyes on her, white-hot. It wasn’t the first time that Owney Madden had seen her naked body, but she felt vulnerable nonetheless. Her center of balance shifted to her stomach and the bulge between her hip bones. Owney said nothing as she walked across the room, stark naked, and snatched the corset from his hands. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed to step into the stiff fabric without shaking. She turned away from his furious gaze so he could lace up the back. But she saw him in the mirror, staring over her shoulder, watching her face.

“Where’s Elaine?”

“Got rid of her.”

“What do you mean?”

He snorted. “You know damn well what I mean. But if you must have details, I put a bullet in her skull. Then I had a couple of my guys wrap her in a sheet, stuff her in the trunk of my car, and drop her off the Brooklyn Bridge two nights ago.” He grinned at the horrified look on Ritzi’s face. “Or was that too much information?”


His words ran together in a blur of lilted syllables, and it took Ritzi a moment to make sense of what he said. A sudden rush of heat overwhelmed her when she finally understood. Ritzi willed herself not to throw up. “Why?”

“Because Elaine couldn’t keep her name out of the papers. And I don’t want people asking any more questions about Joseph Crater.”

Ritzi blinked back tears, unwilling to dignify his admission with a response.

His hand dropped to the mound between her hips. Squeezed. “This was a dumb-ass thing to do.”

Something inside her rose, and then coiled, eager to strike. The unfamiliar protective instinct surged, and she struggled to force it into submission. Her voice was blasé even as the blood pounded in her temples. “It’s early. No one knows.”

“I thought you knew better than to let this happen.”

She laid her palms flat on the dressing table, an anchor to steady herself. “I did everything I could. It was an accident.”

“A mistake. You’ll take care of it, hear?”

Or else. That was the threat he’d left off, but she could feel it dangling in the air. She would end this problem. Or else she’d wind up like Elaine.

His fingers were quick and nimble as he laced up the corset. He’d done this before, likely in reverse, but at least he was familiar with the mechanics. Ritzi didn’t complain as he jerked the strings and pulled them tight. He stopped at the point of discomfort.

“Take a deep breath,” he said.

She tried to fill her lungs but couldn’t quite expand them all the way.

Owney wrenched tighter and forced the air out in a sharp gasp. The face reflected in the mirror was cruel.

Ritzi’s eyes stung. They began to water, and she blinked, determined not to cry.

Owney gave the corset one last tug, and Ritzi felt her pulse at the back of her eyes and a tingle in her lips. They stared at one another in the mirror for several long seconds.

Please, she mouthed.

Owney loosened his grip on the corset, and she took a wild breath.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded, unable to speak.

He tied her off and then resumed his prowl around the dressing room. “Got a smoke?”

Ritzi didn’t answer him. She rested a hand on her heart and took one deep breath after another. When his back was turned, she quickly ran her palm over her belly. The first tender act toward the child held captive inside her body.

Owney’s gaze settled on her purse. He knew she always kept a pack in there. He grabbed it off the dressing table before she could protest and dumped everything out. A pack of cigarettes tumbled to the floor. He snatched it up and tapped it against his palm.

Inside the lining of her purse was the black bank bag containing every dollar she had—both what she’d withdrawn and what Maria had given her. If Owney found it, her escape plan was ruined.

Desperate to distract him, she flung the words out, heedless of the consequence: “I did what you told me.” Ritzi stepped forward, bold. He couldn’t do anything to her here. Not with so many people around. “Every bit of it was on your orders. I slept with those men because you made me do it. I spied on Crater because you told me to. Every lie. Every time I stole something from a wallet or an office or an apartment, it was you who made me do it.”

“You were paid accordingly.”

She waved around the dressing room, furious. “This? You think this was worth what it did to me? You can keep your damn shows. I don’t want them anymore.”

“Too late for that, Ritz. You work for me. And I don’t accept resignations.” Owney chose a cigarette from the pack. Lit it. Inhaled and then blew his insult at her with a mouthful of smoke. “Like I said, cheap.”

“Get out.”

He opened the door. “Be ready after the show. You’ve waited long enough to take care of that problem.”


THE waiting room in Columbia Presbyterian Hospital’s obstetrics unit was empty, all those expectant mothers most likely at home, feeding their growing families. As the last patient of the day, Maria had been ushered through the long gray hallway and left to wait inside Dr. Godfrey’s exam room. The nurse informed her that he was on the floor above, assisting with a difficult delivery, and would be with her as soon as possible.

That was an hour ago. She’d gone back to the waiting room twice in search of an update, only to be reassured that Dr. Godfrey knew she was there and would be down any minute.

She was stretched out on the exam table, deeply asleep, when he finally arrived. Maria jerked awake at his touch. “What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock. I’m very sorry to make you wait so long. My patient delivered breech, and that’s always”—he pinched the bridge of his nose—“a hard time for everyone involved.”

Maria almost asked about his patient but decided not to. Perhaps she didn’t really want to know. “I got your letter,” she said. “I didn’t realize I’d have to come in for another appointment.”

“I didn’t either. When I thought your case was straightforward.”

There was a look of such sadness on his face that Maria sensed the heartache coming. Her first instinct was to avoid it, even if it meant hearing someone else’s tragedy. “Your patient—”

“Will be fine,” he interrupted. “As will her son. After a great deal of rest.”

Maria wanted to be relieved but couldn’t quite summon the emotion. “What about me? Am I going to be fine, Dr. Godfrey?”

“I have news for you, and I wanted to give it to you in person.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know why you are unable to conceive.”

All the hope rushed out of Maria. She wilted into the exam table. “Does it really matter why?”

“I’m afraid it does,” Dr. Godfrey said. “It matters very much.”


RITZI’S toes tapped against the stage in time with the orchestra as she spun in a tight pirouette. The music swelled, the audience roared, and then she was gone, running backstage. She jumped the gun a bit, ducking behind the curtain a few seconds early, but the crowd wouldn’t notice.

“Hey!” one of the stagehands yelled as he stumbled backward, dropping a coil of rope after she pushed him out of the way. “Watch out!”

His voice was drowned out by the audience. They’d moved on to the next scene. The other girls would naturally fill the gap in the chorus line and buy her a few minutes. She fled into the dressing room and locked the door behind her. There was no time to get help with the corset, so she cut it off with a pair of scissors they used for trimming lose threads. When it fell to the floor, she bent over her chair panting, expanding her crushed ribs.

One last number and the show would be over. She would be expected onstage for the final bow. Perhaps an encore.

Not tonight.

Not ever again.

Owney and The New Yorkers be damned. It had never been worth it. She knew that now.

The elaborate headpiece took a chunk of hair with it when she ripped it off. She tossed it in a corner and grabbed her dress from a hook on the wall. Ritzi was in and zipped up in less time than it usually took to put on her shoes. She buckled her heels and grabbed her purse and reached for the dressing room door.

For one moment, that split second it took for the door to swing inward, she thought she might make it out of there.

And then she blinked.

Shorty Petak filled the doorframe, arms crossed. “Going somewhere?”



IT was almost midnight when she heard Jude’s key in the lock. It turned and clicked and the door swung open on rusty hinges. She sank a little lower in the bathtub, the water lapping at her ribs. Maria squeezed her eyes shut as Jude’s feet scraped over the hardwood floors in a weary shuffle. She pictured him on the other side of the wall, eyes half closed and head slumped in exhaustion.

What would he think, standing beside their empty bed? Would he see an impression on the left side—her side—little more than the suggestion of shoulders and hips recently pressed into the mattress? Perhaps run his hand along the shape of her? Maria imagined him rummaging through the cool sheets, searching for the warmth of her body, wondering at her pillow wadded into a ball on the floor. A moment later, Jude eased the bathroom door open.

The bathroom had the hot, damp smell of a summer afternoon, and steam hung from the ceiling. It clouded the mirror and ran in uneven lines down the wall. She’d been soaking long enough to pucker her fingers and toes. Maria rested her head against the edge of the porcelain tub, her arms draped over the side, limp. Wet curls clung to her neck.

Jude crossed the room and sat on the edge of the toilet. She pulled her knees up to her chest and shrank away.

He inhaled deeply and ran his thumb along her forearm. “It smells like you in here.”

Every Christmas, Maria’s mother gave her soap imported from Spain. The box held twelve bars, one for each month, and she made them last all year, whittling each bar down, never wasting so much as a sliver. It was made of olive oil, lemon peel, and lavender that grew on the hills outside Barcelona. It was her scent. It settled into the strands of her hair and the pads of her fingers and the soft patch of skin beneath her earlobes. She smelled of earth and citrus and rain, and Jude often leaned into her when she stroked his face and when she lay across his chest at night. The perfume clung to her clothing and her side of the bed, and it hung so heavy in the air right then that she could taste it when she took a long, slow breath between parted lips.

Maria heard him strip off his clothes and dump them in a dirty pile beneath the pedestal sink. The claw-foot tub was deep but not long, and she couldn’t pull away from his touch as he climbed into the water at her feet. It wasn’t their usual position, but she couldn’t tolerate that at the moment. Jude slid his toes along her shins, tentative, then stretched his feet until they rested at the end of the tub, on either side of her waist. Their knees rose from the water like mountain peaks from mist, and she was locked between his legs.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.” Jude set his palm on the top of her knee, and she stretched her legs, pushing against his rib cage with her feet.

Maria shrugged, sending a wave across the tub. “Couldn’t sleep.” Her voice quivered with repressed tears.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked at him with swollen, bloodshot eyes. “I went back to the doctor today.”

“Ah, shit. Your appointment.” Jude pulled himself under the water and stayed there so long the surface stilled. When he came up for air, Maria was chewing on the corner of her bottom lip, tears dripping off the end of her nose. “I forgot.”

Evidence of Maria’s anguish was plain: the bruise-like circles beneath her eyes and the chapped skin under her nose.

“What did he say?”

Maria pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She choked on the words like a hard-to-swallow fact. “That some women can’t. And I’m one of them.” And worse. Dr. Godfrey said much worse. But she could not bear to speak those words aloud right now. How he explained that sometimes a woman’s ovaries failed to work correctly. How they became diseased.

Jude collapsed beneath the news. “Come here.”

She lifted her feet off his chest and wiggled in the tub until she was in his lap, her body limp, emotions spent. Maria stared at the ceiling and let him draw her close. She didn’t return the embrace.

“We don’t have to do this anymore,” he said. “It’s okay that we … can’t.”

“No. It’s not. Not for me.” She thought of Ritzi and their agreement.

Jude tried to hold her together. Her bar of precious soap lay dissolving on the bottom of the tub, unused. He chased it around with his free hand and dropped it to the floor in a softened lump.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” His hands explored the small of her back. “A baby could never top this.”

She took a long breath, air catching in her throat, and let it go, exhaling years’ worth of hope. “I’m going back to bed.”

Maria crawled from the tub, dripping water. She stood there naked, all arms and legs and breasts. Jude reached for her, but she stepped away. Maria pushed at the tears with the back of her hand and shook them at him like an accusation. “It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

Maria wrung her hair out on the bathroom floor, then shoved a towel around with her toes, soaking up the water. She grabbed her cotton nightgown off the towel rack and slipped it over her head. It clung to her wet skin.

Jude stepped from the tub and ran two fingers through the vines of wet hair that hung against her neck. She ducked her head and laid it against his collarbone.

“I should have been there with you.” Jude scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom. He retrieved her pillow, tucked her in, and slid beneath the covers beside her. They lay like spoons, separated by a thin film of cotton and years of infertility. He was asleep before she had even lost the edge to her grief.


OWNEY was waiting when Shorty pushed her through the stage door. They each took an arm and forced her down the alley to the Cadillac.

“You can’t do this,” Ritzi said.

“You are not in a position to tell me what I can and can’t do.” Owney shoved her into the backseat. “I don’t appreciate you trying to skip out on me.”

“I don’t appreciate being kidnapped.”

“Escorted.”

“Coerced.”

Shorty didn’t look at her, even though she stared at him in the rearview mirror. His eyes were locked on the windshield, hands lazy on the wheel.

Owney patted the space next to him, inviting her to slide over.

Bloody scally! Ritzi tried to think of every insult for someone from Liverpool that she’d ever heard. Scouser! She scooted against the door and glared at him.

“Don’t look so sour, Ritz. We have to do it this way.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can. Like you been doing all this time? Paying your own bills? Earning your spot on the stage? Yeah, you’ve done one hell of a job taking care of yourself.”

“Can’t a girl have some dignity?”

“Not your sort. Not on my dime.”

They drove through the theater district and then Midtown. Through the money and the glitz, heading toward the West Side Highway and the Chelsea Piers. And all the while, Ritzi stared at the three inches of Shorty Petak’s face that she could see in the mirror. Daring him to look at her. To acknowledge his part in this.

After threading the Cadillac through a maze of backstreets, Shorty rolled up to a five-story brick warehouse. There was no sign on the door, but the lights on the top floor were on.

Owney swung his door open. “This is costing extra. After hours.”

“I never asked you to pay.”

“My property. I pay.”

The street was empty, darkness punctuated by a single puddle of light cast by an anemic streetlamp. Owney was at her door, tugging her from the car even as she gave Shorty one last stare. Pleading. For what, she didn’t know. But anything was better than what awaited her inside.


Owney didn’t knock; he simply shoved the door open and steered her down the narrow hall. There was an occasional door off to one side, marked with numbers but no names. No elevator, just a dark stairwell. Owney motioned her to go first. They climbed all the way up, Ritzi looking over her shoulder at the malicious grin on his face, and her heart pounding by the time they reached the fifth floor. The lights were on in the long, dirty hallway, but they felt sinister, flickering in the stillness and sending sputtering shadows across the faded linoleum floor. She grasped her purse strap with both hands.

“You’re on the end, room twelve.” Owney gripped her elbow, gave her a shove. “Let’s get this over with.”

Her thoughts raced, desperate for some argument that would change his mind. “Ladies All wraps in three days, Owney. And then The New Yorkers starts. You set that gig up. You wanted me to do it.”

“They already found your replacement. A Hollywood actress named Kathryn Crawford. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She’s a real talent, Ritz. Not a whore like you.”

Ritzi stumbled before him, shaking with fear and hatred and trying to match his stride. The door to room 12 creaked open, and a man stepped into the hall. He wore gloves and a stained medical coat. His skin was pale, his nose flat, and his voice an emotionless monotone. “You’re late.”

“This is John. He’ll take care of you.”

Not Dr., just John.

“I ain’t got all night.” John held the door open and motioned her in. Ritzi tucked her purse under one arm and wrapped the other around her stomach.

Owney pushed her into the room.

“I don’t want to do this,” she said as he shut the door behind them.

John unrolled a white towel filled with surgical implements. He lay them on a side table, one by one.

“You don’t have a choice,” Owney said. He whispered something to John.

“I’m not your property anymore.”

“Don’t be a fool, Ritz. You can’t go back on our arrangement. You came to me, remember? You wanted this. Time to pay up.” If Owney had ever planned to let her walk away, she had missed the chance. Now she’d angered him to the point where he wasn’t willing to pass the job to one of his thugs. He would see this through himself.

“I know what you did to Crater!” she shouted in desperation.

He stopped.

“I was there,” she said. “In that hotel in Coney Island. Stuffed under the bathroom sink. I heard everything. Heard Crater begging for his life and heard you and your guys beating the hell out of him.”

“I don’t believe you.” Owney’s eyes narrowed.

“You asked him about the safe-deposit box and then you dragged him out of there. I wrote it all down, you know. Every detail goes to a reporter if I disappear.”

Owney tugged at the end of his tie and looked at John. The man ignored their conversation. “No one would believe you, Ritz. Say what you want. Can’t be proved.”

“I’m ready to start.” John nodded toward a long, bare table.

“Make it quick.” Owney tipped his hat. “Let me know when it’s done.” He turned and walked out the door, leaving them alone in the makeshift operating room.

Ritzi stepped away from John and backed up to the wall.

“Listen, he’s already paid me. So no matter how long you stand there, this is going to happen. It would just be a hell of a lot easier if I don’t have to come after you.” He rested one hand on a stainless steel scalpel.

She blinked hard, pushing the tears back in, forcing herself to gain control. Ritzi looked around the room, searching for a way out. Two tables, a chair, and a pushcart piled with towels and surgical equipment were the only furniture visible. Behind John was a second gray metal door.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, following her gaze.

She made her way to the operating table and leaned against it to steady herself. She had one chance. “What was the deal?”

“Deal?”

Ritzi pushed aside her fear. Took a deep breath. Summoned every ounce of charm and composure she possessed. “Did you tell him you’d sever an artery? Or maybe something a little cleaner? Like suffocation?”

He laughed. Unkind. “Listen—”

“I’m not stupid, you know.” She lifted herself onto the table and crossed her legs. “People assume that. Girl works on Broadway, she must not have brains. Let’s cut the bullshit, okay?”

John stood back and surveyed her. He crossed his arms. “This is new. Got a little fight in you, eh?”

She waved an arm around the room. “I’m curious how he told you to kill me.”

“He left the specifics up to me.”

“What’d he pay you?”

“None of your business.”

“Oh, come on. I’d like to know what I went for. A cool hundred? Did that do the trick?”

“Three.”

“And what would it cost to let me out of here? Alive.”

“I work for Owney.”

“How ’bout I double what he paid you?”

“A two-dollar whore like you ain’t got that kind of cash.”

She was surprised at the sharp edge to her laugh. “John, I cost a hell of a lot more than two dollars. Besides, I’ve been saving up.”

He shrugged, uninterested, and finished removing the tools.

“Six hundred cash and we both win. Owney’s none the wiser.” Ritzi opened her purse and pulled the bank bag from its spot in the torn lining. Counted out six hundred dollars. She fanned the bills with her thumb, noting the greedy look in his eyes.

“Owney wants proof.”

“I imagine you can arrange something.”

“Or I can take his money and yours and not run the risk of you blabbing.”

“Maybe I got someone waiting for me on the outside.”

“Maybe when they come looking, I tell them you were just another slut that got knocked up and wanted an easy out. Happens all the time with your lot.”

“Hardly the kind of thing you want to go around admitting. Since you run an illegal operation.”

“No wonder you didn’t make it in this business. You can’t act worth shit.”

Ritzi scratched her neck. “You like killing babies, John? Sometimes women too, by the sound of it? I think that maybe you’d like to go to sleep tonight without blood on your hands. Add some extra cash to the deal, and I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t take me up on my offer.”

A wicked grin spread across his face. “Take your clothes off.”





CLUB ABBEY


GREENWICH VILLAGE, AUGUST 6, 1969



Crater’s casual relationships with numerous showgirls and his visits to places such as Club Abbey and similar clubs in Atlantic City make clear that frequenting a house of prostitution would hardly have been out of character for him.

—Richard J. Tofel, Vanishing Point





Stella slides the envelope across the table with the tips of her fingers. She seems offended by its presence, despite the fact that not two seconds ago she took it from her purse. Stella Crater is written across the front in faded black ink, the letters a fine, feminine script. The corners are torn and bent—as though it’s been crammed in a drawer for years—and a water stain across the front renders the postmark illegible. There is no return address.

“What’s this?” Jude asks, staring at the red two-cent stamp of George Washington’s profile.

“Your long-awaited confession.”

He reaches for it, but Stella swats his hand, her movements alarmingly quick for one so ill. “Not yet.”

“Why?”

“I don’t plan on being here when you read it.”

“You can’t be leaving already?” Jude asks. “We were just starting to have fun.”

Stella is limp and tired, and a bit of truth slips through her hard veneer. “I don’t want to see you read it.”

“Then close your eyes.”

She puts a fingertip on the envelope and brings it back toward her an inch. “A few more minutes won’t kill you.”

They sit, bent over the table like two greedy children competing at slapjack: palms flat, fingers twitching, waiting for the next jack to land faceup on the table. But Jude isn’t certain he’s quick enough. And he doesn’t want to lose this particular card, so he draws his hand away and drops it to his lap. Stella doesn’t budge.

The early-August humidity has seeped down the stairwell and under the door, making Club Abbey smell like a wet ashtray. Someone wastes a perfectly good dime at the jukebox on John Lee Hooker’s “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer,” the clichéd last call. Not like they need the reminder. Stan shuts the joint down promptly at midnight. It’s been years since anyone protested.

Jude inspects the crumbling envelope. “How long have you had that?”

“Thirty-eight years. Give or take.”

He grunts. “Ever heard of guilt by omission?”

“No.”

“Means you can be found guilty of a crime by failing to report a felony. Withholding evidence being an obvious example.”

Stella barks out a laugh and thrusts her hands toward him. Her wrists are like knobs on a twisted tree root, bones pressed against the loose paper of her skin, fingers little more than arthritic twigs. “Go ahead. Arrest me.”

“I’m not interested in sending you to jail, Stella. Not anymore. I just want to know what happened to him.” In four decades, they have never touched, but Jude cups her hands in his and lowers them to the table. They are tiny and frail and splayed open. “You’ve kept this up for a long time. What could possibly be worth all this trouble?”

Stella spins her watch to face upward. She notes the minute hand inching closer to midnight, regards Stan behind the bar as he washes the glasses and tips them upside down on a rack to dry. It’s half past eleven, and there are only two other melancholy souls in the room—human dregs. One watches Johnny Carson on a grainy television above the bar, and the other is asleep at his table. She looks at the letter, still on the table between them, and is finally ready to tell the truth.

“This ritual is all I have left.” The corners of her mouth flicker into a smile. “You couldn’t have told me back then that things would go so wrong. We were right there on the edge of having everything. The trouble started in Tammany Hall, but it ended with the theater. Truth be told, I didn’t much care for Broadway, but I liked to be there with Joe. Liked that it was an event every time we went out: the heels and the pearls and the chauffeur and the attention—attention that only doubled once he got his appointment to the court. Joe was a magnet for the stuff, and I lapped up the excess, intoxicated.

“This”—she swirls her hand above her head, indicating the whole of Club Abbey—“is my penance.”

“For what?”

“For enabling Joe’s corruption. For ignoring his infidelity. For helping him broker our future so he could buy a seat on the New York State Supreme Court. I thought we could have it all. Wealth and social standing and respect. And all I had to do was turn a blind eye. Keep the status quo. Show up at the right events in the right dress and smile pretty like a proper political wife. But it doesn’t work like that, you know. There’s always a price to pay. And, in Joe’s case, a paper trail. Word got out the judgeships were on the block to the highest bidder. The wrong people started asking around, and one day Joe got a summons to appear before the Seabury Commission. Needless to say, there were people who had a vested interest in making sure he never testified.” Stella eases the envelope back across the table. “You’ll find the rest of what you need to know in there.”

Jude sits quietly through all of this. He doesn’t write in his notebook or interrupt or reach for the letter. For thirty-eight years, she’s treated this like a shell game, shuffling the truth with sleight of hand, and he marvels at this revelation. Stella has tipped the cups over, shown him the ball. There is only one question to be asked.

“Why now?”

“Because I won’t be here next year. This isn’t the kind of thing one relishes taking to the grave.” Stella glances upward. “Just in case.”

“I can’t absolve anything.”

“I’m not asking you to. I just wanted you to know that I chose, all those years ago, to hide the truth. That it’s eaten me from the inside out. Cancer has nothing on guilt, let me tell you that much. Shit. Forget the cigarettes. The guilt probably caused the cancer.” Stella’s hands tremble as she searches for another smoke. They’re all gone. “So go ahead. Tell the story. Take it to the papers, for all I care. Consider this your victory.” Stella’s mouth is twisted wryly, as though she suspects he won’t do it in the end.

There is a sudden emptiness within Club Abbey, and Jude and Stella realize that they are alone with Stan. He wanders through the bar with a broom, sweeping under tables and picking beer labels off the floor. They sit beneath a halo of dim light. Intense. Mournful.

“So now you know. Most of it, anyway.” Stella lifts her glass from the table. She draws on the silence, summoning the ghosts of Club Abbey for support. “Good luck, Joe, wherever you are.”

She tips back the glass of diluted whiskey and drains it in three wet gulps. A shudder runs through her body, and Stella presses the back of her hand to her mouth. Squeezes her eyes shut. There are no goodbyes for her. No formalities. She gathers her purse and slides out of the booth, setting one unsure foot to the floor and then another. Stella straightens her dress. Nothing but habit keeps it from sliding right off her wasted body. She doesn’t grace them with a parting word or a nod, simply crosses the bar and leaves Joe’s drink untouched on the table behind her. As always.

Jude wonders if she has enough strength to pull the doors open. And then he remembers that only fools underestimate the strength of Stella Crater.