The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Thirty





QUEENS, MONDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1931



RITZI woke to the sound of rain. Strange in winter, she thought as she dragged herself from a fathomless sleep. She did not know the day or time, only that she was hungry and that her back ached with a dozen pea-size knots. For twenty minutes, Ritzi lay in the single bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling above her—lines on a road map that stretched in seemingly random directions, crisscrossing, colliding, and widening into highways or thinning and wandering off like dead-end dirt roads. The tiny room smelled of wood polish and old curtains. She burrowed deeper into the covers and peered at the rivulets of rain sliding down the window. From where she lay, Ritzi could see pale gray sky, broken by the stark, naked limbs of an elm tree that hung low over the window. Teardrops of frigid water clung to the tips of each branch.

Ritzi ran her tongue over her teeth, cringing at the taste, but didn’t push up onto her elbows until her stomach growled. She heaved her legs over the side of the bed and marveled at the size of her belly. She’d been a fool to think pregnancy was something she could hide. No corset could conceal this. Ritzi arched her back. Stiff muscles howled in protest, and she kneaded the heel of her hand against her spine, rubbing until she relaxed enough to stand. She eased into the small bathroom and brushed her teeth, relishing the taste of mint. Ritzi climbed into the shower and stayed beneath the hot spray of water for ten minutes, allowing it to soften the ache in her body. Never again would she take for granted what it felt like to be clean.

She remembered the filth of the lab coat against her skin as she fled the warehouse that night. She had bartered for the coat and her freedom, and John took every dollar he could find in her purse, far more than the six hundred dollars she offered. Her life savings, and Maria’s bribe money, gone to a back-alley butcher. Ritzi slipped from the building barefoot and smelling of stale body odor and rancid chemicals. But she didn’t even make it around the building before Shorty Petak found her. He clamped a hand over her mouth, fingers digging into the soft skin of her cheek, as she peered around the edge of a trash can. His palm muffled her scream.

“You think Owney didn’t guess you’d try to escape?” he whispered, tucking her tight against his chest.

Ritzi tried to thrash her way loose, but his arms were locked immovably around her.

“Shut up,” he hissed into her ear. “Unless you really do want to die.”

And that’s when she heard the voices farther down the alley. Owney and John.

“What took you so long?” Owney asked.


“She’s a fighter,” John said.

Ritzi stilled in Shorty’s grasp, her heart beating wildly. She forced herself to relax, to breathe—slow, steady, consistent—through her nose. She strained to make out the conversation.

Owney sounded unconvinced. “You know I need proof.”

“Here. Her clothes. Shoes. Purse.”

“Why so much blood?”

“Like I said, a fighter.”

Could that be regret in Owney’s voice? “I told you to make it clean. Quick.” His voice rose and echoed off the narrow walls of the alley.

“There’s a reason they call this dirty work. Be glad I’m willing to do yours.”

They strained to hear Owney’s response, but the alley grew quiet.

Shorty’s mouth was pressed next to Ritzi’s ear, and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her temple. “This is the second time I’ve saved your sorry ass. I won’t do it again.”

Ritzi turned her head to the side, tried to see his face, to understand what he meant.

“In Coney Island,” he whispered. “You think I didn’t see your dress sticking out of that cabinet? That I didn’t know you were in there? Shit. I’m not an idiot, Ritz.”

Why? She mouthed the word against his palm.

She felt his shrug. “I like you. Always have. You’re better than this.”

It took Owney a long time to respond to John, but when he did, Ritzi felt herself go limp in Shorty’s arms.

“I want to see her body,” he said.

“No. You don’t.”

“You don’t tell me what I want. This is a special circumstance.”

“Suit yourself. It’s at the bottom of the garbage chute. But you’ll have to dig through two days’ worth of trash to find it.”

Ritzi imagined Owney looking at his new custom suit, his Italian leather shoes, his silk tie, deciding whether she was worth the trouble. Apparently not.

“Shorty!” Owney called down the dark alley.

They both tensed, and his hand lay fast over her mouth. Shorty cleared his throat. “Yeah, boss?”

“Is there anything I need to know?”

“No sign of her.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“You sit here.” Shorty’s voice was barely louder than a breath. “You don’t move. As far as I’m concerned, you’re dead, and I don’t ever want to hear different. Best you disappear. Forever. Got it?”

Ritzi gave her head the slightest nod, nothing more than the hint of affirmation.

Shorty didn’t look at her or say another word, simply stepped from behind the trash can and ambled toward his boss, hands thrust deep in his pockets. Somewhere down the alley, doors slammed. And then Owney’s Cadillac roared to life. The glow of taillights washed red against the warehouse as they drove away.

She stayed crouched there until her bare feet went numb against the frozen concrete. Once certain that Owney was long gone, Ritzi went in search of help. Freezing and queasy and paranoid, she stumbled upon a Jewish baker raising the shutters on his shop at four in the morning. She begged to go in and sit in the heat, and though he seemed disinclined at first, her tears won him over. He asked no questions but gave her a day-old loaf of sourdough. Ritzi fell asleep beside one of the ovens and slept until noon. Upon waking, she called the only person who could help: Maria Simon. The envelope with her number on it had fallen out of Ritzi’s purse when John ransacked it, but she’d snatched it from the floor as he dragged her from the room.

Ritzi pushed the memories aside and selected a dress from the small closet in the sparse room. She stepped into the plain shift and tugged at the zipper, willing it to close. These days her clothing options were limited to one of two dresses. Both of them uncomfortable and belonging to Maria’s mother—her kind benefactor in this self-imposed exile. How Maria came from the loins of a woman who willingly wore olive plaid was beyond Ritzi. Such stern material. Unyielding. And scratchy. A bit like its owner. But she was in no position to complain.

Ritzi’s hair had grown, and the uneven tendrils brushed against her chin. Most days she tried to ignore the rolling of arms and legs inside of her. But she could not overlook the changes in her body: the swelling feet and the itchy skin and her already large breasts now profound in size. It seemed as though her entire body expanded in effort to make room for this strange person inside her. The change was unwelcome. And alarming.

A gentle knock sounded at the bedroom door.

“Come in.”

Vivian Gordon slipped in and shut the door behind her. “I got your message.”

Ritzi practically threw herself into Vivian’s arms. “You came!”

Vivian’s purse dangled from one elbow, and her copper hair and green eyes lit up the room. Just the sight of her in a periwinkle dress and pearls made Ritzi feel dowdy. She gazed longingly at Vivian’s small waist and wondered if hers would ever be the same again.

“You look ill,” Vivian said. She pecked Ritzi on the cheek.

“It’s not my color. That woman has terrible fashion sense.”

“What? This?” Vivian asked, tugging at the sleeve of Ritzi’s dress. She laughed. And then looked as though she would cry. “It’s good to see you, Ritz. Sorry I thought …”

“I know.” Ritzi dropped to the bed and looked at her stomach, suddenly overcome. “I’m sorry. I had to wait awhile. It wasn’t safe.”

Vivian settled on the bed beside her. The mattress was old and soft, and their combined weight created a dip in the middle. They leaned in, shoulders brushing. “Owney got me a new roommate.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He came by the apartment one day and hauled all your stuff away in garbage bags. I asked him where you were and if you were coming back, and he just laughed, said you’d moved on to a more permanent location.” Vivian dug around in the bottom of her purse and found Ritzi’s knotted gray sock. She set it on Ritzi’s lap. “I would have never believed the message was from you if you hadn’t asked for this.”

Ritzi heaved a broken little gasp and clutched the sock to her heart. She could feel her wedding ring, firm against the skin of her palm. “Thank you.”

“I took it from your closet that night you didn’t come back. Just in case.” Vivian gave her a half smile. “What are you going to do?”

It had taken weeks for Ritzi to find the courage necessary to make her decision. Nightmares and cold sweats and sudden panic attacks in the middle of the night assaulted her after her encounter in the warehouse. She’d wake screaming and clawing at the air. There was only one place she would ever feel safe, only one place she wanted to be. She could at least thank Owney Madden for that. He’d given her the certainty she needed. Ritzi smiled. “I’m going to have this baby. And then I’m going home.”

“I thought you said he wouldn’t take you back?”

“He probably won’t.” Her lip trembled. “I wouldn’t.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then that’s the end. I’ve got nothing after that.” Ritzi untied the tattered gray sock and dumped the wedding ring into her hand. She forced it over the swollen knuckle of her ring finger, ensuring that she would not be able to get it off again. She didn’t want to.

CLUB ABBEY, FRIDAY, AUGUST 1, 1930

Ritzi knocked back a shot of whiskey. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and did a little curtsy at the bar as a small crowd of men clapped and cheered. Stan rolled his eyes. What these men really wanted was to see Ritzi get drunk. Get naked. Get loose. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not here. Not tonight.


“Dance with me?” someone asked.

“Sorry, boys. I’m off duty.” She gave them a winsome smile and patted a few cheeks as she walked away.

“What about me? Do I get a dance?” Owney. Just the man she’d come to see.

“Of course.” She could feel a tingle at the tips of her fingers from the whiskey, and she forced herself to relax.

“Nice dress.” Owney appraised the midnight-blue satin gown. Low cut with spaghetti straps, it clung to all the right places but didn’t hinder movement on the dance floor.

“Thanks.” She gave a half twirl, like a child showing off a church dress. “Crater bought it for me.”

Owney gripped her around the waist, pressed in close, and effortlessly spun her onto the floor. “And where is he tonight?”

“In Maine. With his wife.”

“That’s a first. He hasn’t been up there all summer.”

“I guess he prefers my company.”

“Good. Do you think his wife suspects anything? I can’t afford to have her causing trouble.”

“Don’t mind Stella.” Her hand lay flat on Owney’s shoulder. She didn’t protest when he pulled her closer, but neither did she wrap herself around him. “It’s Crater you need to worry about.”

She felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten.

“What do you mean?”

Ritzi relaxed in his arms. Picked her words carefully so she would sound concerned but not too eager. “He got a summons to testify before the Seabury Commission. Said people have been sniffing around, asking questions about his appointment to the court.”

Owney’s voice constricted with anger. “He didn’t mention that to me.”

Ritzi moved her hand along Owney’s neck, played with his shirt collar and then his earlobe. “He avoids you. Says he’s just biding his time until he can get out from under your thumb.”

“Crater says that?”

“Occasionally. Mostly, he talks about his plans for higher office. I guess the deal you got for him wasn’t big enough. Calls it a ‘stepping-stone.’ ” Ritzi could feel the heat beneath Owney’s skin, the strain in his neck as she spoke.

“Joseph Crater’s a fool.”

“Maybe. But he’s ambitious.”

“That makes him dangerous.”

When the song ended, Owney maneuvered them to the edge of the dance floor. He stepped away with the last note.

Ritzi pouted and set her hands on her hips. “I thought you wanted to dance?”

“I’ve gotta make a call.”

“Now?”

“I think maybe Crater needs to cut his vacation short. He and I need to have a chat.” Owney disentangled himself from her arms and stalked off to the telephone hanging on the wall beside his booth.

Ritzi’s eyes were bright and her smile barely suppressed as she collected her purse from the cubby behind the bar and walked out the double wooden doors and up the stairwell into the calm, clear evening.