The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Thirty-Four





FIFTH AVENUE, SUNDAY, MARCH 1, 1931



THE letter sat in the basket on the entry table. It was buried in a pile of bills and catalogs and looked as though it had been wadded in someone’s pocket for days. This wasn’t the first letter Stella had received since Joe disappeared. There had been a handful of opportunistic ransom notes. Condolences. Accusations. Requests for money. Sales pitches. A bit of voyeurism here and there as people offered their theories on his disappearance or wondered what it was like to be her—god-awful, if they really wanted to know.

But never a confession.

Dear Stella, it began, and her hands trembled as she read the letter. She dropped into a chair next to the fireplace and laid the pages on her lap so they wouldn’t rattle. She read the sender’s name—Sally Lou Ritz—and then started over.

Two pages. Nary a crossed-out word and only one ink blot, as though her pen had hovered over the page as she sought the right words. Clean and simple and direct. And so very final. Her husband dead. His killer named. And details about Joe’s murder that no one could ever learn.

“Oh. God.” Stella clutched the letter in her fist and crumpled it into a ball.

She stood up.

Then sat down.

Stella repeated this a few times, once even stepping away from her chair. After a moment of uncertainty, she sat again and smoothed the letter on her lap. Then she folded it and slid it carefully back inside the envelope. Distasteful as it was, the letter provided a certain amount of insurance. She took it to the safe in Joe’s office and tucked it inside one of his beloved legal tomes—a first edition of Commentaries on the Laws of England by Sir William Blackstone—a place she was certain no one would ever think to look. A place she could easily forget.

CONEY ISLAND, FRIDAY, AUGUST 7, 1930, 2:00 A.M.

Ritzi pulled herself tight inside the bathroom cabinet. Her only goal was not vomiting or coming so unglued that the men less than ten feet away became aware of her presence. By force of will, she stopped her teeth from chattering and her muscles from spasming. Even as the sweat dripped down her spine and the smell of fear overwhelmed her nostrils, she did not move.

Owney Madden’s voice shifted to a calm, measured tone, almost all trace of Scouse gone. This frightened Ritzi more than his previous rage.

“From what I hear, people owe you money, right?”

Crater’s voice broke. “Yeah, sure. Lots.”

The rustle of paper. “Names, see. That’s what I need. Who owes you and how much. Start writing.”

There was a long silence as the desperate judge scratched a pen against the paper. Five, ten minutes. Even in the bathroom, she could hear the pained wheezing of his breath.

“Here.”

“Good. Your handwriting is shit, but it’ll work.”

She heard the banging of drawers and the sound of someone rummaging through the closet. “You keep a safe-deposit box, right?”

Crater’s voice, almost a whisper. “Yes.”

“And the key? Where do you keep that?”

“On the ring. In my pants pocket.”

“Which bank?”

“New York Bank and Trust.”

The jumble of keys on a ring. “That where you’re keeping my money?” A silent affirmation, and then, “What else is in the box?”

“My will. And the remaining life insurance policies that I need to cash out. You know I’m good for it, Owney. I wouldn’t stiff you.” Crater coughed twice and spit on the floor. “That what this is about? You think I wasn’t going to pay?”

“I don’t want your money.”

“What?”

“If I don’t collect my fee for getting you on the court, Seabury can’t trace the deal back to me. The trail dies with you.”


“You know I wouldn’t talk to Seabury.”

Owney’s voice lowered, and Ritzi had to strain to hear it. “You won’t be talking to anyone. Ever again.” The sound of a kick in Crater’s rib cage and a furious bark of pain.

The nausea that Ritzi had fought since Crater rolled off her rose to the back of her mouth. She swallowed and breathed and prayed. In the dark coffin of that cabinet, her heart raced so loud she could hear the rush of blood in her ears. Ritzi saw Crater in her mind, naked and bruised, crouched on the floor with a pen in his trembling hand. And as much as she loathed the touch of that hand on her skin and the taste of his kiss, she felt pity for him. She knew what it was like to look in the eyes of the man who stood over him and fear for her life. She wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone.

“Get up. Get dressed,” Owney said. “You’re taking a ride with us.”

Ritzi didn’t move when the light went out or even when the hotel room door clicked shut. For over an hour, she huddled there, fist rammed in her mouth to muffle the scream that boiled in her chest, drawing blood from her knuckles.