The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Three





CLUB ABBEY, WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 6, 1930



RITZI and Crater sat at a small table in a corner of Club Abbey and listened to the jazz quartet. She slipped one shoe off under the table and rubbed a blister on the side of her big toe. Rehearsal ran long that afternoon and her feet ached, but she hid it with a smile. Crater couldn’t stop looking at her. Couldn’t stop touching her.

“Where is she?” Ritzi asked, looking at his wedding ring. “This wife of yours?”

“In Maine, at our lake house. She spends summers there.”

She brought her bare foot up the front of Crater’s leg. “That must be nice. A vacation home. You should take me there sometime.”

He caught her gaze, still on the ring, and spun it around his finger. “I can take it off if it bothers you.”

“Doesn’t make a difference, I suppose.”

He slid the ring off and put it in his pocket.

The room smelled of pipe smoke and wood polish and anise. Area rugs and lamps with red shades were scattered around the bar. Warm. Seductive. Flickering candles cast halos of soft light across the center of each table. Young couples lounged close together, arms draped over shoulders and hands resting on thighs. The nuzzle of a neck. A brazen kiss. On the other side of the room, Owney Madden sat in his corner booth. He nodded at Ritzi and continued to study Crater. She shifted a little closer to the judge.

The bartender arrived at their table, a fresh-faced young man with red hair and a wrinkled apron. He still looked to be in his teens. “What’ll you have?”

“Bring her an absinthe,” Crater said. “And one for me as well.”

Although Joseph Crater always imbibed in the evening—straight whiskey on the rocks being his drink of choice—this was the first time he ordered absinthe. Perhaps he was feeling a bit cosmopolitan, or maybe just giving in to the trend. It arrived several minutes later on an elaborate silver tray with two reservoir glasses, slotted silver spoons, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a carafe of ice water. The bartender set the paraphernalia on the table and was about to slip away when Crater asked, “What’s your name, kid?”

“Stan.”

Crater tucked a dollar bill into his hand and said, “Keep them coming.”

“Sure thing, mister.” He stuffed the money in his pocket and went back to the bar.

“I don’t want to drink tonight,” Ritzi said.

Crater dismissed her with a glance. “I don’t care.”

Fine, then. Ritzi lifted her glass and would have taken a swig had Crater not grabbed her wrist.

“Easy. You’ll be on the floor in two minutes if you take it like that.” He took the glass from her and held it up to the candle. “Let me educate you.”

“By educate, you mean corrupt.”

“Semantics.”

Crater lifted a sugar cube from the bowl and set it on the slotted spoon. He rested the spoon on the glass of absinthe and poured a small amount of ice water over the top. “Look,” he said. The liquor was the color of green apples, and the sugar created a small white cloud as it dripped into the glass. He stirred the absinthe with the spoon and then handed it to her to taste.

Ritzi wrapped her lips around the spoon. It tasted of licorice. Her tongue curled away from the bitter alcohol. “How can you drink that?” She coughed.

“I just wanted you to try it.” Joe laughed, seemingly delighted by her na?veté. He poured more ice water into the glass, filling it two-thirds full. “You don’t drink it straight.” He handed it to her again.

She sipped. “Better.” Ritzi took another, and then another. The sugar replaced the bitterness with a sweet tang, and the absinthe slid down her throat in a cool rush. Her head felt a bit light before the glass was half empty.

According to the Eighteenth Amendment, this was illegal. And therefore highly desirable. For a decade, Owney Madden had taken advantage of the Volstead Act and added bootlegger to his list of lucrative careers. Prohibition was good for business, and those with enough clout to get through the doors could quench a variety of thirsts at Club Abbey.

By the time William Klein joined them at the table, Ritzi was nursing her second absinthe. Pompous prick, she thought, knocking back her glass to avoid his lewd gaze.

Crater ran a finger under Ritzi’s chin and tipped her face upward. “Why don’t you go powder your nose?”

“But—”

“Now.” He squeezed her chin between thumb and forefinger, pinching just enough to make her eyes sting.

Ritzi grabbed her purse, smoothed the anger from her face, and carefully wound her way through the dance floor, ignoring the appreciative glances that followed her.


The ladies’ room in Club Abbey had dark paneled wood and low lighting. Ritzi looked at her reflection in the mirror. It always seemed distorted in there. Like she was a cheap imitation of herself.

Ritzi took her time primping. She adjusted the neckline of her black satin gown away from the deep plunge of cleavage, painted her lips red, and pinned a stray curl behind her ear. Looped the pearls around her neck three times instead of twice so the eye would be drawn to her clavicles rather than her breasts—no small task. Rearranged stockings and garters. Emptied the trash from her purse: ticket stubs, broken cigarettes, and a matchbook with the Club Abbey logo. Then she settled into one of two purple velvet chairs and drew a pack of Pall Malls from her purse. Only two smokes left. Ritzi drew one out and set it in a mother-of-pearl holder. Eveningwear, Vivian had said. Make sure you don’t use the silver one after six. So many damned rules to this gig. She struck a match and cupped her palm around the flame, watching the paper curl and burn black.

God, Mama would die if she saw me smoke. She smiled. Her mother had always said it was a filthy habit, something tramps did in the big city. Poor Mama. She don’t know a thing about the big city. Or tramps, for that matter.

Waiting was an art Ritzi had mastered in the last three years. Men needed time to talk shop. Return to the table too soon and she’d be dismissed again. Too late and they’d get suspicious. Fifteen minutes was her general rule, long enough for their conversation to turn elsewhere. So she rested her head back on the chair and let her mind wander to her childhood and the farm and days when she could smell the barn from her open bedroom window. She recalled the brown eyes of a dairy cow. Long lashes and a knowing gaze. Udders full and dripping in the predawn chill of morning. One of countless mornings that Ritzi was sent out to milk and feed and gather eggs, her fingers numb and red from cold. The rough patches on her hands. It had taken her months to pumice away the calluses. She was careful that first year in Manhattan how she shook hands. A delicate greeting, all fingertips and none of the crushing grip Daddy had taught her to give. Three years in this place and she still had the pad of muscle between thumb and forefinger earned from years in the milking stall. She’d grown her fingernails long and kept them painted, but they were still farmer hands. Strong hands. Not pretty and slender like the rest of the girls’ in the chorus line. But she made up for that lack with a multitude of other things. And Crater didn’t complain at night when she kneaded his shoulders and back and thighs with her farm-girl hands.

Legs crossed and eyes closed, Ritzi finished the cigarette and prepared herself for what would surely be a wretched evening. A few more minutes and she stubbed out her cigarette in the sink and washed the ashes down the drain.

Time to get back out there.

Ritzi caught fragments of their hushed conversation as she approached the table. “Do you know how close Seabury is to figuring this thing out … And that damn reporter George Hall … Could kill whoever tipped him off … Have to leave town for a while.” Crater went silent when he caught sight of Ritzi.

Crater shoved another glass of absinthe into her hand as soon as she sat down. Ritzi already felt dizzy and nauseated, and what she really wanted was a steak and hot rolls with butter and then a piece of chocolate cake as big as her fist. Real food. Something she rarely got the chance to consume.

Ritzi wrapped her hands around the absinthe to stop them from trembling. She winked at Crater. “Look at Billy licking that glass.”

“Never heard him called that before.”

“I nickname all you boys. Isn’t that right, Billy?” Ritzi had caught the ain’t on its way out of her mouth and swallowed it with a sip. She set her glass on the table. Grimaced. Wiped her palms on her lap and then laced her fingers together.

Klein slid a littler closer and patted her thigh. “You can call me whatever you want, baby doll. But for the record, it’s not the glass I want to lick.”

“What do you call me?” Joseph Crater asked.

Uncircumcised donkey pizzle. Ritzi grinned, lopsided and charming. “Your Honor.”

Crater waved for the bartender. “Put this on my tab,” he said when Stan arrived.

Stan shot a glance at the corner booth. “Did Owney clear you for that?”

“Do I look stupid enough to try a stunt like that if he hadn’t?”

Stan smiled apologetically. “Just checking.”

Ritzi followed Crater and Klein out the front door and up the steps onto the sidewalk. They stood in the waxy light and searched the street for a cab.

Crater tipped his hat to Klein. “Probably won’t see you until session starts. Headed back to Maine first thing in the morning.”

“And tonight?” He spoke to Crater but looked at Ritzi.

“We’re off to see Dancing Partner.”

“Again? It wasn’t that great the first time.”

“That was Atlantic City. Thought I’d see if they worked out the kinks for the Broadway run. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.”

Depends on who you ask, Ritzi thought.

Crater stepped into the street to hail a passing cab. The whistle was shrill, and heads turned up and down the block.

Klein pulled Ritzi in for a hug as Crater’s back was turned. “Why don’t you come over to my place when Joe’s done with you?” He ran a finger down her spine, and slipped it inside her open-backed dress, seeking territory farther down.

“You’re not my type.”

“Word on the street is that you have a price tag, not a type.”

She stepped away, repulsed. “Apparently, you spend too much time on the street.”

“With the right connections, you could lead on Broadway. A girl like you is too pretty to stay in the chorus line.” Klein shifted away as Crater came back to fetch Ritzi. “Keep that in mind.”


HEAT still radiated from the pavement in waves, even though the sun had set almost two hours earlier. The temperature neared one hundred degrees that day, and with nary a breeze, fire hydrants were loosed, turning streets into shower baths. Fountains were commandeered citywide as adults and children alike rolled up their pants and splashed with mass indignity.

“To the Belasco Theater,” Crater told the cabdriver. He slid into the backseat next to Ritzi, their thighs touching.

The cab eased away from the curb and melted into traffic, keeping in the right lane. Several minutes later, it rolled to a stop in front of the Belasco. A black Cadillac pulled up beside them and emptied its passengers onto the sidewalk. Ritzi watched the pale disks of two straw Panama hats disappear into the theater. People rushed by on the sidewalk, all of them dressed for a night on the town.

“Wait here,” Crater told her.

Ritzi watched him jog up to the ticket booth. He leaned in, exchanged a few words with the teller, and took an envelope. Crater glanced back at Ritzi and frowned. Then he searched his wallet, slid a bill across the counter, and waited. Light from the marquee across the street bounced off the ticket window, reflecting STRIKE UP THE BAND backward. Somewhere behind the glass the teller must have refused Joe’s offer, because he took the money and stuffed it back in his wallet. Crater returned to the cab.

“What was that about?”

“I only had one ticket at will-call.” He lifted the envelope. “But they’re sold out and I couldn’t get another. Bribery aside.”

“You could stay. I’m tired. I can take the cab home.”


“No.” Crater tapped the ticket against his bandaged hand, then reached over the seat. “Change of plans, cabbie. Take us to Coney Island.”

“Why don’t we go back to your place? Get some sleep?”

“Not after what happened Monday.” Crater shook his head. “We don’t sleep at my place again.”

The air inside the cab was warm and still, and Ritzi mumbled her displeasure at the change of plans. As they swung into traffic, a car behind them washed the cab in its headlights, and Ritzi squinted at the glare that bounced back from the rearview mirror. Her eyelids resisted efforts to open again. She was asleep before they reached Brooklyn.

She woke to the smells of salt air and fried food. They parked near the Boardwalk, in front of Nathan’s Famous. She stretched and yawned as Crater helped her from the cab. Her sleep-addled brain skipped from one sound to another while he paid the fare.

“A nickel, a nickel, half a dime! Come get your frankfurters—red hot, red hot!” The vendor stood on the Boardwalk outside Nathan’s, wearing a grease-stained apron and waving a hot dog in the air.

“Shoot the chutes for a dime!”

“Boiled peanuts. Get ’em while they’re hot!”

The calls bounced and tumbled around her. She blinked into the chaos. Though it was ten o’clock, the party at Coney Island showed no signs of slowing down. Crater took her elbow and escorted her along the Boardwalk. Luna Park loomed before them, flashing lights and spinning wheels, a cacophony. Behind the gates rose the Cyclone. The roller coaster chinked and rattled up the wooden frame, and they stood, eyes locked on the cars as they hovered in a moment of suspended gravity. Then they thundered down at a stomach-lurching angle to the delighted shrieks of their passengers. Ritzi could feel the rumble in her feet.

A barker, somewhere deep in the park, shouted into a microphone, “Never take your wife on the roller coaster. It’s every man for himself!”

Ritzi lifted the hem of her dress and looked at her three-inch heels. Surely he didn’t expect her to ride the roller coaster dressed like this?

“Maybe tomorrow,” Crater whispered, pulling her close. “We’re over there.” He pointed to a hotel, right across the street from Luna Park. Five stories tall, it reflected the garish lights of the amusement park in its many windows. She was too tired to read the name. He took her hand and wove through traffic on Surf Avenue. As they neared the hotel, she felt exposed and vulnerable, as though standing beneath a spotlight. You could end this right here. But she had long since passed the point of no return. Sally Lou Ritz let Crater lead her toward the revolving glass door.

The lobby was empty, and she stood off to the side as he secured a room. They crossed the tile floor and slid inside the elevator. His lips were on her neck before the doors were closed. She shut her eyes, willed herself to relax. To respond.

Several long seconds later, the doors opened to reveal the burgundy-carpeted fifth-floor hallway. Their room was at the end, facing the Boardwalk. He took the key from his pocket and slid it into the lock.

Six windows spread across the wall in front of them, looking down at the spinning display of Luna Park. He pushed back the curtains, and lights from the Ferris wheel danced red, blue, and green on the ceiling. The rumble of the roller coaster vibrated the walls. Ritzi stood next to the window, fingertips resting against the glass. She could feel Crater’s breath on her neck.

For once she allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to walk into this hotel as his wife instead of his mistress. But the thought tumbled down as soon as she’d constructed it. The truth was, she didn’t even want to be here as the other woman, much less the only woman. She didn’t want to be here at all.

Crater touched the base of her neck with one finger, tugging at a curl, and then ran it down her spine, to the deepest plunge of her dress. She fought the shiver that swept over her skin.

The question popped out before it had fully registered in her mind, and she would have taken it back had it not hung in the air between them. “Do you love her?”

His finger drifted to a stop. “Who?”

Ritzi struggled to collect the words, to say them aloud. “Your wife.”

A long silence, and then, “What’s it matter to you?” The tip of that one finger rested at the base of her spine, like a red-hot poker.

Crater never discussed Stella except in passing and never in a personal way. As though she were a notch, an accomplishment. An irritant.

She took a deep breath and spun to face him. His eyes were pinched. “I’d like to think that you love her.” She shrugged. I’d like to think that you’re sorry about this.

Crater looked out the window behind her. “She’s a good wife.”

Ritzi could hear the edge in his voice. She reached up and loosened his tie. Her voice was a hum, deep and sultry. “Does she know?”

He lifted his bandaged hand. Turned it as though waving in a parade. A what-the-hell-do-you-think motion.

A perverse sort of pride erupted inside Ritzi. Good for her. She kissed the tips of his fingers to hide the smile that threatened to spread across her face.

“I’m going back to Maine first thing in the morning,” Crater said, tugging at the straps of her dress. It dropped to the floor in a puddle of inky satin. “I don’t want to talk about my wife.”


RITZI lay on her side, the sheet bunched beneath her chin. Crater was sprawled next to her, the rise and fall of his breath rhythmic. One arm thrown over his head and the other resting against the soft skin of her back. He twitched in his sleep, limbs responding to some dream. Just like a dog. Ritzi lay there until she was certain he’d dipped into heavy slumber. Then she slid away from his reach and out of bed. She gathered her things and tiptoed into the bathroom. She stood, garter and hose dangling from her fingers, and willed herself not to be sick.

God, I hate that man.

Time to leave. She did not want to be there when he woke up. Ritzi pulled on her lingerie and slipped the dress over her head. She reached for her shoes but startled when someone banged on the hotel room door. A heavy fist pounded, one, two, three times. She sucked in a sharp breath and listened.

Another knock. Louder. More insistent.

She instinctively flipped off the bathroom light and tugged the door shut with a soft click.

Somewhere on the Boardwalk below, a big band trumpeted show tunes. She could feel the music vibrate through the floor and into her bare feet.

Her mama always said that God gave women a way to know when something wasn’t right. A sense. An intuition. It rushed in on her then, a whoosh right up the spine. She spun around the small bathroom looking for a place to hide. There was no linen closet, only a cast-iron tub, a toilet, and a small cabinet beneath the sink, hardly large enough for a child, much less a buxom woman on the edge of panic.

Out in the bedroom, Crater mumbled something in response to the knocking, but he didn’t get up. He was too far beneath the weight of sleep. Ritzi stuffed her purse and shoes into the cabinet even as she heard a shudder followed by splintering wood.

Someone kicked the door open. Crater, now awake, was groggy. “What? What is it?” She imagined him blinking into the darkness of their room, eyes slowly focusing on the silhouette in the doorway.

Ritzi ran a hand along the base of the cabinet and felt nothing but toilet tissue. Whatever sense of foolishness might have caused her to hesitate, to reconsider, was abandoned when she heard the scuffle on the other side of the door. The thud of fists on flesh and the low groan that followed. Then an order: “Close the door.” More voices. And footsteps inside the room.


Sally Lou Ritz dropped to the floor and maneuvered into the cabinet, tucking the hem of her dress around her ankles. She had to press her chin against her collarbone and pull her knees into her stomach. She wriggled and squirmed, drawing all her limbs into the cabinet, praying that she couldn’t be heard outside the bathroom.

On the other side of the door, Crater let out a bovine grunt. “Son of a—”

“Court’s in session, Judge. My court.” The voice was low, controlled. “And you don’t speak unless called upon.”

The sound of Crater being dragged out of bed.

“Get him up.” Had she been able to pull herself smaller and smaller until she was a mite of dust, Ritzi would have at the sound of that voice. “And find the girl he came in with.”

“Nothing on the balcony, boss.”

“Check the bathroom.”

The door banged open and Ritzi froze. The light popped on, an L-shaped wedge of yellow light appeared around the cabinet door, and there, at the bottom, a small corner of her dress peeked out. The trash can toppled over, followed by silence until she heard the rustle of a belt and the whiz of a zipper. She had plenty of time to anticipate the worst before hearing a splash in the toilet. He approached the cabinet with a heavy tread. One ear was pressed against the pipes beneath the sink, and she heard the rush of water as he washed his hands. He stood at the sink for a long time and Ritzi could clearly see the brown leather shoes in the crack of the door.

“She ain’t in here.”

Crater groaned out in the bedroom.

“What’d you do with the girl?” the intruder asked.

Crater’s voice was thick, confused, as though stuffed with cotton. He spit something onto the floor. “She was here.”

A pause. “Well, she ain’t here now. Did she go home?”

“I don’t know where she went.”

Stuffed in that cabinet like a coat in winter storage, Ritzi’s muscles began to cramp. Her feet, bent at irregular angles, tingled as her circulation slowed.

“Wrap him up.”

The sound of the bed being stripped, peppered with Crater’s pleas. “Don’t. This isn’t necessary.”

The beating began in earnest then, and Ritzi trembled inside the cabinet unable to block out the sickening screams of Joseph Crater. He thrashed and howled like the tourists on the Cyclone outside. After several minutes, he begged, “Please, whatever you want, I can make it happen.” A short gasp, and then, “You know I can. I’ve pulled strings before. Settled that last mess.”

“Seems you been causing trouble for my friends, Joe. And they don’t appreciate that. Then they come asking me questions, which I don’t appreciate. Don’t like it when Samuel Seabury starts sniffing around. Way I see it, you’re the common denominator.”

“We can sort it out.” Crater’s composure was gone, and Ritzi heard the terror in his voice.

“That deal we made with Martin Healy was supposed to be taken care of clean and quiet. But now”—the slap of a newspaper across Crater’s face—“it’s front-page news. How the hell did George Hall sniff out that story?”

“I don’t know shit about that. Nothing.”

“You’re taking a ride with us, Joe.”

“No—”

“Clean the place up, boys. No one needs to know we were here.”