The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (10 page)

“You wouldn’t help her.”

He sighed. “Have you ever watched a woman bleed to death?”

“No.”

“Or die of sepsis?”

She shook her head.

“Well, I have. And apart from the health risks, I’d lose my medical license just for writing the prescription—not that she could even get it filled. Fem-A-Gyn induces a severe uterine hemorrhage. It’s unsafe. And illegal. I sympathize with her. Truly, I do. But I am forced to pick and choose every day who I am able to help. Besides,” he said, “I have no doubt she will find what she’s looking for. They usually do.”

“Can you help
me
?”

He drew a stethoscope and a small metal contraption from the bag. “I hope so. But I’ll have to do that exam first. Are you comfortable with me performing it today?”

His clipboard sat on the empty chair. It held a thick pile of forms. Hers rested on the top. “Yes.”

“Good. Why don’t you undress, and I’ll go fetch the nurse.” He pulled a sheet from the shelf on the wall and handed it to her. “You can cover up with this.”

The moment Dr. Godfrey left the room, Maria jumped off the table and grabbed the clipboard. She found exactly what she was looking for on the form beneath hers: Sally Lou Ritz’s personal information. She took the paper and stuffed it in her purse. Then she set the clipboard back on the chair.

When Dr. Godfrey returned, Maria lay on the table, the sheet covering the lower half of her body.

…

RITZI
took the No. 9 subway at 168th Street and settled in for the ride back to Midtown. She had chosen Columbia Presbyterian Hospital because it was so far removed from everyone and everything she knew. Or at least that’s what she’d thought. But now she had a failed errand and Crater’s maid to deal with. It was supposed to be a simple appointment. Nothing to worry about. She’d assumed that if the doctor on staff wouldn’t provide the medicine, then he’d refer her to someone who would. It happened all the time. Three of the girls on the show had bragged about getting Fem-A-Gen suppositories that year. They would know where to go, but Ritzi couldn’t ask them. She couldn’t let anyone know she was pregnant. Not yet. They’d all suspect Crater. The affair was a poorly kept secret, and Ritzi’s only claim to honor was that she’d refused to discuss him when teased or prodded. Not that any of that mattered now, of course.

Ritzi leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes as the train slipped away from the station. She hadn’t known when she first arrived in New York that vinegar and lemon juice on a sponge could be used to prevent pregnancy. That conversation in the dressing room had caused no small amount of embarrassment on her part and a great deal of teasing afterward. The most shocking revelation was learning that most of the showgirls preferred Coca-Cola as a douche. Administered immediately after sex, it was, apparently, quite effective. No need for those extremes, however: diaphragms and condoms were easy enough to come by for the resourceful. Vivian usually kept a small supply of condoms in their shared bathroom. But they’d been out when it counted.

Twenty minutes later, Ritzi stepped out of the train at the Forty-Second Street station. She leaned against a column, one hand clutching her stomach and the other pressed against her eyes. She waited until the train moved on to the next stop, and then she rushed to the edge of the platform and vomited onto the tracks.

STELLA
nodded as she read Fred’s letter. Less than a page long, and written in quick, legible print, it confirmed her suspicions: Joe’s associates intended to cover up his disappearance.

Mrs. Crater
,

I looked through the apartment late last night and everything appears to be in order. I haven’t seen Mr. Crater but everyone says he’s been around and is all right. They don’t seem keen on my being here, though. Mr. Rifkind asked me not to hang around too much because it might provoke suspicion among the reporters. They say it could hurt his chances for reelection if we stir up a lot of talk about him being missing. Mr. Crater’s legal secretary, Joseph Mara, said there would be possible “detrimental effects” from any undue publicity. I’m not exactly sure what that means or why it would stop them from looking around but I find it curious
.

Sorry I don’t have better news. I’ll return to the lake in a few days
.

Fred

Stella wadded the letter into a ball and dropped it to the bottom of the trash can.
No matter now. What’s done is done
. She pulled the cold coffee grounds from the pot and dumped them on top of Fred’s missive.

Chapter Eight

WEST SIXTY-FOURTH STREET, FRIDAY, AUGUST 22, 1930

RITZI
stared at her face in the bathroom mirror. Her skin was translucent beneath the glow, eyes too large, lips pale. Three years ago, when she boarded that eastbound train and left behind the only life she’d ever known, the bright lights of Broadway were all she thought about. But never once had it occurred to her how much work it would be. The long hours and the blisters and the soreness that swept through her muscles. She never anticipated the price of celebrity. Ritzi never imagined the favors she would have to trade in order to get onstage.

Ever since Vivian had questioned the contents of the knotted gray sock, Ritzi kept it in the back of her closet. But its presence grew in her mind daily. She found herself thinking about it at the oddest times: during rehearsal or while in the shower. The memories it brought were disruptive. Bittersweet. Ritzi finished primping in the mirror and then went to her closet and pulled the sock from an empty hatbox hidden behind her winter coat. She dumped the contents into her palm.

A tarnished gold wedding band. She admired it, letting herself remember her first love and her former name and the man who once called her his wife. Ritzi slid the ring on her left hand for old times’ sake. She was not prepared for the wave of regret that swept over her.

“Charlie.” The sound of his name brought the trace of a smile to her lips, and for a brief second she felt something other than the despair that had overwhelmed her since she and Crater had gone to Coney Island.

“You’re
married
?”

Ritzi looked up to see Vivian standing in the doorway.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Vivian demanded, crossing the room in a few rushed steps.

“I was so young,” she said with an embarrassed shrug. “Who gets married at seventeen? It was stupid.”

They stared at one another, and finally Vivian’s face softened. “If you have another life, you should go back to it.”

Ritzi slid the ring into the sock and retied the knot. “You said it was too late for that.”

“For me, yeah. You?” She glanced at the sock. “Apparently, you have options.”

“Not anymore.”

“This place will break you. You’ll wake up one day and not even recognize yourself.”

Too late for that
. “Did you need something?” Ritzi didn’t want to talk about Charlie. Certainly not with the woman who’d helped arrange her relationship with Crater.

The vivid green of Vivian’s dress made her eyes seem even more intense. “Owney’s been asking for you again. Thought you’d want to know.”

“I don’t care to see Owney right now.”

“That’s the point, dear. He knows that. And he thinks you’re hiding something. I’d suggest you put in an appearance at Club Abbey.” She shrugged and left the room, calling back over her shoulder, “Or you can always go home.”

Ritzi sat on the edge of her bed, sock in hand. She pressed her thumb against the ring until it dug into her skin. Home was a troubling memory that made her ache. But she had to do something to protect herself. No telling where Crater was now. It was only a matter of time before word got back to Owney that she had been with him in the hotel room that night.

Ritzi studied her face in the mirror as she decided on her course of action. Her lips set in a determined line. She would turn the spotlight back on Crater. Sure, it was sleazy, but her options were limited. She would drop a hint to the right reporter. She’d done it before and had marveled at how the city took care of the rest. A missing judge was just the thing to get people talking. And a way to make sure Owney kept his distance.

Out in the living room, Vivian gathered her purse and left to see a client. Ritzi waited until her key turned in the lock, then went to the telephone and dialed the operator. “The
New York World
, please.”

“One moment,” came the reply. A generic Midwest accent. Ritzi guessed Ohio or maybe Missouri. Most likely another girl like herself, gone to the big city in search of something more than cornfields and dirt roads.

A light static rattled in her ear, and then the polished voice of a receptionist: “The
New York World
. How may I direct your call?”

“George Hall.”

“He’s busy. Would you like to call back, or may I take a message?”

“How do you know George is busy?”

A pause. “Excuse me?”

“Can you actually see him right now? Or is that what he told you to say?”

“I don’t—”

“Listen. You tell George to take my call or he can miss the best tip he’s gonna get this week. Hell, the best tip he’ll get all year. His choice.” Ritzi tapped the phone on the table to make it sound like she was hanging up. She heard the receptionist scramble on the other end.

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“I’m not in the habit of giving my name to the papers, much less the gal who answers the phone. Now, are you gonna put George on or what?”

“Hold, please.”

It took nearly three minutes before George cussed his way onto the line. “Who the hell is this?”

“It’s not who I am, it’s what I know.”

“I ain’t got time for games, doll.”

“If you’re not interested in what I know, I can take it to the
Post
. Henry Wilson’s always up for a scoop.”

“I need a name.”

“Just call me a source.”

“I got sources coming out my ass.”

“Sounds like a personal issue.”

“Listen, you think you’re the first person who called up today with a tip? Twice someone got through saying Governor Roosevelt is shagging some Ziegfeld girl. I ain’t the gossip column. I don’t give a shit who pulled his zipper.” Ritzi heard George tap his pen on the desk. A deliberate silence, and then, “Go on. Tell me what you got. This better be good.”

“I think we should meet.”

“And I think you should tell me what is so damned important that I leave work in the middle of the day to chat. With a broad, no less.”

“Two weeks ago, you got a phone call from an unnamed source claiming Martin Healy has been selling seats on the bench to any politician with a big enough down payment.” She paused; the rapid tapping of his pen had ceased. “I made that call, George.”

“Go on.”

“Meet me at the newsstand outside Gramercy Park. Thirty minutes.”

GLOBE THEATER, ATLANTIC CITY, SATURDAY, JULY 26, 1930

Ritzi leaned over her armrest and whispered in Crater’s ear, “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

“It’s almost intermission.” He glanced down their row. She would have to step over William Klein and ten other people before reaching the aisle. As usual, he had paid agency rates for seats in the third row center.

Ritzi flicked her eyes behind him, toward the box seats on the second floor. “I have to go now.”

His voice was an angry hiss. “Can’t you wait?”

She squirmed in her seat to prove her discomfort.

“Fine. But hurry. William says the end of this act is supposed to be amazing.”

That’s what Klein had said about the entire musical. Billed as a “spicy comedy,”
Dancing Partner
had failed to deliver, in her opinion. The flash and dazzle was gone for Ritzi when it came to Broadway. She’d been behind the curtains. She’d gone through countless hours of auditions and rehearsals and performances. There was no magic left. Only cold scrutiny. And this particular production fell short. But that was usually the case with shows that debuted out of town. They worked out the kinks on a less jaded audience. There would be many to work out after tonight’s performance, and Ritzi did not envy this chorus line in the morning. The pained look on Klein’s face hinted that he felt the same.

She lifted the hem of her gown and picked her way down the row, careful to stay on her tiptoes and in a half bend so she wouldn’t obstruct the
view for others. Once in the aisle, she hurried to the back of the theater and out the door into the lobby. The restrooms were to the right, but Ritzi went left toward the balcony. She tiptoed up the carpeted steps. An usher waited at the top. He stood against the wall, head lolling on his shoulder. He jerked upright when he saw her.

“Ticket?”

She flashed it in front of him, obscuring the seat number with her thumb. “Box seven,” she said, and walked past him, confident.

She’d guessed at the number when sitting down below. It was left of the balcony, almost directly above the stage. And there was only one occupant in the box: Judge Samuel Seabury. She had been assured he would be there tonight and that he would be alone. Ritzi took a deep breath before parting the curtain to his box.

Seabury moved forward in his seat, arms on his knees, bored and half asleep. He jumped when she slid into the seat next to him. Pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose so that his brown eyes flashed at her from behind them. His hair was peppered with white and parted severely down the middle.

“Who are you?”

“A messenger. Of sorts.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She leaned closer to him but kept her voice low and her face turned to the side. “It means that I’ve come to deliver a message from a friend.”

“I have office hours, miss. I suggest you make an appointment and that you return to your seat. I do not conduct business in this manner.”

Ritzi could barely see Crater and Klein. They were transfixed by the spray of bare legs on the stage. She settled back in the seat. Crossed her feet. “Are you familiar with Martin Healy?”