The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (29 page)

“Looks like I’m up.” He made a show of kissing her forehead and then followed the clerk inside.

Ritzi waited until the doors were closed and then rushed down the hall, away from the prying questions of Thomas Crain.

Chapter Twenty-Four

WEST FORTY-FIFTH STREET, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1930

VARIATIONS
of the Crater story were spread across the headlines of the
Sun
, the
Herald Tribune
, the
Daily News
, and the
Times
. It seemed as though every reporter in all five boroughs was scrambling for details about the judge’s disappearance. While George Hall and a few other journalists maintained a sense of decorum, most dished out any article they thought would sell papers. Many of the stories were outlandish—sightings of Joseph Crater riding a donkey in Ecuador or giving safari tours in Africa. According to multiple unnamed witnesses, he’d been seen in Canada, Mexico, Europe, Africa, and Australia.

Maria scanned the papers at the newsstand, then turned away, shaking her head. The truth was far simpler than people would believe. She pushed through the crowded sidewalk, leaned into the street, and waved her arm vigorously for a few minutes before a cab drove up.

“Where to?”

“The Morosco Theatre,” she said. “Hurry.”

Having lived her entire life in New York City, Maria could navigate public transportation without giving it a second thought. But she could count on one hand the number of times she’d ever ridden in a cab. She felt high class, sitting in the backseat of that car, watching pedestrians scamper across the sidewalk. For a few brief minutes, she was removed from the vastness of her city. And then the cab rolled to a stop in the theater district, at 217 West Forty-Fifth Street.

Maria pulled a dollar from her purse and tucked it in the driver’s meaty palm. She turned to look at the massive stone building. Somewhat blockish and plain, it stood three stories tall, with a scalloped green awning that stretched across the front of the building,
MOROSCO
glowing
in red lights on the façade above. Maria tugged at the sleeves of her coat and ran her fingers through her hair to tame a few unruly curls.

Three double glass doors graced the front of the building, but Maria did not go through them. Only a few stragglers wandered the sidewalk. Mostly couples, an occasional drunkard. Lights from the marquee above her reflected onto the concrete in bright yellows and reds, and she stood in their glow for a few seconds, summoning her courage. According to the playbills plastered across the front of the building, there were only ten minutes left in the show.

Maria walked to the side of the theater and looked down the narrow, dark alley between it and the Hotel Piccadilly. If not for the trash bins, a car could have passed through. Halfway down the alley, Maria saw what she was looking for. A red exit sign above a metal door. The stage door where Shorty Petak had taken her two months earlier.

She picked her way around the garbage, careful not to step in the puddles of squalid liquid or paper bags filled with rotting food. The alley smelled of damp brick, stale cigarettes, and urine. The solid walls of the theater could not entirely muffle the raucous applause that came from within, and she guessed that the final number was drawing to a close. Maria sat on the edge of the wide stoop outside the door and waited. The voices and shouts and laughter grew louder on the other side of the door.

Several minutes later, the audience began to trickle from the theater and flood the street. Some walked away hand in hand, while others hailed one of the waiting cabs. A few gathered in groups to critique the performance.

The door behind Maria opened with a rusty groan. She jumped to her feet as three showgirls skipped down the steps, whispering to one another and laughing. They were at the bottom before any of them saw Maria.

“No autographs, lady. Sorry.”

“I’m waiting for a friend.”

They shrugged, looped their arms together, and sauntered away. Seconds later they were lost in the crowd.

Another stream of girls in eveningwear rushed down the steps. They sounded like a flock of geese flying down the alley, their voices bouncing off the tall buildings and echoing across the brick. That’s how it went
for the next fifteen minutes, showgirls and stagehands slipping from the building, off to the next part of their evening. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and shifted on the stoop as her legs and face began to chill.

Just when Maria was starting to think that Ritzi had forgotten their meeting, she pushed open the door, gripping the handle to a small wardrobe trunk. Her dress was every bit as red as her lips, and her fur coat almost reached to her knees. She looked like an heiress stepping from an ocean liner, and as she compared her own plain dress, low heels, and navy peacoat, Maria wanted to shrink into the shadows, to disappear.

“Thanks for coming. And sorry it took me so long. I had to wait until everyone left the dressing room.” Ritzi set the trunk down. “Would you help me with this?”

Together they lugged the trunk down the steps. Maria grabbed the handle and tipped it toward her, testing the weight. It wouldn’t be any problem to get home on her own. “How many costumes?”

“Five. And you’re sure you can alter them by tomorrow?”

“Yes. It’s just a matter of letting out the bodice seams.” Maria looked at Ritzi’s stomach. “You don’t look pregnant.”

Ritzi closed the gap between them in one quick movement. She set a hand over Maria’s mouth. The stage door was shut tight behind them, but she looked over her shoulder to check anyway. “Shh.”

Faces only inches apart, they stared at each other beneath the red glow of the exit sign.

“I have an idea. An arrangement of sorts,” Maria said, easing away from Ritzi’s hand.

“What kind of arrangement?”

Maria tried to control her voice, but the hope leaked through anyway. “You don’t want your baby. And I don’t think I can have one.” She wanted to reach out and touch Ritzi’s stomach but restrained herself.

Ritzi’s laugh was cold and cruel. “There won’t be a baby soon. This is a temporary fix.”

The emotion rushed up Maria’s throat, and she had to swallow the sob that threatened to erupt. “I can take it. Give it a home. That’s not such a bad solution. We both get what we want.”

Ritzi snorted. “You’re a fool if you think it would be that easy.”

Their breath rose in frozen clouds between them, and Maria shifted
from foot to foot, growing colder by the minute. “When the show ends next month, take a break. Long enough to have the baby.”

“My next show starts three days after this one wraps. There is no time. And I have no choice.”

“No one is holding a gun to your head.”

She leaned in, a feral look in her eyes. Growled. “Yet.”

“I can pay for it. Everything. Your rent. The medical bills.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

Maria stepped closer, her face so filled with zeal that Ritzi flinched. “Five hundred dollars. Cash. You keep whatever’s left.”

Doubt swept over Ritzi’s face, and Maria struggled to hold her ground. It would have been easy to back down, to give in to the guilt that tugged at her conscience. But she forced herself to stand toe to toe with the showgirl and wait for her answer.

One moment passed, and then two. Just as Ritzi opened her mouth to respond, Maria heard footsteps in the alley. The silhouette of a tall, thin man in a fedora crept closer, but she could not make out the details of his face. As he stepped into the small sphere of light, Maria took a step backward.

“Well now, ain’t this a coincidence,” said George Hall.

RITZI
flinched. One side of George Hall’s mouth twisted upward into a grin. There was no mistaking the fact that he remembered her from the park. His eyes flashed away from hers and settled on Crater’s maid. Ritzi expected an immediate dismissal but was surprised to see George’s eyes narrow. When she turned to Maria, she recognized the look of dismay on her face.
They know each other
.

George slid one hand into his coat pocket in search of a small black notepad. He looked back and forth between them, rubbed his nose with an ink-stained finger, and then flipped open the notebook. He tapped the blank page with his pen. “Fancy seeing the two of you here. Together.”

“George,” Ritzi said.

“You”—he pointed at Maria—“are Joseph Crater’s maid.”

Maria did not respond, simply gripped the trunk handle with one hand and inched back toward the shadows, her glance shifting to the sidewalk and the crowd of people that loitered in front of the theater.

George walked around Ritzi in a wide circle. “Thanks for the tip,” he said. “Turned into one hell of a story.”

“You doubted?”

“A mistake I won’t make again.”

“You might not get the chance, pulling stunts like this. You were supposed to wait for me to contact you.”

“So you are the infamous Sally Lou Ritz?”

“Ritzi.”

“One of the last people to see Crater alive.”

“Lucky me.”

“Pity I didn’t put that together sooner.” He leaned in, a hound on the scent of an irresistible trail. “How well do you know Joseph Crater?” His voice echoed loudly in the alley.

Better than I’ll ever admit
.

The stage door swung open with a clang, and the three of them turned to see Elaine Dawn skipping down the steps. She looked resplendent in a flirty black dress with a low neckline.

Elaine looped her arm into Ritzi’s and looked at them, expectant. “Did someone say Joseph Crater? Have you seen the papers? God, that’s a mess.”

“Elaine,” Ritzi said, “I thought you were already gone?”

“Bathroom.” She took note of the reporter, his pen and notebook ready. “Who’s this?”

“George Hall. He broke the Crater story.”

Elaine smiled at George. She reached up and straightened his tie. Patted his chest. “You’ve caused a lot of trouble for the girls. Reporters are crawling all over this place. The director’s been pissing and moaning about it for days. And all for a shit like Joseph Crater?”

His eyebrows lifted, eager. “You knew him?”

Elaine smiled, and her voice filled with innuendo. “Oh, I
knew
him. Period.”

George lifted the notepad and wiggled it. “Mind telling me a bit more? On the record?”

“There’s nothing I enjoy more than being on the record.”

Ritzi gave Maria a desperate look and whispered beneath her breath, “I’ll give you what you want, okay? Somehow. I’ll find a way. But no one can know about this, you understand? Especially George.”

“I promise.”

“Do you know Grant’s Tomb? On Riverside Drive?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me there tomorrow at noon. Bring the costumes and the money.” Ritzi gave her a gentle shove down the alley. “Now go. Quick.”

George looked up as Maria hurried away, the trunk rolling behind her. “Hey! Not so fast!”

“Let her be,” Ritzi said, placing a hand on George’s forearm. Her grip was firm enough to prevent him from trotting down the alley after Maria.

“ ’Night, Ritz,” Elaine said as she passed. Was it anger that flashed across her face? Or jealousy? No, Ritzi decided, it was the relentless spark of competition.

“ ’Night. Be good.”

“Oh, I’m good.” Elaine patted George’s cheek.

George couldn’t hide his smile as she walked away, all hips and legs. He twirled his pen. “Is she always so …?”

“Yes.”

Ritzi spun around to face George. “Why are you here?”

“I came to talk to the girl who saw Crater the night he disappeared. Lo and behold, it happens to be my informant. Not that you were exactly forthcoming with that information a couple months ago.”

“I told you there was more to the story.”

“Clearly.” He scratched something into his notebook. “How do you know the Craters’ maid?”

“I know a lot of people, Georgie.”

“That’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“You like breaking a story, right?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever stopped to think what happens after you splash someone’s name across the front page? That it can really mess up a life?”

“That’s not my concern. I find the truth and report it. Besides, you don’t really care about messing up someone’s life when you call in the middle of the night with a tip. It took weeks to convince my wife that I wasn’t having an affair.” George tucked his notebook back inside his jacket and then stuck his hands in his pockets. He nodded toward the street. “Can I hail you a cab?”

“Sure.” Ritzi followed him down the alley.

“So you gonna make good on your promise?”

“You’ll get your story.”

“When?”

“The moment I know talking to you won’t land me in the morgue.”

“That where Crater is?”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have a choice. I’m the best source you’ve got.”

“Not the best. Just the prettiest,” George said. “What does that maid have to do with this?”

“Nothing.”

He snorted. “You’re a terrible actress.”

“And you’re a shitty reporter. I give you the story of a lifetime, and you’re hung up on Crater’s maid? If you want to find him, spend a night or two at Club Abbey.” Ritzi straightened her coat and clutched her purse as they stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Where are you off to?”

“Home,” she said. “And no, you’re not invited.”

“Don’t worry,” he called after her. “I know better than to mess around with a gangster’s moll.”

Ritzi halted midstep and turned around. She glared at George but said nothing. He crossed the short distance between them.

“I’m not stupid,” he said, “despite what you think. I talk to people. I listen. And I know that you’re with Owney Madden. Unless, of course, he gives you orders to be with someone else. Say, a New York State Supreme Court judge?”

The insinuation shook Ritzi, and she took one faltering step backward. “I’m not with Owney,” she hissed.

“Good night, Ritzi.” George tipped his fedora and gave her a cunning smile. “I’ll be expecting the rest of that story real soon.”