The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (15 page)

“I just had dinner with Joe,” he said.

“When?”

“A few weeks ago, I guess.”

“When.
Exactly
.”

He scratched the side of his neck. “
Dancing Partner
had just opened at the Belasco. That’s where he was headed afterward. So it must have been”—he rocked his head back and forth, summoning the playbill from his memory—“the sixth.”

Over three weeks earlier.

“You had dinner. Then what?”

“Then we all said goodbye outside Billy Haas’s Chophouse, and Joe went on his way.”

“All?”

“Me and Joe and …” He hesitated before adding, “Ritzi.” There was no need to explain who she was, so he didn’t. But Klein did glance over Stella’s shoulder. Then back to her face. And back again at someone in the crowd.

Stella’s eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown. “Have you heard from him since?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“You’ll let me know if you hear anything?”

“Of course.” He gave her an awkward side hug, mumbled a goodbye, and then shifted his attention to a patiently waiting brunette.

When Stella turned away, she almost tripped over the showgirl behind her and had to step back with a jerk. The girl was tall and curvy and beautiful—the sort that would catch Joe’s attention. Stella locked eyes with her for no more than a second. She wore a towering feathered headdress and a sequined costume. Her eyes and lips and cheeks were exaggerated with heavy makeup. Still, she looked familiar. Before Stella could get a good look at the face beneath the makeup, the young woman dissolved back into the crowd.

Stella didn’t belong backstage, clearly had no idea how to avoid the traffic that rushed by on all sides, but she stood there anyway, overwhelmed. A stagehand asked if he could help with anything. “Ladies’ room?”

“That way.” He pointed to her left. “Off the stage and down the hall.”

RITZI
stood against the wall, breathless. Her chest heaved, heart dancing staccato against her ribs. Around her hummed the orchestrated chaos of
Ladies All
, the last swell of frenetic activity after the final number. Applause surged and then diluted into the rumble of conversation as the audience collected jackets and purses and nudged one another into the aisles. Her legs trembled, and she drew a deep breath through her teeth.

Beneath the feathered headpiece, her hair lay plastered to her scalp. Sweat ran in trickles down her temples and the back of her neck. For the final number, the entire chorus line wore elaborate peacock costumes, complete with sequined bodices and tail plumes. The effect was spectacular when the girls spread across the stage kicking and spinning. But after hours spent in various costumes, Ritzi’s lower back ached, and her feet were swollen inside the three-inch heels.

Once Ritzi was certain she could get to the dressing room without stumbling, she peeled herself from the wall and pressed into the sea of performers and stagehands celebrating another successful night. Farther
backstage, her stomach lurched. William Klein stood beside the curtain. She hadn’t seen him since that morning in his office—had gone out of her way to avoid him, as a matter of fact. Her first thought was that he came to collect payment for his silence. But then she saw that he leaned into conversation with a woman. Tall and blond and …

Ritzi stared. The woman was a stalk of grace. She carried herself with an assurance that was unnerving. Radiant in a knee-length navy dress with a scoop neck, her clavicles like the prow of a ship. Pearls twisted around her neck—exactly the way they were in the photo on Crater’s bedside table. A wedding ring. Even from this distance, Ritzi could see her eyes, pale blue and startling. Ice water eyes. And then Klein looked up, right at Ritzi. His gaze whipped back and forth between them.

Stella Crater. She had come looking for her husband. Ritzi could read that truth right there on Klein’s face.

As usual, he was swarmed by showgirls, vultures in bright plumage picking at whatever scraps he threw them. Some poor girl would end up in his bed tonight and likely be forgotten by lunch tomorrow. Her hatred for Klein was matched only by her fear at the sight of Crater’s wife.

After another short burst of conversation, Klein stepped away from Stella and moved toward one of the dancers. Ritzi was not prepared when Stella turned around and their eyes met. She could see the search for recognition scrolling across Stella’s face.
Yes, you know me
, Ritzi wanted to say, but she forced herself to keep a neutral expression beneath her mask of stage makeup. Then she turned and walked away. Once their gaze was broken, Ritzi rushed toward the dressing room.

The twenty girls in the chorus line shared a large room backstage for makeup and costume changes. Shorty guarded the door. None of the stagehands made it in or out without his knowledge. For good reason. It was a scene of mass nudity.

“What’s the rush?” Shorty asked as Ritzi pushed by him.

She knocked the bowler hat off his head with two fingers and darted through the door.

Elaine Dawn, one of her fellow dancers, laughed as Ritzi pushed the door shut. She was a busty blonde with powder-blue eyes and full lips. She had the look of a Ziegfeld girl and a permanent spot at the front of the chorus line. “You’d think being so close to the ground, he could get that hat a little quicker,” Elaine said.

“He’s so strange,” Ritzi said, resting one arm against the door. “I don’t know why Owney keeps him around.”

“Need help with your costume?”

Ritzi turned so her friend could release the small clasp on her back and slip the tail feathers off. “God, that hurts. Why’d we sign up for this again?”

Elaine fluttered her eyelids in an expression of mock surprise. “For the fame and fortune, of course.”

“Really? I signed on to this gig so Shorty could get his jollies peeking through the keyhole.” Ritzi smacked the door with the flat of her hand.

He cussed on the other side of the door.

Ritz peeled her headpiece off and hung it on the doorknob. Now that her plumage was gone, she shrugged out of the bodice and stood topless, letting the cool air dry her wet skin. Half of her companions did the same. They walked around the room in varying stages of undress. One by one, the girls slid out of their costumes, collected the pieces, and set them on hangers. The ensembles then went on three long garment racks arranged by number.

“You look awful,” Elaine said.

“Gee, thanks.” Ritzi wiped an arm across her forehead. It came away slick with sweat.

“Seriously. Do you feel okay?”

“I just want to go home.”

Elaine eased into her slip and pulled a snug cocktail dress over her head. “Suit yourself. I’m off to Club Abbey.” She wiggled her eyebrows for effect. “I hear Owney’s in a good mood tonight.”

“How’d you hear that?”

Elaine pushed up her breasts and shook them a bit so they settled into her dress. “I have my sources.”

“June?” Ritzi asked, looking toward the far wall, where June Brice, the vixen of the group, rolled stockings onto her legs and secured them with a black garter belt. “I thought she was with Owney?”

“She’s moved on to some uptown guy. A lawyer or something. Which means”—Elaine turned around so Ritzi could zip her up—“there’s a job opening.”

“You don’t want to mess around with him,” Ritzi said.

Elaine’s eyes narrowed. “You jealous?”

“No. I want you to be safe.”

“And I want off this chorus line.” She looked at the three racks of plumage. Leaned in and whispered, “I’m following your lead. Owney’s my ticket to something better.”

He’s your ticket to the morgue
. Ritzi winced at the thought. “Not a good idea.”

“You’ve had him, right?”

Ritzi caught a flash of shame as she saw her reflection in the mirror. “That was a long time ago.”

“Well. It worked for you.” She gave an impish grin. “And Mae West. Look where she is now.”

Until recently, the very mention of Mae West would have made Ritzi quiver with hope. Four years earlier Owney Madden had financed her highly controversial Broadway show
Sex
. After 375 performances and ticket sales of over three hundred thousand, the show had been raided by the police and the entire cast and crew charged with obscenity. West spent ten days in a prison workhouse and emerged a legend. Since then, her star had only continued to rise. She’d already abandoned New York for Hollywood.

“So,” Elaine said, undeterred. “Any pointers?”

“Stay away from Owney. Find yourself a decent guy.”

Elaine looked in the mirror and applied a coat of deep red lipstick. She smacked her lips twice, assessing her reflection. “I think I’ll give him a shot. Wish me luck.” She kissed Ritzi on the cheek and then left the dressing room.

The knot in Ritzi’s stomach tightened as she watched Elaine leave. She pulled on her undergarments and stepped into her dress. Fumbled with her shoes.

Her cheeks were clammy and her palms damp. She felt dizzy. Ritzi grabbed her purse and ran down the hall to the public bathroom. A line of women waited, but she pushed by them and darted into the first open stall and vomited right into the toilet bowl.

MARIA
unlaced her fingers from Jude’s. “I need to use the ladies’ room.”

She had spent the entire three-hour performance searching the chorus line for Ritzi. She appeared in each act, but never so prominently as in the opening. Maria paid little attention to Jude as he commented
on this number or that, or even when he jumped to his feet along with the rest of the theater after a particularly elaborate routine. Instead, she kept her gaze on the young woman, mesmerized by her poise and grace. Nowhere could she detect the panicked and embarrassed girl she’d surprised in Crater’s bedroom or the desperate woman at the doctor’s office.

“You should have gone at intermission,” Jude said, “with everyone else.”

“The lines were too long. Besides, I didn’t need to go then.”

Jude led her from the balcony and down the stairs into the lobby. “There.” He nodded toward a sign. “That way. But be quick. I want to get you home.” He traced the curve of her jaw.

“You’re insatiable,” she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Be right back.”

Maria took her place at the back of the line and searched the faces around her. It took five minutes to get inside the restroom itself and then another five for a stall to empty. No sooner had she gotten situated than she heard a rumble of discontent as someone cut in line. And then the door of the stall next to hers crashed open. Angry comments ricocheted around the bathroom until the poor girl began to vomit. Several toilets flushed at once, followed by the rush of faucets, as women hurried on their way. Those remaining in line tried to ignore the retches, and the bathroom hushed into an awkward silence.

When Maria left the stall, the girl was bent over the sink, splashing water on her face and rinsing out her mouth. Maria plucked several paper towels from the nearest dispenser and held them out to her.

“Thanks.” The girl lifted her face to offer Maria a wan smile, but it quickly slipped away. As she reached to take the towels from Maria’s hand, her face twisted with concern. “What are you doing here?”

They stood elbow to elbow at the sink, Ritzi drying her hands and Maria primping her hair. They looked at one another in the mirror as women swirled behind and beside them, adjusting makeup, necklines, and stockings. Ritzi, no longer in costume, with smeared makeup and tangled hair. Her street clothes and pallid skin went a long way to mute her role as the temptress she’d been in Crater’s bed and on the stage that evening.

“My husband brought me to see the show,” Maria said.

“He brought you to my show. Just because?”

“I asked him to.”

A smudge of crimson lipstick marred Ritzi’s chin, and she rubbed it
away. Her eyes were heavy and tired-looking beneath the stage makeup. The false eyelashes and glitter did little to hide her exhaustion. “Why?”

It was a simple question. And Maria had prepared for days to answer it. But she found herself unable to utter the words in this place, surrounded by strangers. She took a deep breath. Shook her head. Closed her eyes. “I—”

A toilet flushed behind them, and when Maria looked up, she saw Stella Crater swinging a stall door open. Ritzi stiffened beside her.

Ritzi let out a huff of air and bent her head toward the sink. She did not watch as Stella approached the mirror, pale eyes on her own reflection, but rather swayed for a moment and then clapped a hand over her mouth and darted back into a stall to retch again.

“Mrs. Crater.” Maria forced her eyes away from Ritzi’s hunched form and nodded at her employer in deference. Whatever rules of etiquette applied in this situation were unknown to her.

Mrs. Crater’s expression shifted from fatigue to recognition to relief when she saw Maria. She took in the familiar embroidery of her gown. “You look lovely in that dress.”

“Thank you,” Maria stammered. “You gave it to me.”

“I remember. Joe hates”—she paused, a note of uncertainty in her voice—“
hated
it on me. Always said I didn’t have the bosom to fill it out. Clearly a deficit you need not worry about.”

Maria turned her eyes to the tiled floor, self-conscious. Crossed her arms over her chest and then dropped them to her sides. She eased her question out without ever meeting Stella’s penetrating gaze. “How is Mr. Crater?”

Stella shifted closer as a patron sidled up to the empty sink and ran her fingertips beneath the faucet. “I was hoping you could tell me. Have you seen him?”

Maria stared at Stella, trying to word her response. How to tell her that she’d seen more of Mr. Crater than she ever wanted to? That she knew more than she could speak aloud? Especially in this place, with so many within earshot. But as she struggled with her words in the brief silence, Ritzi returned to the sink. She washed her mouth out again, spitting politely into the bowl.

“Disgusting,” someone muttered behind them.

A number of women hurried from the restroom without looking at Ritzi. Some whispered on their way out.