The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (16 page)

“I really know how to clear a room.” Ritzi offered a shaky laugh.

Stella pulled a box of mints from her purse and offered one to Ritzi. “Are you all right?”

“Just dizzy.” Ritzi twirled her finger in the air. Took the mint. Placed it on her tongue. “All that
spinning
.”

“I only saw the last number,” Stella said. “It was quite impressive.”

“I wasn’t properly trained,” she explained. “As a dancer, I mean. The others know how to balance and keep a point of focus. I just muddle my way through.” Ritzi sucked on the mint and then hesitantly met Stella’s eyes in the mirror. “You’d think I’d have a stronger stomach by now.”

“Strong enough for what you need to do, though, right?” Stella asked.

“For my part. Yes.”

“You do put on a good show.” Stella nodded, approving. The clasp of her necklace had slid down, and she moved it back to the nape of her neck. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have business to attend to.”

“Will I see you this week,” Maria asked, “at the apartment?”

“I’m leaving Sunday. No need for me to stick around, given the current
circumstances
.” She glanced at Maria and then at Ritzi. It seemed as though she wanted to say more but felt vulnerable in that small room with so many others around.

“I’m sure they’ll find Mr. Crater,” Maria said.

“Let’s hope so. It would be nice to know where he is. For certain.”

Maria lingered as Stella swept out of the bathroom. Ritzi gave Maria a desperate sort of look and, lacking anything else to say, grabbed her purse and left. Even in this, the pecking order remained intact. Wife first. Then mistress. Leave the maid behind to clean up the mess. Without thinking, Maria wiped down the counter with a paper towel and then stepped into the stall to flush the toilet Ritzi had forgotten.

STELLA
climbed from the cab shortly before midnight. There was no sign for Club Abbey over the set of concrete steps that descended below street level. She paused and looked around. The location of this establishment was strictly word of mouth, considering its numerous illegal proclivities. The street was lined with cars and the sounds of jazz. Laughter rose from the bar below, but she was the only person in sight. Stella smoothed the creases from her dress, pulled her gloves up, and squared her shoulders. She gripped the rail in
one hand and her purse with the other and began her descent. Eighteen steps. Each slow and measured, the heel of her shoe pressed against the riser. She took a deep breath at the bottom and reached out to push the heavy wooden doors.

“Password?” A man stepped from the shadows. He was a good foot shorter than Stella. Stocky. And had the heavy brow ridge of an Eastern European. “No one gets in without a password.”

She snorted and drew a five-dollar bill from her purse. Waved it in front of him with two fingers.

“Works for me.” He took the money and swept one arm toward the doors.

They parted easily beneath her hand. Stella had expected resistance, but instead she almost stumbled into Club Abbey. The bar smelled of smoke and whiskey and floor polish. Perfume. Sweat. It was intoxicating. So immediate, even with one foot still on the threshold.

Laughter.

A ruckus somewhere in the back.

The ceiling was low and dark and warm, with its embossed copper panels and mahogany trim. The speakeasy beckoned her to come in, come closer, get pulled into the fray. Stella stepped inside.

The doors eased shut behind her, and with them went the last hint of fresh air. She almost turned and left. Almost. Instead, she steeled herself and took a step forward, then another, purse clutched in front of her as though she were afraid it would be stolen. With each inch of movement, Stella felt a little bolder, a little more purposeful. Intent on her cause.

A jazz quartet played in the corner, massaging their instruments, almost impervious to the crowd. Notes floated up and around and mingled, cohabitating in the air. She could practically taste each chord change, that little pause in the air before she inhaled and then the new swell of music. The piano player sat tall and straight, his elbows at right angles. So serious. So intense. On the bass was a short black man, barely taller than his instrument but almost as wide. He plucked at the strings with intention and feeling and a sort of reverence that she could feel twenty feet away. Drums and saxophone lifted and bled between the notes, an instrumental game of tag. For years Joe had told her that he visited Club Abbey for business purposes, but she now understood his reasons were far more varied than that. This was a place he must have loved.

In the middle of the room was a large dance floor filled with couples
leaning into one another and swaying to the beat with slow, sensuous movements. Stella could feel the heat coming from them. Women with their arms slung over men’s shoulders. Men with hands dangling low in the small of a back. A face buried in a neck. Heads tipped back in laughter. All of it beneath the swirl of cigar smoke and dim light.

Booths lined the wall, and the dance floor was circled by tables of men with loosened ties and women with flushed cheeks. Stella pushed her way through the crowd and slid up to the bar between two men. She did not sit down. The bartender, a young man with startling red hair, poured a drink for a woman who leaned forward a little too suggestively, almost begging him to look down her dress. How did he do it? she wondered. How did he look at her eyes, so clouded with booze that one drifted off to the side, instead of taking her up on the offer of a free peep show? The bartender’s gaze shifted to Stella, and he threw a towel over his shoulder and made his way toward her. The bawdy woman almost fell off her stool as she leaned after him, and the men beside Stella stepped over to catch her. They positioned themselves on either side, each with an eager hand to steady her. They flashed glares back and forth. Marking their territory. Marking their prey. Stella halfway expected one of them to pee on the poor woman and make it official.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“My husband is a regular.”

“Ah. One of the wives.”

Stella lifted one neatly plucked eyebrow in question.

“We get your type in occasionally. Uptown girl looking for her lowbrow husband.” He lifted a glass from the shelf and set it on the bar in front of her. “You want a drink, or do you want me to rout out your man?”

“My husband isn’t a tosspot.” Stella recognized Stan from their phone call, that voice with the faintest trace of puberty still audible. “But he is in here a lot.”

“Name?”

“Joseph Crater.”

She enjoyed the discomfort that swept across the bartender’s face as he made the connection. His youth showed then in his embarrassed smile. “Which would make you the judge’s wife?”

“Hello, Stan.”

“I know Joe. Good man. Good customer.” He motioned to the barstool. “Have a seat. We don’t bite. Most of us, anyway. But you might want
to stay away from that one,” he said with a wink, and nodded at some unidentified patron behind her.

Stella gave him a closer look. Baby face. Probably couldn’t grow a beard if he tried. His voice had solidly changed, but likely it still broke if he got excited. “How old are you?”

“Not old enough to serve liquor.” He poured a shot. “Much less drink it.” He knocked back the glass and shuddered a bit as the whiskey went down.

“You can’t fool me. Bravado aside. You’re a virgin.”

He choked.

“With liquor, I mean! Liquor.”

Stan shifted a little closer, one corner of his mouth twisted into a cockeyed grin. “Neither, miss. But don’t tell Owney. He’d have me fired. Or shot. It’s my job to protect the booze and the girls.”

“So that’s the trick, is it? The way to keep a joint like this in business? Liquor and women.”

“We take a head count every night,” he said proudly. “How many broads you see in here?”

She gave him a scolding look before she turned and rested her elbows on the bar. “I see fifteen
women
. Maybe twenty. Hard to tell. They won’t sit still.”

“And men?”

“Two or three times as many.”

“Try five. For every gal that comes in that door, you can bet five men will follow her. All of them eager to buy her a drink. And it’s not even midnight yet.”

“I imagine the number will go up significantly?”

“Owney hired a bouncer. He only lets in the ones with looks or money.”

“Well, it cost me five bucks. So I guess I know my category.”

“You ain’t the usual customer, I’ll concede that. But I’d have to argue with the looks issue. You’ve already got admirers. I count seven making eyes at you right now.”

A few men did have their eyes on her. Some looked confused. Others intrigued. “Drunk. Every one of them, I’d wager.”

“Only three.” He raised the bottle of whiskey. “I do keep count, after all.”

Stella looked over Stan’s shoulder at the bottles of whiskey behind the bar. It occurred to her that very little probably got past his keen eye. “Did my husband come in recently?”

He didn’t respond.

“I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I just need to know where he is.”

Stan leaned over the bar. “Joe comes in, right? But he’s not all that regular. Not an every-nighter like some of these guys. I’m not sure the last time I saw him. It’s been weeks.”

Stella chose her words carefully. “Does he come in alone?”

“I don’t see them come in, Mrs. Crater. My job is to watch what they do while they’re here.”

“What about when he left? Was he alone then?”

Stan shook his head. “No good’s gonna come of you being here.”

“If you won’t tell me what I need to know, then I’ll talk to your boss.”

“You’re a pretty lady. And you seem smart. But this”—he motioned around the room—“is not the place for you. Owney don’t cater to your type. The only things you’ll learn here will lead to heartbreak.”

“You think I don’t know about heartbreak?”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.” He looked at the clock. “The first of which is that in about fifteen minutes this place is going to get rowdy. The dancing girls have let out. I doubt you have the stomach for that.”

“I’m not a prude.”

“Go home, Mrs. Crater.”

“Where’s Owney Madden?”

Stan took his dish towel and began to dry a set of lowball glasses. His eyes were warm and brown, and he looked uneasy. “See that guy back there in the corner booth?”

She looked to her left. A large booth sat on a riser, tucked into the corner. Its occupant was an arrogant-looking man with flinty eyes and a scar on his upper lip. “Yes.”

“That’s Owney. When Joe comes in, it’s to talk to him. That’s all I know.”

“I’d bet you know what my husband has to drink when he comes in here.”

Stan didn’t answer.

“He doesn’t drink tap water. I know that much.”

He slid the whiskey bottle across the bar. “This,” he said. “On the rocks.”

“Pour me one of those, if you don’t mind. Just the way Joe takes it.”

“This is stout liquor, Mrs. Crater.”

Stella set her elbows on the bar and leaned forward a few inches. Her smile was firm and cold. “Who the
hell
do you think taught me to drink?”

He dropped six ice cubes into the glass and covered them with whiskey. Slid it across the bar. Stella took her drink and walked toward the corner booth, where Owney Madden sat alone. She didn’t turn around when Stan called her name, a clear note of warning in his voice. Poor kid. She’d leave him out of this.

Owney didn’t notice Stella until she was a few feet away. He sat up a little straighter when she stopped in front of his booth and set her glass on the table.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“Looks as though you’ve a mind to do just that.”

Stella forced the amused look from her face. Such a ridiculous accent, Scouse.
Lewks as though yeh’ve a meend to do just thaht
. None of the dignity of the English or the passion of the Irish. Truly a stew of dialects, just as the name implied. Scouse: named for the lamb soup so favored by the citizens of Liverpool and Merseyside.

She smiled. “I won’t intrude where I’m not wanted.”

Owney spread his arm out. “Be my guest.”

She stepped onto the riser and scooted across the seat until she was opposite him. She set her purse in her lap. “You’re not drinking tonight?”

“I never drink while I’m working, Miss …?”

“Mrs. Crater.”

“Ah,” he said. “Joe’s wife.”

“I assume you know why I’m here?”

Owney laughed. “Don’t start assuming anything. We don’t know each other.”

Stella wrapped her fingers around the glass. The condensation soaked through her gloves, and she steadied herself. “You got my message?”

“Contrary to popular opinion, I do not have a secretary. Only a pubescent bartender who is highly unreliable when it comes to communicating
details about the opposite sex.” Owney plucked a cigarette from an open pack on the table. He propped it between crooked front teeth and struck a match. After he’d taken a long drag, he asked, “This message you left, was it important?”

“Do I look like the kind of woman who would be in a place like this otherwise?” Stella took a sip of her whiskey. She cupped it in her tongue, controlling every drop as it slid down her throat to avoid the cough that threatened to roar through her body. She took another sip.

“No, you do not. Liquor aside.”

“Joe was a friend of yours?”

“I’d call him a customer.”

“Your customer has gone missing, Mr. Madden.”

Owney blew smoke out his nose. It clouded in front of his face and then drifted toward the ceiling. “So they say. But I don’t see what you want me to do about it.”

“Joe’s gone. So I want you to return the deed to my lake house.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. During Joe’s
campaign
to get on the court, he sold a number of properties to raise funds. But the deed to the lake house is in my name. Not his. Something he failed to recall when he sold it to you. And I want it back.”

Owney dropped his air of nonchalance, eyes tightening around the corners. “And what do I get in exchange?”