The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress Read Online Free PDF

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. Menneeded 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