“Okay, maybe a little more.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Did Crater get you drunk again?”
Ritzi groaned at the sound of his name. “Yes.”
“You didn’t even roll over. I pulled it off you like a sausage casing.” Vivian nodded toward the sock lying next to Ritzi. “You wouldn’t let go of that thing, though. What you got hidden in there?”
The sock was knotted in the middle, and she picked it up and clutched it to her chest. It had come with her on the train to New York City and held the one thing she couldn’t bear to part with from her old life, the one thing she had no intention of sharing. In recent months, she’d taken to sleeping with it, like a child who wouldn’t part with a filthy security blanket. “Nothing.”
Vivian shifted closer and tucked a limp piece of hair behind Ritzi’s ear. “Fine. Keep your secrets. We’ve all got them.” She walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. Vivian blinked into the sunlight. “I’m sorry, you know, that I ever introduced you to Owney. Should have told you to go back home when I had the chance.”
“I wouldn’t have listened.”
“It doesn’t go well for most of the girls who come asking for me. By the look of things, I only made it worse for you.”
Ritzi didn’t often see Vivian during the day, and the fine lines around her eyes seemed deeper, the corners of her mouth limp. It occurred to her for the first time that the notorious madam Vivian Gordon was starting to look her age. Ritzi set her feet on the floor and tested her balance.
“I did this to myself, Viv. It’s not your fault.”
She grabbed the gray sock, wrapped the sheet around herself like a corn husk, and shuffled to the bathroom in search of a shower—a rare modern amenity that she took advantage of whenever possible. As she tossed the sheet aside Ritzi realized that she didn’t know where her underclothes were. Had she left them in Klein’s office? The hotel room?
And that was the tipping point. Ritzi began to wail. Great gasping breaths of air that choked her as the water—first needles of ice and then fire—pelted from above. Her tender body ached from the strain. Stomach sore. Thighs bruised. And a pain in her joints, as though they were all being stretched apart. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the water, letting it soothe the weariness until she was wrung dry of tears. Ritzi soaped and rinsed over and over, digging at her body with a washcloth, desperate to scrub away the shame.
The air was thick with steam and her skin pink by the time the water finally ran cold. She stepped, dripping, onto the floor. The girl in the mirror with the frightened eyes was sadly recognizable. It was the same girl who got off a train from Iowa three years earlier looking for fame and fortune. For the first time in ages, Ritzi didn’t see a stranger in her own reflection.
“Feel better?” Vivian asked when she came back to the bedroom.
She’d gone through Ritzi’s closet and laid a blue dress on the bed.
“Much.”
“You have less than an hour to get to the theater. Clean up good.”
“Thanks. For everything.”
“I didn’t want a roommate, you know,” she said, digging around in the bottom of Ritzi’s closet for a pair of black heels. She plucked a strand of hair off one shoe and set them next to the dress. “I prefer to live alone. Was none too pleased with Owney when he insisted on this arrangement. But I’m glad you’re here, Ritz. I really am.”
RITZI swung herself into the backseat of the black Cadillac. “Where’s the audition?”
Shorty Petak leaned over the front seat and pushed up the rim of his bowler hat. “The new Broadway Theatre. This’ll be the first show.”
A Polish thug employed by Owney, Shorty served many purposes: chauffeur, bodyguard, bouncer. He often stood watch outside the dressing room during shows that Owney backed to keep stagehands and riffraff from the performers. Sometimes Ritzi liked him; sometimes he got
“I’m so sorry.”
“Did Crater get you drunk again?”
Ritzi groaned at the sound of his name. “Yes.”
“You didn’t even roll over. I pulled it off you like a sausage casing.” Vivian nodded toward the sock lying next to Ritzi. “You wouldn’t let go of that thing, though. What you got hidden in there?”
The sock was knotted in the middle, and she picked it up and clutched it to her chest. It had come with her on the train to New York City and held the one thing she couldn’t bear to part with from her old life, the one thing she had no intention of sharing. In recent months, she’d taken to sleeping with it, like a child who wouldn’t part with a filthy security blanket. “Nothing.”
Vivian shifted closer and tucked a limp piece of hair behind Ritzi’s ear. “Fine. Keep your secrets. We’ve all got them.” She walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. Vivian blinked into the sunlight. “I’m sorry, you know, that I ever introduced you to Owney. Should have told you to go back home when I had the chance.”
“I wouldn’t have listened.”
“It doesn’t go well for most of the girls who come asking for me. By the look of things, I only made it worse for you.”
Ritzi didn’t often see Vivian during the day, and the fine lines around her eyes seemed deeper, the corners of her mouth limp. It occurred to her for the first time that the notorious madam Vivian Gordon was starting to look her age. Ritzi set her feet on the floor and tested her balance.
“I did this to myself, Viv. It’s not your fault.”
She grabbed the gray sock, wrapped the sheet around herself like a corn husk, and shuffled to the bathroom in search of a shower—a rare modern amenity that she took advantage of whenever possible. As she tossed the sheet aside Ritzi realized that she didn’t know where her underclothes were. Had she left them in Klein’s office? The hotel room?
And that was the tipping point. Ritzi began to wail. Great gasping breaths of air that choked her as the water—first needles of ice and then fire—pelted from above. Her tender body ached from the strain. Stomach sore. Thighs bruised. And a pain in her joints, as though they were all being stretched apart. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the water, letting it soothe the weariness until she was wrung dry of tears. Ritzi soaped and rinsed over and over, digging at her body with a washcloth, desperate to scrub away the shame.
The air was thick with steam and her skin pink by the time the water finally ran cold. She stepped, dripping, onto the floor. The girl in the mirror with the frightened eyes was sadly recognizable. It was the same girl who got off a train from Iowa three years earlier looking for fame and fortune. For the first time in ages, Ritzi didn’t see a stranger in her own reflection.
“Feel better?” Vivian asked when she came back to the bedroom.
She’d gone through Ritzi’s closet and laid a blue dress on the bed.
“Much.”
“You have less than an hour to get to the theater. Clean up good.”
“Thanks. For everything.”
“I didn’t want a roommate, you know,” she said, digging around in the bottom of Ritzi’s closet for a pair of black heels. She plucked a strand of hair off one shoe and set them next to the dress. “I prefer to live alone. Was none too pleased with Owney when he insisted on this arrangement. But I’m glad you’re here, Ritz. I really am.”
RITZI swung herself into the backseat of the black Cadillac. “Where’s the audition?”
Shorty Petak leaned over the front seat and pushed up the rim of his bowler hat. “The new Broadway Theatre. This’ll be the first show.”
A Polish thug employed by Owney, Shorty served many purposes: chauffeur, bodyguard, bouncer. He often stood watch outside the dressing room during shows that Owney backed to keep stagehands and riffraff from the performers. Sometimes Ritzi liked him; sometimes he got
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