by Lee René
Though the Southern conviviality of the other Pullman porters charmed everyone, this young man seemed very much the Continental gentleman, with European features, and beautiful gray eyes.
“Ladies, I’m sorry, but there’s always confusion when movie people are on board. The stars from the big studios—MGM, Warner Brothers, and Paramount—often ride with us, but for some reason, the folks from little ol’ Regal Pictures get the most ballyhoo.”
Leah showed him our tickets, and he pointed toward the front of the car. “Follow me, please. It’s a long walk to your compartment, but at least you’ll be away from the crowd.”
He looked out the window at the mass of reporters. “Miss Carpenter caused quite the commotion, didn’t she?”
I still basked in the glow of my first celebrity encounter. “We saw Mr. Rex Dallas, too, and can you believe it? He smiled at me.”
The porter’s jaw dropped, so I guessed I’d impressed him. “Mr. Dallas saw you?”
No matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t believe my good luck.
“Yes, he did. I’ve always heard that actors are snooty, but he wasn’t, not the least bit. He waved at me, and it was thrilling, but for some reason Mr. Ben Roth seemed peeved with Mr. Dallas. I guess he’s one of those fellows who’re always in a perpetual funk.”
The baggage handler looked around the car as if someone might be listening, then whispered, “I really shouldn’t say anything, but to put it bluntly, Mr. Dallas likes young ladies, the younger the better. He’s a real Romeo, and chases after anything in a skirt.”
I couldn’t believe that of my idol. “But that can’t be true. It just can’t.”
Leah gave me the Look, a gaze passed down from the Mongolian hordes by the Cossacks to my grandmother. Bubbe never spanked or slapped me when I misbehaved. The Look was always enough. Now that fate made Leah my guardian, she’d picked it up. “Mitzi, if the gentleman says Rex Dallas is a lecher, then I’m sure he is.”
She turned to the porter and handed him a whole dollar. “Thank you, for your help and the information. We were afraid we’d be stuck out in the cold.”
The porter grinned, his cheeks blushing red. Leah returned his smile with a laugh as he added, “If you ladies need anything, anything at all, please call on me. My name is Omar.”
“Omar? What a lovely name. I’m Leah, and this is my sister, Mitzi.”
Omar looked down at his feet, his embarrassment obvious. “I’m afraid I can’t call you by your first names. The railroad won’t allow it.”
Leah steeled her shoulders. “Well, to heck with them. If you can’t call us by our first names, we won’t call you by yours. It would be impolite, Mister—?”
The porter didn’t say a word, just gazed into Leah’s face for the longest time. He finally whispered, “Fournier. My family name is Fournier, madam.”
Leah extended her hand. “Fournier? That’s French, isn’t it?”
He answered with a nod. “Yes, ma’am, I’m from New Orleans.”
“Our last name is Schector. We’re honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fournier.”
Omar looked down the hallway. Once he was sure no other riders were nearby, he shook our hands. “The honor is all mine, Miss Leah Schector. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Mitzi Schector.”
Except for Chick Hagan’s, I hadn’t seen a smile like his since the Crash. Omar still had the grin on his face when he signaled to us to follow him.
He led us through a labyrinth of elegant staterooms, sleeping compartments, and lavish suites. “Ladies, you’ll be very comfortable. The Chief has all the amenities—running water, electric lights, and a system that keeps the compartments cool in the summer and warm in the winter.”
The white-walled dining car gleamed with fine cutlery, bone china, and crystal vases overflowing with fresh flowers. The heavenly aroma of hot coffee, cinnamon toast, and griddlecakes scented the air.
Mr. Fournier led us to our sleeper. “Good evening, Miss Leah Schector and Mitzi.” He tipped his hat, then strolled off.
Minutes later, we entered the white and chrome Ladies’ Lounge, where a pretty attendant waited for us. “My name is Betty, like Betty Boop. I’ll see to your needs.”
She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, with sparkling eyes and skin the color of cocoa. Betty flashed a hundred-watt smile, then handed us fluffy towels and terrycloth bathrobes before directing us to the shower baths.
“Omar stopped by and said to take good care of you ladies. The water’s hot, the towels are clean, and you can wash your hair. I got Lux Soap, Queen Helene Shampoo, and Pond’s Cold Cream.” She looked around the lounge before lowering her voice. “I even have pads if it’s your time of the month. I can press your dresses if you want, seventy-five cents apiece.”
Leah and I whooped for joy at the thought of a shower bath. A few minutes later, I sloshed in hot, sudsy water, feeling quite decadent all the while. After our baths, Leah lined her eyes in black pencil and painted her lips deep carmine. I wondered who she wanted to impress.
My newly shampooed locks fell into loose waves. I changed into a stylish frock of crimson gabardine that Zisel had provided for the trip, and we were ready to find the dining car.
A grinning porter in a white jacket passed us, dinner chimes in hand. My stomach growled, and so did Leah’s. “Hey, kiddo, it’s time to eat. How’s about we put on the dog again and pretend we’re two swells?”
We locked arms and followed the porter.
Chapter Five
Beyond the Blue Horizon
The dining car tables blazed with candles, brilliant white tablecloths, and gleaming silverware. A steward ushered us to a corner table, where we dined on an iceberg lettuce salad and braised duck Cumberland, washed down with fresh lemonade. For two wonderful hours, we put our grief and Mr. Nussbaum behind us.
After our meal, we made our way to the berth that would be our bedroom for the next four days. A porter had turned down the beds and left neatly folded green blankets atop the narrow beds. I took the upper bunk while Leah napped in the lower. As I stared out the window at the bleak panorama, I wondered if my Fuller Brush man spent his days in the freezing cold schlepping his wares. He probably passed his evenings wrapped in some high hat babe’s embrace. Time to forget about the guy.
I cracked open the book I’d brought for my journey, The Bridge of San Luis Rey—interesting, but not exactly fascinating. All of a sudden, I remembered the actors onboard the train. The prospect of meeting movie stars held more attraction than a fictional bridge collapse in eighteenth-century Peru. I dug out a mirror and applied a coat of Fuller Brush lipstick in a flattering rose shade. My old copybook would be dandy for autographs. I slipped from our berth and made my way to the supercar. Plumes of cigarette smoke wafted from open state rooms full of drunken reporters. I ignored the catcalls and wolf whistles from the soused newsmen and made my way down the narrow corridors, finding my train legs with the rhythmic movement of the Chief.
I’d just turned onto a quiet, reporter-free passageway when I heard the honeyed tones of a son of the South.
“Well, hello, little lady.”
Rex Dallas sauntered toward me, dressed in a natty dinner jacket and tuxedo trousers. He looked quite dashing minus the heavy theatrical makeup he’d worn in the station. His dark eyes twinkled and his teeth glinted in the light. My heart boomed at my good fortune, but I tried to act cool and nonchalant.
“Hello to you too, Mr. Dallas.”
Mr. Dallas appeared at my side so quickly I wondered if he wore seven-league boots. He bowed like a cavalier of old and kissed my hand.
“Sweet Pea, I noticed you in the crowd and I thought to myself, ‘That little darling is out in the cold, freezing to death because of ol’ Rex.’ I wanted to show that pretty little gal how a real Southern gent treats a lady.”
How lucky can a girl be? I found his attention thrilling.
Then he moved closer and blew into my ear, which wasn’t so thr
illing.
“Mr. Dallas—”
“Call me Rex, darling.”
“Oh, well, uh, Rex, would you believe that I’ve seen all your movies? Is your partner, Mr. Buster Sweet, traveling with you?”
He tossed back his head and laughed. “That coon? They don’t let them on the trains except to clean toilets. Why would I want to tour with a jigaboo anyway?”
Coon? Jigaboo? No one I knew used such horrible language.
“Mr. Dallas, you can’t—”
He cut me off with a laugh. “You are just the prettiest little thing. By the way, how old did you say you were?”
I didn’t remember mentioning my age. “I’m eighteen.”
Mr. Dallas lifted me in the air. “Eighteen? Can you believe it? Eighteen is my lucky number.”
Rex Dallas’s face suddenly took on the same salacious expression I’d seen on Nussbaum, Mr. Stein, some of the reporters, and one particularly ardent Columbia student. “Mr. Dallas, please put me down!”
He threw his head back and laughed again. “I bet a pretty little thing like you must have beaus a-plenty.”
I went from dizzy to queasy. It would serve the guy right if I puked all over his face. “I don’t have any beaus. Please put me down and sign my book.”
“Aw, honey, ol’ Rex has got something a lot better than any autograph book. Gimme some sugar, baby.”
Mr. Dallas opened his mouth and moved his tongue to my lips. Up close he looked really old, at least thirty-five, and he smelled of liquor. I thought I’d retch, and I certainly wasn’t going to kiss him. When I turned my face away, the bum had the nerve to pull it back. I whacked him as hard as I could. “Let me go, you louse. I don’t want to kiss you.”
Horror of horrors, Mr. Dallas grinned as if he found my resistance exciting. From the bulge poking inside his trousers, I figured yes, he did.
“You little minx. So you want to play rough, do you? Rex likes gals with spirit.”
A voice boomed from the corridor. “Hey, put the girl down, you son-of-a-bitch. Put her down right now.”
Ben Roth rushed over with Omar at his heels. Mr. Roth’s face blazed as red as a tomato. He gave me a quick once-over, then went nose to nose with Dallas. “I’ve had it with you, you cracker schmuck. You always pull this bullshit on me the moment I turn my back. I knew I couldn’t trust you. I’m not spending another nickel to keep you out of jail. Do you know what the Mann Act is, you putz? No? Let me refresh your memory. Taking a female across state lines for nookie is a Federal offense. It gets worse when the female in question is underage.”
Mr. Dallas screamed back, the veneer of southern chivalry gone. “Underage? With those tits and that ass? The girlie said she’s eighteen. That’s legal, isn’t it? Besides, the little chippie gave me the come-on.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “But that’s not true.”
Mr. Roth turned and glared at me. “Can it, toots. I’ll take care of this.”
His lips curled when he turned to Dallas. “Listen, you son of a bitch, I know you think you’ve got me by the short hairs because we have a contract. Well, you’re wrong. Guys like you are a dime a dozen, and besides, it’s Buster Sweet people come to see, not you.”
Dallas glared back at him with such savagery I thought they might come to blows.
“Don’t throw that Sambo up to me. I’m tired of you treating me like a darky, you Jew bastard.”
Mr. Roth absorbed the insult in silence. How could Rex Dallas, a man I’d adored since childhood, say such horrible things? Mr. Roth mumbled something to Omar before slipping him what looked like a wad of bills. He grabbed Dallas by his lapels. “Get back to your stateroom. We’ll rustle up someone who’s interested.”
Dallas shot him a poisonous look, gave me a curt bow, and stormed off with Omar following. When Mr. Roth turned back to me, his demeanor softened. “Look, baby, I want the truth. Did he touch you?” He looked me dead in the face.
“No, sir, I mean, Mr. Roth. You see, I know your name. You’re the president of Regal Pictures.”
I finally had an opportunity to ask him about Uncle Baron, but unfortunately, he seemed quite agitated. “Oh, so you know my name. What else do you know?”
My smile didn’t improve his mood, so I dropped it. “Everything, Mr. Roth. Anyway, I was walking down the corridor when I met Mr. Dallas.”
“You walked down the corridor and met that schlub?”
“Yes, sir, and he said, ‘Hello, little lady,’ and I said, ‘Hello,’ right back and told him that I’d seen all his movies. He seemed so pleased. Then he asked how old I was. When I told him I’m eighteen, he seemed even more pleased.”
Mr. Roth slapped his forehead. “What the hell, I’ll kill that schmuck!” His eyes narrowed when he looked back at me. “Is this a shakedown, girlie?”
“A shakedown? No!”
Mr. Roth stopped glaring, so I guess he liked my answer. He pulled out his wallet. “Well, honey, since you say nothing happened, how’s about twenty bucks to make it all go away?”
“Twenty dollars? Did you say twenty dollars?”
He raised an eyebrow and handed me another sawbuck. “Okay, okay, girlie. I’ll make it thirty.”
He shoved the money into my hand. “How about I throw in a few pairs of silk stockings, too? You’ve got to promise you won’t let anyone know what happened, especially any of those nice men from the press, the ones crawling around the train like cockroaches. By the way, if anyone asks, say Christmas came early this year. You seem like a sweet kid, so let’s forget it ever happened.”
Mr. Roth handed me the cash. Perhaps he waited for me to faint in appreciation, but Mr. Dallas’ words still rang in my ears and I could barely muster a smile.
“Thank you very much, sir.”
I walked away. He followed, took hold of my shoulders, and turned me around.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Thirty smackers ain’t chopped liver, especially nowadays. Sorry, little lady, that’s all you’re going to get.”
“Rex Dallas called you a ‘Jew bastard.’ ”
I saw the confusion in his face. “Yeah, so what else is new?”
“Mr. Roth, I’m Jewish, and that man insulted everyone who is Jewish. What kind of fellow is he? It’s an affront to the gentleman who puts a roof over his head. My father used to say, ‘I sing the song of he who puts bread on my table.’ You put bread on his table, but he dishonored you. I hate Rex Dallas, and I’ll never go to any of his movies again!”
After all the strain of the previous month, I started blubbering. I’m sure I looked like the world’s biggest softie. Mr. Roth didn’t say a word, but the strangest thing happened—he sobbed too. He handed me his handkerchief and wiped his own eyes on his sleeve.
“Forget it, kid, he’s not worth tears. What does a goy know anyway? Thanks for the kind words, girlie.”
With that, he turned. I couldn’t let him go without asking him the most important question of all. “Mr. Roth, please, my uncle died in that fire, the one in 1923. My sister and I are going to Los Angeles to search for his grave. Can you please help us, sir?”
Mr. Roth stopped in his tracks. He turned, his face as white as starch.
“What did you say?”
“My uncle died in the fire, the fire that killed Clarice Dumont. His name was Baron, Baron Schector. Please, Mr. Roth, we want to know where they buried Uncle Baron.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, shook his head, and walked away.
Chapter Six
The Smoke Clears
Before I returned to Leah, I scrubbed away every trace of Rex Dallas from my body. I decided to keep my encounter with the dreadful man a secret. When I arrived at the sleeping car, I found Omar waiting in front of our berth.
“Mitzi, Mr. Roth asked me to keep a special eye on you. Remember, keep quiet about Dallas.”
I nodded. “I’ll remember.”
A few minutes later, Leah awoke from her nap. I managed to keep my lips buttoned during dinner, and
chatted away about the luxury of the train. “This is sure a lot better than living on some old rickety bus for a week.” I knew if my older sister found out about Dallas making the moves on me, there’d be holy heck to pay.
When we returned to the berth, I found a box wrapped in white tissue propped on my cot. I didn’t open it until Leah went to the ladies’ lounge. When I unwrapped it, I found four pairs of silk stockings, courtesy of Mr. Ben Roth. The hose created another conundrum. How would I explain silk stockings and the extra thirty dollars I’d tucked under Leah’s pillow? I decided to forget my worries until morning.
That night, I dreamed of walking down Park Avenue in autumn, the street awash in gowns of hunter green and burnt sienna. Society beauties in their swankiest autumn frocks promenaded arm in arm with their sweethearts. I floated toward a dashing young man from the Fuller Brush Company. He wore a pinstriped suit, spats, and a million-dollar smile. Chick took me in his arms and whispered, “I love you, baby.”
What a swell dream.
****
On our second day on the Santa Fe Chief, I discovered Betty, the ladies’ lounge attendant, would spill the beans about Miss Jill Carpenter for a fifty-cent piece.
“Miss Carpenter’s maid told me they use peroxide, ammonia, and soap flakes to bleach her hair out. The stuff stings like the devil, and sometimes when her hair don’t look right, she wears a wig. All those ladies in the movies are lightening their hair. I once heard they use Clorox, but her maid said that’s a lot of hooey. Problem is, now there’s a bunch of sick women around the country with burned-out hair.”
She looked around to make sure we were alone, and moved a bit closer, her voice a whisper. “White hair and white skin—I’ve seen a whole lot of ladies before, but nothing like her. Yesterday, Miss Carpenter stood over there…” Betty pointed to the center of the tiny lounge. “…stark naked, without a care in the world.” She looked around the lounge once more before murmuring, “And there was no hair, nowhere, except on her head.”