Mitzi of the Ritz

by Lee René

  I’m fast on Baron’s trail. He’s managed to charm half of Los Angeles and has been an extra in a number of moving pictures. One of his chums told me that he has found regular work at Regal Pictures and has a flat at the Hotel Hollywood. I plan to drop by unannounced and will bring him back to New York by hook or by crook. All I can think about is returning to you, and my beautiful girls.

  Isaac

  So Uncle Baron had once lived at the Hotel Hollywood. My visit to the famed place would have to wait until Monday, the only day the Broadway Ritz closed for business. If there was something to find, I’d find it.

  Chapter Nine

  The Hollywood Hotel

  Everyone swore red flattered me, so on my first day at the Ritz, I became a scarlet woman. I carted a portfolio of sheet music along with the nutritious lunch Leah had made for me. She’d also forced a nickel into my hand. “This is for milk; you’re still a growing girl.”

  Yes, she’d promised Zisel she’d take care of me, but acting as if it were my first day of kindergarten went too far. “Leah, I stopped growing when I turned twelve. I’m too old for milk money.”

  She gave me the Look. I took the nickel, and gave thanks she didn’t make me carry a Teddy bear too.

  Mr. Stein stood in the lobby flipping a twenty-dollar gold piece like some dime store Romeo. He stopped the coin toss the moment I crossed the threshold and looked at his wristwatch. “Aren’t we punctual? I like that in an employee.”

  I managed a sunny, “Thank you, Mr. Stein,” then walked past the goon. The gods must have been with me, because he didn’t follow when I entered the auditorium. The Mighty Wurlitzer sat in wait for me, looking quite welcoming. I pressed every tab, delighted in the arsenal of sound effects at my disposal. Mr. Stein had finagled a silent copy of the Clara Bow talkie My Heart Belongs to the Navy, along with the music cues.

  Edna sidled up next to me and whispered, “We’re letting the audience in, Mitzi. Mr. Stein asked that you play something cheery while they take their seats.”

  The man said “cheery,” so I gave them cheery. The crowd needed a respite from the bleak times. I switched on the Bingo Night microphone and ripped into one of my favorites, “Makin’ Whoopee.” Some might think the song a bit saucy, but my voice soared, and the folks in the auditorium broke into wild applause. “Embraceable You” went over even bigger.

  When the lights dimmed, and the newsreel started, my real work began. I played a rousing melody improvised from British martial music. For the comic shorts, I slid into bright snatches of Broadway tunes. The childish antics of the Mischief Makers were favorites with our audience, and I used every bell and whistle. Little Jill Carpenter started her usual on-screen havoc, and the audience’s laughter nearly drowned out the Wurlitzer. By the time the short ended, the audience rolled in the aisles. I wondered how such a talented darling could have grown into a platinum-blonde witch.

  The title card announced My Heart Belongs to the Navy, a lively comedy about a counter girl with too many boyfriends for her own good. The crowd went nuts over the antics of my doppelganger, Clara Bow, and cheered when she kissed her sailor boyfriend to my favorite Gershwin tune, “How Long Has This Been Going On.”

  The show ended. I rose from my chair and bowed as if I’d played at Carnegie Hall. Folks rushed up to the Wurlitzer and some even asked to shake my hand. Who could ask for a better debut? I made an even bigger smash at the next show.

  That evening I floated out of the Ritz, past Edna and the twins. Suddenly life seemed wonderful again, as if I were still in New York playing for Pops and his musician friends. I felt like a million smackers—that is, until I walked out onto the street. Mr. Stein stood at the curb in front of his Cadillac, flipping his gold piece. The moment he saw me, he pocketed the coin and began applauding.

  “Doll, you claimed you could sing in New York, but I haven’t heard a voice like yours since Ethel Merman. This calls for a celebration.”

  He flung open the front door of his motorcar. “Here’s our magic carpet, baby. Get in and I’ll take you to dinner.”

  How could I escape? “Gee thanks, Mr. Stein, but my sister is expecting me. She’ll be worried if I’m late. I really have to get home.”

  His lips contorted into a boyish pout. “Oh, yeah, okay, I get it. I’m heading back east tomorrow and won’t be around until after New Year’s. I guess I was hoping maybe you’d cheer up a fellow New Yorker, but I keep forgetting about your sister. Let me drive you home.”

  I knew by his expression refusal wasn’t an option, so I planted myself next to him, smiling the entire time, overjoyed I wouldn’t see his smirking mug for the next three weeks. He nattered on about some sort of deal with a movie studio involving the theaters he owned around the country.

  “I don’t want to jinx it. It’ll take time, but if it goes through I’ll be starting a new line of work. Just you wait, baby. I’ll be a big man in this town.”

  It didn’t matter to me how big he’d be, just as long as I didn’t have to deal with his unwanted attentions. He might have been a handsome devil with money to burn, but I remembered he wore a wedding band, even if he didn’t.

  The streetlights suddenly flashed on, revealing broad avenues flooded with pedestrians. When we finally arrived at the Dorchester, he insisted on walking me to the front door.

  “You haven’t had many gentleman callers, have you, Mitzi?”

  I averted my head. He didn’t have to know about my lack of gentlemen callers. Mr. Stein took my chin in his hand, moved my face back to his, then gazed at me through those beautiful peepers. Despite the fact I knew what a stinker he was, I went weak at the knees. “Baby, I have a feeling this is just the beginning.”

  Beginning of what?

  ****

  That Monday, I boarded the Red Car and headed for the Hotel Hollywood. Talk about a bad case of the jitters. My hands shook so much I barely got the token into the coin box. The streetcar took its time as it glided through the sun-kissed boulevards. It seemed an eternity before the trolley turned onto Hollywood Boulevard. Boy, what a letdown!

  I had expected a fantasy highway lined with black marble façades on skyscrapers. Where were the glamorous actresses strutting up and down the street in furs and jewels as they walked Russian wolfhounds with diamond collars on their slender necks?

  To my great disappointment, Hollywood Boulevard looked like the rest of Los Angeles: flat, clean, a ritzy shop here, a restaurant there, swaying palms everywhere, but with none of the hoped-for magic. Out of the blue, an ivory-colored Cadillac whizzed by and set my heart to pumping. I peered through the window to see if I knew the driver. Thankfully, an older fellow in a plaid suit sat behind the wheel. I must be going nuts. For a week I’d dreamed about a beautiful Fuller Brush man, but now I had that rat David Stein on the brain.

  The trolley passed the Roosevelt Hotel, the place where I’d read the stars met. It failed to excite me. Since Christmas was less than two weeks away, they’d festooned the street lamps with evergreen wreaths encircling dramatic images of movie actors. The constellation of Regal’s stars twinkled from the opposite side of the street. A beautiful image of Jill Carpenter, swathed in white fur, almost made me forget what a sourpuss she was.

  Finally, the streetcar arrived at the famed Hotel Hollywood, a sprawling Spanish colonial adjoining a forest of palms and a grove of lemon trees. A grand veranda ran the entire length of the entrance. I imagined Uncle Baron wearing his favorite Panama hat as he saluted the ladies who passed him on the Boulevard.

  The hotel sat next door to Grauman’s Chinese Theater, a movie palace designed to capture the magic of the Forbidden City but instead looked like a brassy Oriental temple. Grauman’s gaudy touch showed up across the street in the date palms and stuffed camels of the garish shrine to faux Egyptology, the Egyptian Theater.

  I threw back my shoulders and strolled into the Hotel Hollywood’s lobby just as a string quartet ripped into a hot-blooded tango. Wrought iron chandeliers hung from the beams and
illuminated the heavy Castilian furnishings. I maneuvered my way to the front desk through a platoon of bellmen in snazzy black uniforms trimmed with gold braid.

  The front desk manager had garbed himself in a topcoat and striped pants. The fellow made a deep bow and addressed me in an English accent, probably phony.

  “May I assist you, young lady?”

  I’d dressed to the nines, but I could tell my duds didn’t impress him, so I decided to let the debutante come out. I placed my copybook on the desk and tightened my jaw like a rich shiksa from Barnard.

  “Yes, you may, my man. The name is, uh, Miss Vanderbilt. My family is wintering in Los Angeles, and I decided your establishment would be a splendid subject for my school newspaper.”

  He looked at me and smirked. “Well, Miss, uh, Vanderbilt, may I ask the name of your school?”

  I didn’t like his attitude and flared my nostrils like Gloria Swanson. “Yes, of course you may. It’s Barnard, Barnard College, in New York City. All the Vanderbilt girls attend Barnard.”

  The mention of Barnard didn’t wipe the smirk off his face. He just grinned at me like I was a lox. Maybe I hadn’t taken the crumb in, but I kept the act up anyway. “If it can be arranged, I’d like to talk to someone in a senior position who has been working here since 1920 and is well acquainted with the hotel’s history. A few colorful stories would be nice, but, uh, not too colorful. After all, I am writing for young ladies.”

  The desk clerk motioned to a bellhop. “Please escort Miss, uh, Vanderbilt to Clyde’s, uh, office.”

  He turned back to me, his wicked smile still in place. “Clyde has been part of the staff longer than anyone and can answer any questions, or so he assures me. I’m sure he’d be overjoyed to be of aid to such a charming young lady—especially a Vanderbilt.”

  Clyde, a scrawny old bird in a shiny black suit, sat behind a desk affixed with a brass plate that read “Concierge.” He smiled, flashing a mouth of full brown choppers. “The name’s just Clyde. I’ve been working here since nineteen hundred and fifteen.”

  The guy didn’t look a day under eighty. A milky film covered his eyes, and he used a walking stick to maneuver around the hotel. Still, despite his infirmities, Clyde had a full head of gray hair, sharp hearing, and most importantly, all of his marbles.

  “You had to deal with the Limey at the front desk, did you? Can’t stand the fellow myself. He’s always so snooty. He would have thrown me out on my ear, but the former owner wrote in her will that I’d always have a job here. I swear, since she died, this place has gone to hell in a handbasket.”

  He took a deep drag and coughed. “I came to Los Angeles from New York to be in the movies, only the lights gave me klieg eye, so I got a job here. You should have seen the place in ’26, before they opened the Roosevelt. What a time we had.”

  Clyde took another puff on his cigarette and waxed poetic. “I guess it would’ve been too much for a little lady like you. Those were wild days. Millionaires used to smuggle in cases of champagne. The extra girls would do the shimmy until dawn. Valentino danced in the lobby with Mae Murray. Rudy always said tile floors were the best for the tango. Oh, the glamour, the stars, the hooch. The poor owner was a teetotaler and frowned on gin and hanky-panky, so she had her hands full watching over the girls.”

  Clyde had another coughing spasm, and I figured he’d probably be joining the deceased owner soon. But he’d given me an opening, so I asked, “Girls? What about the boys?”

  “There were some young fellows living here. Most were sterling young men, but a few would bring in bootlegged booze and even narcotics. It caused a big stink.”

  “Did you know a young gentleman named Baron?”

  Clyde stared at me through half-blind eyes. “Baron, do you mean Baron Schector? What a dashing youngster, charmed every gal he met. He used to play the piano at the Thursday dances, and boy, he could tickle those ivories to beat the band. Such a shame he died that way. Poor kid. Say, how would you know his name anyway, you being a Vanderbilt and all?”

  I dropped the high-hat accent. “He was my uncle.”

  He sat back in his chair, digesting my words. “Well, what do you know? So Baron’s real name was Vanderbilt? What a classy fellow.”

  I had gone this far so I continued the charade. “Father made a visit here once.”

  He thought for a moment, tapped his right temple and smiled. “I might be old, but my noodle is still as sharp as a tack. I remember him. Your father is a classy fellow too, him being a Vanderbilt and all. He came here after Baron died, but they’d already cleaned out the kid’s room and taken everything.”

  In his last letter to Leah, Pops bemoaned the fact that someone had gotten hold of my uncle’s property and the sheriff’s department refused to discuss what happened to his body.

  “Did the police take Uncle Baron’s things?”

  The old guy coughed up a load of phlegm into his handkerchief. I averted my head, praying I wouldn’t puke on his desk. Clyde didn’t seem to notice my face had turned green.

  “Nah. The flatfoots were worse than the Keystone Cops, a bunch of crooks and chiselers, but they had nothing to do with it. The bigwigs at Regal Pictures handled everything.”

  So Mr. Roth had been involved. Claude turned his milky eyes toward me and spoke in a low murmur. “You might not know this, Miss Vanderbilt, but they were going to make a leading man out of him, sign him to a contract and everything.”

  “Golly, being a movie actor was Uncle Baron’s dream. Do you have any idea what they did with his body?”

  The old fellow shook his head. “Don’t know, Miss Vanderbilt. No one ever talked about it.” He paused for a moment, trapped by his memories. “There was something else. Your uncle had a lady love, Clarice Dumont.”

  Clarice Dumont? My head began throbbing. “I’m sorry, please excuse me, I’m not feeling well. I think I should leave now.”

  He looked at me through dim eyes. “Was it what I said about your uncle and Clarice?”

  I found it almost impossible to keep up the masquerade. “Yes, it’s a bit of a shock. I’m afraid I should be on my way.”

  Clyde flashed a grimy smile. “Miss Vanderbilt, I know you’ll only be in town for a short time, but can you leave a telephone number? There are papers in the vault that no one knows about.”

  I scribbled down Mrs. LaRue’s phone number. “Please call the moment you find anything.”

  During the return ride home, I decided that perhaps it would be wise to keep my lips buttoned about Uncle Baron’s love affair with Clarice. It wouldn’t hurt to learn more before I involved Leah. When I arrived home, I read through Pops’ California letters once more. Pops mentioned Clarice Dumont died in the same fire as Uncle Baron, but wrote nothing more. I doubted he knew they were sweethearts. I thought about bringing it up to Mr. Stein but immediately nixed the idea. He might want something in return for helping me, something I wasn’t willing to give.

  ****

  Working at the Broadway Ritz was aces. I’d become pals with Edna and her twin brothers, and we made a jolly foursome. I had friends and a regular paycheck; however, Edna presented a teensy problem. My parents had taught me to respect other people’s beliefs, but I had to bite my tongue every time Edna brought up Jesus.

  “Gosh, Mitzi, you’ve got everything a girl could want, looks, talent, brains, but if you don’t mind me saying, you need to find Jesus. If you don’t, you won’t be saved, and your soul will burn throughout eternity in the fires of Hell.”

  What an unpleasant thought.

  Edna would corner me between shows to talk about Jesus or give me Bible tracts courtesy of a radio preacher named Aimee Semple McPherson. Mrs. McPherson fed the poor and extolled the benefits of Christianity while she ranted against movies, dancing, jazz music, and Charles Darwin. Despite her religious mumbo jumbo, I couldn’t stay angry with Edna. We were friends, and I sure needed one.

  When I arrived home on Sunday evening after working at the Ritz for a week, Lea
h sat in the front room, soaking her aching tootsies in Epsom salts. Mrs. LaRue handed me a message. “Some old guy called from the Hotel Hollywood looking for a Miss Vanderbilt.”

  I’m sure my expression told all. She laughed at my concern. “Don’t worry, kiddo, I didn’t give you away. The poor fellow coughed something awful, like he had pneumonia. He said to tell you that Clyde found a paper you’d want.”

  Hallelujah!

  The smarmy English fellow worked behind the front desk when I strolled into the hotel’s lobby the next morning. He smiled, banana oil dripping from the corners of his mouth. “It’s Miss Vanderbilt from Barnard, is it not?”

  I threw back my shoulders and put on my hoity-toity accent. “Yes, it is. My social secretary received a message from Clyde. It seems he has a few more stories to share with me.”

  The Englishman paled. “Oh, my goodness, you don’t know, do you? Miss Vanderbilt, I’m afraid Clyde passed away last night. You must have seen how frail he was.”

  I’m sure my expression betrayed me. “Did he leave anything for me?”

  The moment the British fellow shook his head, I knew all was lost. I turned and left the hotel without a word.

  Back at the Dorchester, the old ladies were making merry with eggnog and Christmas carols. Their holiday mood didn’t infect me. I’d be stuck in a land of perpetual sun forever and would never find out where they’d buried Uncle Baron. Although I feigned cheeriness, I wished I could crawl into a hole and die.

  “Merry Christmas, ladies.”

  Ho, ho, ho.

  Chapter Ten

  Los Angeles

  December 22, 1931

  The coffin lid creaked open. A creature in a tuxedo and black cape peered out from a world of black and pewter shadows. The demon’s waxen face filled the screen. Suddenly, dissonant chords resonated throughout the theater. A lady shrieked and the audience broke out in nervous titters.

  I’d improvised on themes from The Rites of Spring as three ghoulish beauties in flowing gowns, the vampire brides, prepared to feed on poor Mr. Renfield. The Mighty Wurlitzer mimicked the sound of a bat’s wings as the bloodthirsty Count Dracula transformed himself. When the time came for my knock-’em-dead climax, I ramped up the dark chords as Van Helsing moved toward Dracula’s coffin. The house lights flashed on and off, and then came the coup de grace: a stake driven through Dracula’s black heart. The ceiling lights came on in a blinding flash.