by Lee René
“Good morning, Mrs. LaRue. You’re up early.”
She cackled and took a drag on her cigarette. “Can’t be a sleepyhead. I ain’t a debutante like Barbara Hutton. How’s your sister doing?”
My mother had perished in the 1918 influenza epidemic. Every time Leah coughed, I feared she might be heading down the same path. “Well, uh…uh…”
Mrs. LaRue’s psychic abilities were in full force that morning. “Listen, kiddo, there’s nothing wrong with your sister, just a wicked bout of influenza. Leave her to me. With some hot soup and another dose of Mr. Fournier’s medicine, she’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time.”
I’m sure folks could hear my sigh of relief all the way to the Broadway in New York.
“Thanks, Mrs. LaRue, you’re a real pal. Say, there’s a double bill at the Ritz this afternoon. I’ll be playing some swell music, as good as Gaylord Carter. It would be wonderful if you could make the matinee.”
Mrs. LaRue flicked the ash from her Chesterfield into a potted plant. “I don’t think so. The ladies invited me to play bridge this afternoon, and I really should look in on your sister. Besides, if I showed up, it would only be to hear you play. You’re famous, Mitzi of the Ritz. It’s you who should be on the screen. I’ve told you a million times—I know folks who could help you.”
Everybody in Los Angeles knew someone in the movies who could help me. What a bill of goods. If Mrs. LaRue really knew people, what was she doing running the Dorchester?
“Jeez, Mrs. LaRue, you’ll give me a bigger head than I already have. I sure wish you’d come. In case you change your mind, I’ll leave a couple of tickets for you at the booth.”
Mrs. LaRue took another puff of her cigarette. “I mean what I say. Somebody with your looks and talent should be in the movies, not playing for them.”
I laughed for the first time that morning, then dashed off. I rushed down 3rd Street toward Broadway, but stopped at the Grand Central Market and grabbed a couple of donuts and some orange juice along the way.
By the time I arrived at the Ritz, a crowd had already formed at the box office. Everyone grumbled about the theater’s closing, but as much as I hated admitting it, Mr. Stein hadn’t lied. Silent movies were a thing of the past, but it didn’t make reality any easier to swallow. The regulars weren’t only grousing about the end of silent dramas. Talkies meant a hike in admission, too.
I stuck my head in the door of the ticket booth where Edna sat.
“Edna, my landlady, Mrs. LaRue, just might show up for the matinee. Could you save a couple of tickets for her?”
“Sure. By the way, it’s our lucky day. Mr. Stein ain’t around, and he left the pay in cash. He’s the last of the big spenders, a regular Diamond Jim Brady. He dropped in an extra five bucks along with a letter of recommendation.”
With that she handed me my pay envelope. I felt as though an invisible hand had lifted a millstone from my neck. David Stein would never torture me again. Hallelujah! I tore open my envelope and nearly fainted. In addition to my regular pay, I found two crisp ten-dollar bills. Two sawbucks! Twenty smackers! I could take care of the rent and get Leah’s fox stole and charm bracelet out of hock. Christmas had come early for this Jewish girl.
I started the first of three shows, thankful I’d breakfasted on juice and sinkers. This would be a long day.
The Southern Belle, Clarice Dumont’s last film, told the story of a poor girl who went to Atlanta looking for a rich husband. She fell for a poor boy instead, then discovered he was really a millionaire. I must have seen The Southern Belle twenty times, but now that I knew about Clarice and Uncle Baron’s romance, I’d watch it with new eyes.
Mr. Stein had managed to scrounge up a silent copy of the newest talkie from the team of Dallas and Sweet, Where West is East. It starred Rex Dallas, the bigoted rat, but showcased Buster Sweet’s marvelous comic timing. The audience laughed at his every gesture, and he knocked ’em dead every time. Mr. Stein swore he knew Buster Sweet, but I figured his claim was a load of applesauce.
Regal had filmed Where West is East on the streets of Chinatown, so I pulled out all the stops, even worked in snatches of Puccini’s Turandot. When I accompanied The Southern Belle, I threw in a bit of jazz and a few café society melodies.
By the second matinee, exhaustion overcame me. One of the twins, either Andy or Randy, brought me a grape Nehi and some fresh popcorn. Lunch consisted of five Saltine crackers and two slices of American cheese, but I still managed to pour my heart into the music.
Although I’m Jewish, you might say I’m an aficionada of Christmas carols. On my last evening at the old Broadway Ritz, I led a Christmas sing-a-long, “O! Holy Night,” “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” For a magical moment, everyone got into the spirit of the season and managed to forget Old Man Depression.
By the third show, when the title card for The Southern Belle flashed on the screen again, I could barely concentrate. Edna brought my dinner—a package of melted bon-bons and four Sen-Sens, along with more Nehi. “Sorry, Mitzi, this is the best I could do.”
I wolfed everything down and then, fueled by sugar, attacked the music as if I were a machine. Things were copacetic until the garden-party scene where Clarice meets Rex Dallas.
I’ll never know why I looked up at the screen.
I saw him.
Uncle Baron sat on the bandstand, playing the piano. We’d shown The Southern Belle at least half a dozen times before, and twice that day, but I’d never noticed my uncle before. There were only a couple of shots of him, but when Clarice Dumont waltzed by, he winked into the camera.
The tragedy of Uncle Baron and the girl he loved dying together in a horrible fire hit me square in the gut. My eyes began tearing, and I feared I wouldn’t get through the performance. Then, I remembered seeing Pops drag himself from his sickbed and go to work, to play his heart out. Now I had my turn. People paid for a show, and I gave them one.
At points, I syncopated the rhythms, borrowed a bit from Gershwin, then invited Mr. Chopin into the love theme. The final screen kiss elicited a cheer, and, when the house lights came up, the audience jumped to its feet. I had my pay, an extra twenty bucks, and Mrs. LaRue swore Leah would be on her feet soon. On top of everything, I’d just seen Uncle Baron in a movie. One day I’d find his grave. I knew I would.
I stacked my sheet music into a pile on top of the Wurlitzer. They were the past, and I wouldn’t need them again. Edna and the twins had shoved off early, so the projectionist escorted me from the Ritz. We shook hands, and he uttered a polite, “See you around, kid.”
I took one final look at the place I’d called home for a year, and then off I went.
Chapter Twelve
Ho Ho Ho
A Salvation Army Santa Claus stood outside ringing his bell, and I felt generous enough to part with a quarter. The closer it got to Christmas, the brighter the lights on Broadway and the more pungent the perfume of the evergreens wreathing every lamppost. Ladies wore wintry corsages and every passing gentleman tipped his hat. Carolers in costumes straight out of Charles Dickens warbled in front of Bullock’s Department Store. A crowd surrounded them, maybe hoping the singers’ tidings of comfort and joy meant better days ahead.
I thought about my Fuller Brush man selling his wares in wintry New York. A handsome fellow like him was probably occupied chasing skirts in a swanky night club. He had to have a girlie waiting in the wings somewhere. Oh, well.
When I passed 6th Street, a tingling sensation ran down my spine. I turned, but found nothing out of the ordinary except for a bustle of shoppers. Still, I had the inexplicable sense of being tracked. By the time I reached the corner of 5th and Broadway, I sensed something following my every move. I kept telling myself, “Mitzi, you’re acting like a sap,” but the feeling of someone stalking me like prey wouldn’t go away.
My feeling of unease continued when I moved north toward Bunker Hill. Without warning, an ivory Caddie crawled from one of the
Second Street tunnels and made an abrupt stop in front of me. Mr. Stein slid across the seat and opened the passenger door. “Get in, doll.”
I leaned forward to politely suggest he scram. “Thanks, Mr. Stein, but—”
Before I could finish, he’d grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me into the automobile. My heart began almost to beat out of my chest.
“Mr. Stein, please, I have to get home.”
He’d dressed to the nines, smelled of spicy aftershave and fresh mint, and had a nasty leer on his face. “I’ll take you home, baby, but we have to have a little talk first.”
I didn’t want to think about what kind of “talk” he had in mind. “Please, my sister’s sick and waiting for me.”
He kept driving, turned into an alley, and finally parked the Caddie. The only illumination came from a shard of light traveling down from a second-floor window.
His eyes were feverish and his expression so intense it terrified me. One look at his face told me acting like a weak sister wouldn’t get me anywhere. David Stein wasn’t the kind of fellow who’d melt under a torrent of tears. He planted his lips on my cheek, his hot breath vibrating against my skin.
“Mitzi, can’t you see I’m nuts about you? I can take care of you and your sister too. Why do you keep running away?”
The words came easy. “I’m no floozy. I can’t step out with a married man.”
He didn’t respond, just took me by my shoulders, and pinned me down on the leather cushions. His lips parted, and I felt his perfumed breath on my face.
“I’m not married anymore. You don’t know what I’m going through. C’mon, baby, I’ve been thinking about you all day. How about that kiss? Just a kiss. Please?”
I didn’t know what he wanted for his twenty dollars, but I doubted he would stop at a kiss. “You gave me money because you think I’m a tart? Did you suppose I’d go to bed with you? I’m not a whore.” I handed him my pocketbook. “Take your money back, Mr. Stein. I don’t want it.”
I made an attempt at the door, but he pulled my arm away from the latch. “To hell with the money. All I want is a kiss, just one measly kiss. Please, Mitzi. My wife is dead.”
His eyes filled with tears, and he wrenched his body away from me. Fear stopped me from asking more questions. “I’m sorry about Mrs. Stein. Goodbye.”
I flung the car door open and scurried away, pocketbook in hand. My legs must have carried me to the Dorchester faster than any runner in Olympic history.
Mrs. LaRue had left the front door unlocked. The dulcet tones of Louie Armstrong’s magical trumpet greeted me. Laughter poured from the parlor. “Surprise!”
Food covered the dining room table: mock apple pie, deviled eggs, strawberry gelatin with fruit cocktail and whipped cream, a stuffed turkey, canned salmon molded into the shape of a fish, and potatoes au gratin. A big frosted cake sat between the two punchbowls, one filled to the brim with Kool-Aid and slices of lemon, the other with eggnog. The pensioners wore their glad rags, and it looked as if all had splurged on finger waves and manicures.
Mrs. LaRue smiled, showing off her new dentures. “We’re having a little holiday cheer.”
She looked me up and down, noting my bedraggled state. “Kiddo, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look like something the cat dragged in.”
What a sight I must have been, my dress disheveled, my hair all over the place, my makeup a mess. I uttered the first thing that came into my head. “I wanted to get home to Leah, and I ran all the way.”
The old ladies tittered. Mrs. LaRue took my arm and barely spoke above a whisper. “You’ve had a hard time tonight, haven’t you, kiddo? Go change into another of your pretty dresses.”
I sped to our flat and looked at the mess in the mirror. Off came the red velveteen dress. I sponged my body with a damp rag, powdered myself with talcum, reapplied my makeup, then changed into another frock. Most importantly, I decided to put David Stein out of my mind, if only for a night.
When I walked back into the parlor, I found Leah and Omar giggling and whispering like a pair of kids. She still looked peaked, but she’d waved her hair, lined her eyes, and painted her lips crimson. Omar stroked her palm—No, how could it be? His hand must have accidentally brushed against hers.
Gold charms glittered from her wrist—her bracelet, the one we’d pawned after she got sick. I hadn’t given her any money yet. How did she get it out of hock? Before I could ask, Omar jumped off the davenport and hurried over to the eggnog. He played the Egyptian to the hilt, and looked quite dashing in a tuxedo and a fez. One of the pensioners even asked him how the weather was in his country.
“Cairo’s very sunny this time of the year, ma’am.” He winked at the old dame, then handed me a cup of eggnog. “Don’t tell your sister, but there’s brandy in it.”
Later that evening, Omar dragged out his saxophone to accompany Leah on the piano. Everyone joined in and handed out little presents. I’d bought handkerchiefs for all, and received a sachet, nail varnish, and perfume in return. Omar played Santa and surprised Leah with a bottle of her favorite perfume, Shalimar. It seemed awfully extravagant, but he had gifts for everyone, including a pair of chiffon stockings for me. I might not be an expert, but I’d been to a bunch of Christmas parties in my nineteen years. This had to be the best one ever.
The party ended at ten, and all the guests pitched in with the cleanup. Later that night I tossed and turned in my narrow cot, thinking about Mr. Stein. His wife might have died and left him in agony, but did her passing excuse his behaving like an orangutan in heat?
****
The morning after the Dorchester party, I dusted off Leah’s red pumps and took a stroll down Broadway, hunting for another job. If my search didn’t pan out, I’d join Edna and the twins when they made the rounds looking for extra work in moving pictures. Then, if working in the movies wasn’t in the cards, I could always join Leah at the Dreamland Club. Leah hit the roof when I mentioned it and gave me the Look. “No sister of mine is working in that dump.”
I ignored her. Perhaps I didn’t have her dancing skill, but I knew how to waltz.
When I arrived back at the Dorchester after my job search, Mrs. LaRue called me into her overheated flat. She’d perfumed her apartment with incense to cover the stink of her cigarettes. Fringe, beaded curtains, peacock feathers, and ostrich plumes throughout the place recalled the tawdry opulence of the last decade. The stained glass lamps didn’t provide much light, but Mrs. LaRue had the vanity of an aging actress and preferred the darkness. Her gaze remained on my face when she handed me an envelope. She pointed to a gorgeous bouquet of red roses.
“A handsome young gent brought these over. I told him you were out looking for work, and he seemed concerned.”
I tore open the envelope and counted out ten crisp ten-dollar bills. “Jeepers!”
A piece of paper fell to the floor.
Mitzi,
I’m sure you and your sister can use this. I hope you like the flowers. I want to talk to you. Call the number on the note.
David
No apology for what he’d done or the way he’d acted. He’d typed his letter on stationery from a place called the Chateau Marmont. Mrs. LaRue smirked when I handed the missive to her.
“A lot of hanky-panky goes on at the Chateau Marmont because it’s in West Hollywood, a wild and woolly place if ever there was one. By the way, this Stein fellow has already left a telephone message for you.”
The nerve of that louse. “If he calls again, please tell him I’m out. I’ll always be out to the bum.”
She took a drag on her cigarette. “A lover’s spat?”
The idea of pitching woo with that sex maniac made me nauseous. “No, he’s the crumb I used to work for.”
She chortled in a very suggestive manner. “He gave you a hundred smackers and beautiful flowers, yet he’s a crumb?”
I should have shown her my bruises. “A hundred bucks is chicken feed to a guy like him. Leah will love the flower
s, though.”
Roses, especially red ones, were Leah’s favorites, and they looked stunning in one of the vases I’d pinched from the Ritz. Despite rallying the night before, she still seemed a bit under the weather, so I placed them next to her bed in hopes of cheering her up. When Leah awoke, she gave a squeal of pleasure.
“Oh. how lovely, Mitzi! Are the roses from Omar?”
“No, Leah.”
I walked away, wondering when Omar had begun buying her roses.
Chapter Thirteen
January 1932
The Monday after Christmas, Mrs. LaRue fired up the engine of her tin lizzie. The Model T turned over and off we went, four little lambs, with Mrs. LaRue as our shepherdess. I sat up front, while Edna and the twins took seats in the rear. We’d all dressed in our best, the boys in starched shirts and bow ties, Edna in a navy-blue sweater ensemble she’d bought with the five dollars from Mr. Stein. I wore my lucky outfit, the same black-and-red frock from my interview at the New York Ritz.
Mrs. LaRue cackled as she drove. “Kids, we won’t bother with Central Casting. A little bird told me they need extras at Regal Pictures. Regal may be small potatoes, but they’re always looking for young folks for their shorts. Best of all, I have pals there.”
As the Model-T motored down Wilshire Boulevard, I marveled at how deftly Mrs. LaRue handled the gears and foot pedals yet still managed to carry on a conversation. Maybe one day I’d master the art of driving and speaking at the same time.
“Now listen, kiddies. I know the business, so let me do the talking. I’ve got friends all over Regal.”
She turned the car onto Sunset Boulevard and headed toward West Hollywood, a small town on the border between Hollywood and Beverly Hills. She pointed to a faded sign that read Sherman. “In its lawless past, West Hollywood used to be called ‘Sherman.’ ”
Edna turned her head from side to side, her eyes searching the quiet streets. “I hear West Hollywood is a den of iniquity loaded with nightclubs, speakeasies, and casinos.”