by Lee René
How could I have forgotten about Omar? Boy, what a pickle. Leah wouldn’t go without him, and despite wanting to meet up with Chick, I couldn’t celebrate without my sister. Still, there was one person who had everyone’s ear.
The next morning, the disarray in David’s office shocked me. He’d tacked sketches of set designs and costumes haphazardly on an easel in the center of the room. Tossed scripts sat willy-nilly on top of his usually well-ordered desk.
“Hello, David. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
He stood, sans jacket and tie, his vest unbuttoned. I hadn’t seen him looking so informal since Carlisle.
David didn’t smile, just gazed at me intently before pointing to a chair. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
The Icebox had returned.
“Well, David, Ida told me I’m expected to attend Mr. Roth’s celebration, the one at the Cocoanut Grove. She said everybody has to be there, but, well, Leah won’t go, and I don’t want to attend without her.”
It might have been late July, but when he spoke the temperature in the room dropped by thirty degrees. “Not a problem. She’s already on the guest list.”
Then, silence. He wasn’t making this easy. “It’s a bit trickier. You see, well, she won’t go without Omar, and the Cocoanut Grove is touchy about serving people of color. She said Buster Sweet won’t be there either.”
He didn’t say a word, just moved to the edge of his desk, his eyes never leaving my face.
“If Leah won’t go, then I won’t. I know it’s silly. I’ll turn twenty next week, but Leah’s my sister. Since you’re such an important fellow, I thought maybe you could smooth things out. I have a swell gown I’ve been dying to wear.”
He leaned back into his chair, his lips twisted into a wry smile. “I assure you, Buster will be there. He helped build this studio, and Ben hasn’t forgotten him. You want me to fix it so Omar can get in? No problem, I can do that. I’ll speak to Leah, too.”
I’m sure folks heard my sigh of relief all the way to Beverly Hills, but with David Stein, you get a dose of vinegar with the honey. He stood and sauntered over to me, his lips spread in a chilly smile, his movements like a panther about to strike. “I know why you want to go, Mitzi. It doesn’t have a thing to do with Buster, your sister, that ‘swell gown,’ or Regal, for that matter, does it? I saw you with Chick yesterday.”
“You saw us?”
The way he was glaring at me, you’d think I’d rubbed out his grandmother.
“Yes, I did. You let him kiss you, didn’t you? That sappy goy with his sweet talk and ukulele. You’re planning to meet him at the Grove. That’s it, isn’t it?”
I couldn’t handle another lecture. “What possible difference could it make to you if Chick shows up? I know you think he’s a dolt, and I’m just a dumb kid, but I want to go to that party. I’ve never been to a nightclub. I’ve never been anywhere, except summer camp in the Catskills. Just for one night, I don’t want to think about Nussbaum, Clarice, or Uncle Baron. Maybe things are looking up for me. Chick told me that his fling with Jill Carpenter is over.”
David moved close enough for me to feel his breath on my cheek. My nerves had gotten the better of me, and I started to giggle. Funny, he gave me the creeps, but the feeling thrilled me.
“So you want to go to the party to be with Chick? Well, isn’t that ducky? Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
I stood and turned to go, but he pulled me back to him. “Maybe you and that pill will finish your ‘conversation,’ maybe not, but if the whole thing blows up in your face, don’t blame me.”
It took all my strength not to scream, but I managed to control myself. “Why do you hate him so much, David? What did he do to you?”
He released me and sat back on edge of his desk. “He reminds me of every fraternity schmuck I’ve ever met, with their boolah-boolah crap. I know the type—everything comes easy to them. They live off their charm.”
“Yeah, that’s something you never have to worry about.”
At that moment I wished I could have taken back my words. “I’m sorry, David, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Say what you like, doll. I can take whatever you dish out. I know you get mad at me, but at least we have things in common, like our roots, the way we think about life. Guess what—we can talk about all kinds of things. Tell me, what the hell do you two converse about? The Katzenjammer Kids? Oh, yeah, I forgot. He likes Maggie and Jiggs too. Does that chump have an opinion on anything other than playing the ukulele and getting girls in the sack?”
How I hated David at that moment. “So what if Chick can’t discuss great literature and world events? What does that matter? He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, unlike others I could name. He has feelings for me, real feelings, regardless of what you say. Just when I think you and I are friends, you say something that ruins it. Good afternoon, David.”
David called to me, but I dashed out of his office. Thankfully, he didn’t follow. He remained on my mind for the rest of the day. I’d circled August the twenty-fifth on my calendar, a week away. Since the thought of confronting Carlotta Dumont alone terrified me, we were supposed to face her together. I depended on David, and he knew it. How could he be so cruel?
****
The next day I ran down to Wardrobe with Zisel’s crimson gown for Al’s inspection. He scrutinized every inch of fabric and every stitch. “I know this cut. It’s from Madeleine Vionnet’s Paris design house. We all steal from her, but you can’t duplicate her work. C’mon, put it on.”
When I did as he asked, he shook his head. “Take off your brassiere. You don’t need it with that firm young body. I can see the lines of your panties, so forget about wearing any.”
I’d worn clinging bias-cut gowns before, but only in front of Rose and her assistant, so it didn’t matter. Frolicking around a crowded nightclub with nothing beneath my gown was something else.
My face must have revealed what I couldn’t say. The great Alexandre looked at me like I was a potato bug he planned to squash.
“Yeah, how else can I fit a dress on you? What is it? You think I’m gonna try to get you in bed or something? Don’t flatter yourself, sister. I’ve undressed the most beautiful dames in the world and never laid a finger on any of them.”
His lip curled in a sneer. “Why am I surrounded by prudes? If you’re too ashamed to show off your body, why the hell did you bring me this gown in the first place? You’re going to a Hollywood party, not your cousin’s bar mitzvah.”
I decided to throw caution to the wind. No underwear for this gal. Al put some finishing touches on the gown, and then I pinched a pair of matching silk pumps, a slave bracelet, and some swell gold earrings inset with red glass. I’d wear the frock no matter what. I couldn’t wait to laugh in David Stein’s fat face when he saw me in it.
****
The next week, my twentieth birthday came and went. Ida arranged a small party on set, and David stayed away. I worked like a pack mule for the next couple of weeks, shooting a short in the morning, dancing all afternoon. For some reason, Chick had skipped most of the dance practices, but I knew by the time we met at the Cocoanut Grove I’d have mastered the rumba and the tango. Most importantly, I’d wear my crimson gown.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Cocoanut Grove
Zisel,
You’ll never believe what is happening. Regal Pictures is having a huge soiree at the Cocoanut Grove, and I’m going! Leah and her special friend, Omar, are going too. (Omar has hinted about a disguise, and I’ll give you the lowdown later.)
I’ve been polishing my rumba and tango. Can you imagine? I’ll finally wear that scrumptious crimson number you sent me. Leah found a sophisticated, très chic gown in Regal’s vast wardrobe.
A special someone promised me he’d be there, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
Your ever-loving Mitzi
****
Arcs of light crisscrossed t
he horizon as limousines snaked down Wilshire Boulevard. The Ambassador Hotel loomed in the distance, the gateway to an oasis of enchantment, the Cocoanut Grove.
Our driver parked, opened the passenger door, and bowed slightly when Omar alighted, looking every bit the Turkish diplomat. The get-up was David’s idea. Although I still considered him a fink, boy, was it a pip! Omar wore white tie and tails, a brilliant red satin sash slung from his right shoulder to his left hip. He topped it off with a monocle and false mustache, all courtesy of Regal Pictures Wardrobe and Make-Up. The fez belonged to him.
Omar gave his arm to Leah, resplendent in a black satin gown with a plunging back. The wizards at Factors had primped her, and she wore a fabulous diamond necklace—maybe not really diamonds, but definitely the finest paste.
The chauffeur held the door open, and I stepped into the warm California air. Like Leah, I’d received the glamour treatment, but refused a coating of Mr. Factor’s gloss. Tonight a special someone would be sampling my lips. My jacket concealed the daring lines of the gown, but I planned the great unveiling for later in the evening. I couldn’t wait to see the expression on David Stein’s mug.
The doorman tipped his hat as we walked into the smoke-filled lobby and past the elegant shops selling the most opulent goods imaginable. I heard the explosions of a hundred flashbulbs, and then the air cleared. Suddenly, we were in the receiving line with Ida at its head. For once, she had left her tailored suits at home and dressed in a stylish blue silk gown. She stood next to a chubby, dark-haired matron whom I recognized as Louella Parsons, the Hearst newspaper columnist. Her carmine-caked lips spread in a wide smile when Ida whispered, “Mitzi Charles, debutante and singing ingénue, her sister, Leah, and His Excellency, Councilor Bey of the Turkish embassy.”
Ida obviously enjoyed David’s ruse as much as Omar and Leah did. We were all imposters, a former Pullman porter, and two once-penniless Jews joining all the rest of the charlatans. It seemed that every studio big shot was making an appearance, perhaps to inspect the new merchandise or to pick up pointers for their own shindigs. The backslapping and boisterous conversations stopped when I passed and everyone gave me the eye. If Mr. Roth threw another tirade, maybe I’d pack up and take my goods somewhere else.
We descended the grand staircase. The flash of teeth, eyes, and diamonds nearly blinded us. The maître d’hôtel led us through a grove of papier-mâché palm trees everyone swore were leftover props from Valentino’s The Sheik. The scent of perfume mingled with plumes of smoke from a thousand cigarettes. The gods and goddesses deserted Mount Olympus that night—hair coiffed to perfection, skin suntanned, teeth perfect, they had descended into the Cocoanut Grove.
A baritone crooned “Prisoner of Love” and caressed the microphone as if it were his lover, while a throng of extra girls stood at the foot of the bandstand in silent adoration. Mr. Factor had personally supervised the girls’ transformations, and watched as an army of cosmetologists plucked, powdered, and rouged them. Hairdressers had lacquered every lock of hair, whether lemonade yellow or flaming red, into submission. They wore gowns of cerise, chartreuse, teal, and pale pink, blossoms of a giant bouquet cast at the singer’s feet.
Votive candles illuminated every table, along with the tiny flares from cigarette tips. That night everyone drank “coffee” mixed with ginger ale or Coca-Cola. Omar smiled mischievously. “A cup of joe here is at least a hundred proof.”
Stars flickered on the blue ceiling, but I kept my gazing to the celestial bodies crowding the dance floor. I caught sight of Edna across the room—with her new flame-red hair, she was hard to miss.
Bobby Fayette sat at a table with his companion, Helga Nielson, whispering in her ear and nibbling on her fingertips. Once an actor, always an actor, I guess. Buster Sweet wasn’t celebrating with us, and though I missed him, the night would be mine, no matter what. My audacious gown fit to perfection, and although the jacket concealed most of it, my daring revelation was imminent.
David had arranged for us to join Mr. Roth at his table. I wasn’t looking forward to spending the evening with the Icebox and had planned to be celebrating with the livelier contract players. David’s date, Beth Cushing, drew admiring looks in her frock of periwinkle silk, the fabric an exact match of her eyes. Beth’s patrician features may have set her apart from the doll faces and kewpies, but all the fellows gawked at me. I couldn’t wait to see the look on David Stein’s kisser when I strolled off with Chick.
Mr. Roth danced with a zaftig lady so heavily made up her face would have cracked if she’d smiled. She never did. I asked Omar about her.
“Who is the lady dancing with Mr. Roth?”
“That’s Mrs. Roth.”
Poor Mr. Roth. I sympathized with being stuck with such a gnome, but I remained on pins and needles, waiting for Chick to make his appearance.
Omar guided us to Mr. Roth’s table. Although I hate to admit it, David looked dashing in white tie and tails. He rose to make introductions. “May I present His Excellency, Councilor Bey of the Turkish embassy, Miss Mitzi Charles, and her sister, Leah.”
David smirked as he seated me between Beth Cushing and Al. He murmured, ‘‘Turkish ambassador” into Miss Vassar’s ear, and she extended her hand for Omar to kiss. I barely kept a straight face when Omar obliged.
Miss Vassar immediately regaled everyone with the triumph of her latest society drama. “It’s so fabulous. Variety insists I’m the blonde Norma Shearer.”
She hee-hawed like a donkey in heat, and I wanted to read David the riot act for seating me next to the broad. Al occupied himself with gawking at every girl who sauntered by, but his real interest lay in the lines of her gown. “Whoever put that fat-assed dame in that gown should be shot at dawn.”
Eduardo Durant yelled, “Hit it, boys,” and the rhythm of the rumba pulsated through the room. Couples moved onto the dance floor. Omar took Leah’s arm, and they joined them.
Aha, time for my reveal. I worked with stealth, first unfastening the frog holding my jacket closed, then letting the jacket drop onto the back of my chair. Voila! I sat there for the entire world to see, sans brassiere or panties. Suddenly, all the gents in the room seemed very interested. David looked as if his eyes would bug out of his head. He could be so tedious.
Before David could say a word, the fellow from tap class that Rollo called Vaselino, stepped over to the table. “May I have this dance, beautiful?”
I turned to David with a smile, then gave Vaselino my hand. “Why, certainly.”
We moved onto the floor, every eye on me. I placed my hand on Vaselino’s shoulder.
“Doll, I’ve seen you in class, but we never met. The gals call me Frankie. You don’t think I’m a big bad gangster for chasing the most beautiful girl in the room, do you?”
He sure looked like a gangster. “No, Frankie.”
I knew calling me ‘beautiful’ was part of his usual line of baloney, but I didn’t care, I only wished David Stein, the worm, could have heard it. Frankie and I did a basic rumba break, what they called “cucarachas,” a sensual side step that I made even hotter by slowly moving my hips. Frankie commented, but not just on my dancing skill.
“Never seen a nice girl dance like you or wear a dress like that. You trying to make the Icebox jealous or something? Is he your fellow?”
Before I could answer, he pantomimed moving his hands down the length of my body as I undulated my hips in rhythm with the music. The other dancers burst into applause when we moved into a spot turn. All my practicing with Leah had paid off. I was hot stuff!
“Oh, Frankie, I don’t have a boyfriend, and if I did, it wouldn’t be David Stein.”
He snickered and dipped me so low that my shoulders almost touched the floor—more applause. “Well, he’s sure giving me the evil eye.”
I glanced over at David. The crumb had the most poisonous look on his face. There he was, wining and dining that braying trollop, but he had the nerve to glare at my partner. The guy was insufferable.
“I have no idea what’s wrong with him. Don’t pay any attention.”
Frankie spun me into three consecutive turns, then whisked me across the floor. He pulled me against his chest and murmured, “I hope to hell the Icebox isn’t packing a gat. I’ll be a dead man for sure.”
Before I could ask Frankie if he carried a gat and could shoot David Stein between the eyes, the band tore into a tango. I moved closer and rubbed against Frankie’s leg. I felt the heat of a klieg light burning into my back. The more that nudnik, David Stein, glared at me, the more suggestive my movements.
Frankie placed his hand on my back, and our tango began. I’d practiced the steps with Leah until I could do them blindfolded. Everyone watched. Frankie pulled me closer. “Baby, you’re causing quite the commotion. From the way the fellows are looking, Ben Roth should have hired a couple of goons to watch over you.”
“Oh, Frankie, you’re such a card.”
I tossed my head back with the same toothy laugh that Norma Shearer used in all her movies. Life was grand, wasn’t it? I’d gotten David Stein’s goat, I was tangoing with a fabulous dancer who was probably a real gangster, and the man I loved would soon make an appearance.
The number ended to loud applause, and the orchestra moved on to the opening vamp of the Cab Calloway number “Minnie the Moocher.” A bunch of beautiful chorus girls costumed like French Apache dancers glided onto the stage. To my surprise, Buster Sweet, dressed in white tie and tails, followed them. The whole place lit up like a Roman candle when he began dancing with the girls to the accompaniment of the Rumba Boys. So David had figured out a way to get Buster in after all. The number ended to enthusiastic applause. Buster strutted up to the microphone, smiling and bowing to the partygoers, his teeth flashing white under the lights.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present the newest lovebirds in Hollywood, Mr. and Mrs. Chick Hagan! They’ve just returned from a short honeymoon in Mexico—Hit it, boys!”