by Lee René
Mr. Fournier signaled to a middle-aged woman watering the potted plants on the veranda. “That’s Mrs. LaRue, the landlady. She worked in the movie business and is quite open-minded. She’ll rent to anyone, unless they’re a souse or a chippie.”
He called out, “Mrs. LaRue, your new tenants are here!”
She put down her watering can and sauntered over. “Hi-ho, ladies!”
Mrs. LaRue wore a floral housedress, had finger-waved her hennaed locks, and replaced her shaved eyebrows with thin black arcs. Omar kissed her extended hand in the European manner. “May I present Miss Leah Schector and her lovely sister, Mitzi? I’ll handle their luggage and leave you ladies in Mrs. LaRue’s capable hands.”
Omar bowed, touched the brim of his cap, and turned away. Mrs. LaRue smiled as he strolled to the auto. “High class fellow, ain’t he? My other guests are show folks from vaudeville and the nickelodeons, a broadminded lot, but to be on the safe side I tell them he’s Egyptian. They’re such rubes, none of them knows the difference anyway.”
She spoke with a Boston accent and gestured with grand flourishes. “Since you gals are looking for a place, how about joining me for the grand tour?”
We clambered up the steps and crossed the threshold. Omar hadn’t exaggerated a bit. With her stairwell of highly polished wood and vaulted ceilings, the Dorchester was beautiful. Someone had gone through pains to preserve the leaded glass windows, mahogany doors, and gleaming chandeliers. Mrs. LaRue pointed up the stairs.
“Mr. Fournier lives up there, in the attic. Sometimes he plays the saxophone at night. It’s kind of sad, like him.”
I’d never thought of Omar as sad but, yes, he had a melancholy air about him, the rootless loneliness of a young man perpetually on the road. Leah called out to me, rousing me from my reverie, “Mitzi, come to the parlor.”
I moved into an enormous room packed with heavy furniture that almost obscured the hardwood floors. Leah pointed to the sumptuous touches throughout the vast chamber. “Look at these wall sconces and that marble fireplace. One of the tenants says there’s even steam heat in the winter.”
Leah and I exchanged a look. The moment Mrs. LaRue opened the door to the vacant flat we knew it would be our new home. “Old Lady Hopkins kicked the bucket, so I have a vacancy.”
She gave us a sideways glance and chortled. “She didn’t die in the Dorchester, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
The room looked a tad threadbare, but we thanked our lucky stars Omar had brought us here. Mrs. LaRue took a puff on her cigarette. “Girls, I know it’s not high-class, but don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. The rent’s cheap, and you won’t find a roach or mouse.” She scrutinized our faces. “Your name is Schector, ain’t it? Are you ladies Jewish?”
Uh-oh, perhaps this wouldn’t be home. Maybe Mrs. LaRue wasn’t as open-minded as Mr. Fournier thought. What a quandary; do we tell the truth and lose out on this place or lie and feel like phonies? I soon discovered Mrs. LaRue had mind-reading on her curriculum vitae as well as running a rooming house. “I like Jews, very cultured people. They’ve been good to me all my life. If you want it, you’ve got the place, girls.”
Mrs. LaRue flicked away her cigarette ash and it was a fait accompli. We dined on her pot roast that evening. Later, I bunked down on a small cot in the corner of the room. Within minutes, I lay dreaming of a smiling Fuller Brush man who waltzed toward me and took me in his arms.
Chapter Eight
The “Other” Broadway Ritz
Two mornings after our arrival in Los Angeles, I trekked down Broadway to the Ritz Theater. I’d decked myself out in a navy frock that set a very professional tone, meaning it didn’t show off too much of my bosoms. Since I now resided in the land of glamour, I powdered my face, globbed my lashes with mascara, and rouged my mouth with one of Chick Hagan’s lipsticks.
Trees I’d only seen in the Botanical Gardens and the National Geographic magazine bordered the streets. It may have been autumn, but palms, magnolias, jacarandas, and eucalyptus flourished in the California sun.
Daylight revealed downtown Los Angeles as a lovely place with scrubbed sidewalks and nattily dressed people. I passed the Million Dollar, the most stunning movie palace on Broadway. I’d once read Sid Grauman spent a million bucks building the place. It certainly looked like he had, at least from the sidewalk. Gigantic chandeliers in the lobby glittered like a universe of diamonds hanging from a gilded sky.
More opulence surely awaited inside, but I couldn’t spare a quarter to take a look. A huge poster showed a smiling Gaylord Carter, the King of the Wurlitzer, sitting at an organ keyboard. If someone gave me a chance, I could give that Carter fellow a run for his money.
I walked a few more blocks and reached my destination. From the outside, I knew this Broadway Ritz was a far cry from her beautiful New York sister. The marble exterior façade might have been stunning a decade ago, but it needed a good scouring. Grime dulled the terrazzo floors, and the glass on the marquee demanded polishing. The billboard heralded two films, Sunrise and A Woman of Affairs, both silent dramas. Fortunately, the Help Wanted sign remained taped to the kiosk window: “The famed Broadway Ritz Theater is looking for a skilled musician to accompany silent dramas on the Mighty Wurlitzer organ. References required. Ask for Mr. Stein.”
I strolled in and eyeballed the place. Three chandeliers, with dim crystal prisms, hung from the lobby ceiling. Washed-out murals of the English countryside covered the walls. The ratty carpet with dingy fleur-de-lis accents had faded to a pale red.
Identical twin boys clad in faded usher uniforms were at work in the lobby. One labored behind the concession counter; the other stood at the entrance to the auditorium, flashlight in hand. An usherette in an outfit as frayed and threadbare as the Ritz itself approached me. She couldn’t have been over seventeen and had the same auburn hair and open brown eyes as the twins.
“I’m sorry, miss, you’ll have to come back later. We ain’t open yet.”
I pointed to the sign on the kiosk. “I’m here about the position.”
She gave me the once-over. “Kind of young, ain’t you?”
I threw my head back and cocked my right eyebrow like Joan Crawford. “Well, the sign said, ‘skilled musician.’ I’m a skilled musician, I’m not as young as I look, and I need a job.”
The girl signaled for me to follow. “Okay, sister, I’ll take you to Mr. Stein. He owns the joint, but he’s almost never here. He’s got a bunch of nicer theaters all over the country, so I guess you’d call the Ritz his redheaded stepchild.”
She looked around the joint, then spoke in a whisper. “Between you and me, Mr. Stein is one cool hombre. For Pete’s sake, don’t get too close to him—he doesn’t like to be touched.”
Doesn’t like to be touched? Could this Mr. Stein be the Lothario I knew? “I’m acquainted with Mr. Stein from New York.”
The girl looked perplexed. “You know him and you still want to work for him? Honest?” She extended her hand. “The name’s Edna, and those ushers are my brothers, Andy and Randy. What’s your name?”
“Mitzi, Mitzi Schector.”
We shook hands, and then Edna knocked on the office door. “Miss Schector is here to see you, Mr. Stein.” She gave my arm a pinch and whispered, “Good luck, Mitzi.”
The door opened and my heart surged. Mr. Stein stood in the doorway, a smirk slapped on his handsome kisser. “Ah, Miss Schector. Please, come in.”
He looked spiffy as usual in his black woolen suit and black-and-tan spectator shoes, his dark hair combed in place. His eyes narrowed. “Glad to see you’re a woman of your word, Miss Schector. May I say you look as charming as ever?”
I felt the color coming to my face and averted my head. I hoped he couldn’t see that I’d turned as red as a tomato. “Thanks, Mr. Stein.”
His Los Angeles office didn’t have the swank of the one in New York, but it certainly was an improvement on the lobby. He’d filled the place with fine mahogany furnishings
and kept it as spit-and-polish as his other office.
Mr. Stein pulled out a chair for me before taking a place behind his desk. His eyes remained on me, but he didn’t say a word. I decided to lay my cards on the table.
“Sir, when we were in New York, you mentioned an usherette job, but I noticed you’re looking for someone to play the Wurlitzer. I’m your girl.”
He didn’t respond, so I took the sincere approach. “I performed on a Wurlitzer on Youth Night at the Capitol Theater. I’m not boasting, Mr. Stein, but folks liked my music. Sir, as you know, lots of moving picture fans still love silent dramas. With the help of the Wurlitzer, I can help them forget their troubles and give them a good time. They’ll come back for more. I know I can do it, Mr. Stein. You don’t have to interview anyone else. I was destined to work at the Ritz. It’s my fate.”
After a moment of silence, he laughed, and not a chuckle either. His head fell back and he slapped his knee as if he’d just listened to a particularly hilarious episode of Amos n’ Andy. The nerve of the crumb. The fate part might have been baloney, but I meant the rest of it. He looked at me and continued snickering. “That’s a lot of words for a little girl. Just how old did you say you are?”
I’d promised myself he wasn’t going to say no. “I’m eighteen, with a high school diploma and three years of college.”
While he digested that bit of information, I tried another angle. “I come from a cultured family, a very cultured family. My father was the first violinist of the New York Philharmonic and my sister trained at Julliard.”
Mr. Stein looked at me as if I had two heads. I guess the Wurlitzer at the Ritz wasn’t in the cards. “Well, I’m more than happy with an usherette job, Mr. Stein, that is, if the offer still stands.”
“Hold your horses, little lady. I haven’t heard you play yet.”
Wonderful. I’d have a chance. When I rose, he jumped up from the desk and bounded over so quickly I plopped back down, chair bound. The guy was in such close proximity, our faces almost met. I’m sure he could hear my heart pummeling my chest. What had I gotten myself into? It seemed like an eternity before he stepped back.
“Why don’t we visit the Mighty Wurlitzer?”
****
We stepped into a dreary auditorium with worn carpets, faded wall paintings, and seats in need of new upholstery; then, Mr. Stein flicked a switch near the old orchestra pit, and the magic began. A Wurlitzer organ ascended through a trap door in the orchestra pit, lit up and waiting for a skilled pair of hands. Perhaps the Ritz Theater lay in tatters, but the Wurlitzer Company had created that baby from the finest polished mahogany and gilded her with Florentine accents. Every sound effect known to man would be at my disposal.
“She’s wonderful, Mr. Stein.”
When I sat down to play, I could feel him behind me, his eyes drilling through my skull. I refused to let the guy frazzle me and started with improvisations on classical themes, a little Bach, some Schuman, and lots of Chopin.
“Mr. Stein, the organist at the Capitol Theater said I’d have to create my own melodies. The big movie houses with orchestras had full scores, but I guess I’m on my own.”
He placed a manicured hand on my shoulder, and I had to stifle a scream. “Nah, you won’t have to wing it, baby. The projectionist will give you sheets cued the way the music fits into the film. Maybe you’ll have to fly by the seat of your panties for the first show, but you’ll know what to do by the second.”
By the seat of my panties? If I hadn’t been desperate for work, I’d have given the crumb a piece of my mind. “Mr. Stein, does that mean I have the job?”
He grinned like a smug toad, and I wanted to clobber him.
“Of course, doll. We show the classics with Valentino, Gloria Swanson, and Chaney, and the studios are cranking out silent prints of talking pictures. We’ll be screening the silent version of the new Clara Bow talkie, and I’m expecting a couple of Joan Crawford movies too, but I have to warn you, it won’t last forever.”
“What won’t last forever?”
He moved in a bit closer. “Everybody’s wiring their theaters for sound. Silent dramas are on their last legs. I don’t know how long I can keep the Ritz open.”
Hearing the truth didn’t make it any easier to swallow, especially when I’d just gotten a job there. “But you’re keeping it open for now, aren’t you, Mr. Stein?”
He must have heard the desperation in my voice because he softened.
“Yeah, sure I am. Don’t worry, Dollface, you’ve got the job. I’ve already paid a fellow for tonight, but I’ll expect you here tomorrow morning at eleven sharp.” He pressed his cheek to mine. “Now, how about us having lunch to celebrate?”
The thought of sitting across a table from that goon made me nauseous. “Thanks for the offer, Mr. Stein, but I have to get home.”
He seemed a bit disappointed. “Oh, well, since you’re in a hurry, I’ll drive you.”
I opened my mouth to refuse, but from the look in his eyes, I couldn’t say no. “The limo is waiting, doll.”
Five minutes later, I’d parked my tush on the buttery leather seats of the most beautiful automobile I’d ever seen. He sat behind the wheel of a Cadillac sedan, the exterior ivory enamel with gleaming chrome. “You really don’t have to drive me, Mr. Stein. I’m from New York, I’m used to walking.”
Mr. Stein turned over the engine. “But I insist.” I slid next to him and he turned to me, an annoying leer on his face. “Ever been in a Cadillac, baby?”
Except for Omar chauffeuring us down Broadway, I’d never ridden in anything fancier than a Model-T before. “No, sir, I can’t say I have.”
He laughed, but it sounded more like a crow of triumph. “Well, maybe you’ll get used to it.”
In a pig’s eye, I would. Although I didn’t intend to ride in his car again, I kept quiet while he blabbed away about life in Los Angeles.
“The weather here is swell, but they roll up the sidewalks at dusk. There’s no football, theater, opera, ballet, or anything else, for that matter, except for a few after-hour joints on Sunset Boulevard. I guess Los Angeles must be quite a letdown for a New York girl like you.”
I never mastered small talk, but tried to be cordial. “I’m sure my sister and I will acclimatize in no time. I hear the central library is quite grand, and I plan to spend a lot of time there.”
Mr. Stein patted my knee and I nearly jumped from the seat. “So you like to read, huh? I’ve always had a soft spot for brainy girls.”
After what seemed like endless minutes of banter about the city, I finally mustered up the nerve to ask about his wife.
“And how does Mrs. Stein like Los Angeles?”
Mr. Blabby suddenly went silent. He stared ahead, then whispered a reply. “Mrs. Stein has never been to Los Angeles.”
I turned to ask him why not but clammed up the moment I looked into his face. His mouth had tightened and the smirk had disappeared. The temperature inside the Cadillac dropped to freezing. Mr. Stein drove up 3rd Street and parked in front of the Dorchester. I wanted to bolt from the car, but he stopped me before I could. “Wait, baby, let me get the door.”
Mr. Stein took my hand in his and walked me to the porch. “Mitzi, it’s my sincere hope that we become better acquainted in the next few weeks.”
Not if I could help it.
****
When I entered the parlor, Mrs. LaRue and three old ladies were in the midst of a brisk game of pinochle. I tiptoed past the merrymakers toward our empty flat. Leah had nixed pounding the pavement to look for a job and found work as a hostess at a place called the Roseland Roof, on Spring Street.
She’d lied about her age, claiming to be twenty-one. I asked her about it, and she chortled, her laughter cynical and empty. “They’re all the same, cigarette smoke, smelly hair tonic, cheap aftershave, sweaty hands. The only difference is that in Los Angeles, the customers are lonely Filipinos, and in New York, they were lonely Italians.”
I lo
oked around our apartment. We couldn’t do anything about the chipped molding, but the paper roses pasted over the peeled wallpaper were a nice touch. A braided rug covered the scarred floors. We normally kept the flat shipshape, but the wooden floor needed a good sweeping, so I grabbed a broom and set to work. I stepped on one of the planks and heard the disquieting squeak of a loose floorboard. I tiptoed around the spot and heard the sound again. I knelt, examined the floor, and discovered the culprit, a plank that didn’t quite fit.
When I pried the board up, I found an old Astor Coffee tin. I opened it and discovered Leah used it as a safe. I found a small role of bills and a cache of letters in Pops’ hand. From the postmarks, he’d written them when he was courting Mama. Leah must have found them among Pops’ things. My mother had perfumed them with rose petals and bound them with red ribbons. I slid one from the envelope and read the purple prose of an ardent suitor:
My darling, you are in my thoughts every waking hour. I can’t sleep without dreaming of your beautiful face. Please tell me you think of me too.
Obviously Pops had fallen for my mother the moment he set eyes on her. What a romance they’d had. His love for her cascaded from every sentence. Every word dripped with adoration. After I’d perused every letter, I replaced them in their envelopes and re-tied the ribbons. I dug around and found a cigar box holding more letters, ones addressed to my grandmother, all postmarked California 1923, the year Uncle Baron died. Nosy parker that I was, I couldn’t stop reading.
Dearest Mama,
It’s been another day of sunshine and forced gaiety. Lethargy permeates this place, a lazy civility so different from the frenetic pace of home. Still, I’d gladly give up the sun and serenity for a glimpse of your face. How I miss you, Zisel, and our darling Leah and Mitzi. The people here are kind and have been gracious, but the town is a sapling, everything green and new and devoid of the rich flavors of a real city. The constant sun forces everyone to wear dark glasses as if it is a city of the blind. Each night, I dream of skyscrapers and a giant moon framed by steel and concrete.
