Mitzi of the Ritz

by Lee René

  The audience burst into enthusiastic applause and nearly blew the roof off the joint when I stood. Gaylord Carter may have been The King of the Wurlitzer, but that night the audience crowned me the Queen.

  The regulars packed the theater, faithful and devoted fans who always showed up dressed in their Sunday best. Maybe the two-for-a-quarter ticket price brought them in, or the rose-colored glassware handed out on Bingo Night. Perhaps they just wanted to forget the dark days of the present and remember better times in the past. They came all the same.

  Although Christmas would be here in three days, Dracula remained the most requested of the movies on the Ritz’s schedule. No one cared that we’d screened the silent print of the talkie. Whenever we showed our version, whether at a summer matinee, or on Halloween night, the line went around the block.

  One old gal showed up at the Ritz at least twice a week. She tottered up, as giddy as a kid, then took my arm. “My darling Mitzi, you put on such a show tonight. It was so much better than those silly talkies with the stiff acting. Where did such a young girl learn to play so good?”

  I always kept my curriculum vitae as short as possible. “I learned everything I know right here at the Ritz, ma’am.”

  The old lady touched my face. “No, darling, you’re not from here. I can hear the New York in your voice.”

  Helen Keller could have heard the New York in my voice. “Such talent you have, Mitzi. A pretty little thing like you could take this town by storm.”

  Yeah, sure, I should have all of Hollywood at my feet. I’d heard it all before. Maybe the old dame had bats in her belfry, but I never argued with an admirer.

  “Well, I’m happy you enjoyed the show, and I hope you come again.”

  She gazed at me, her eyes misting. “How can I come again? Aren’t you closing the doors next week?”

  Even she’d heard the bad news. “No, ma’am, we’re not closing down. Regal Pictures bought the Ritz, and they’re wiring it for talkies.”

  A tear ran down the old gal’s face. “How sad. I remember when you could go to the movies and see great acting and hear a splendid live orchestra. My daughter takes me to the talking pictures, a bunch of stiffs standing in one place, mouthing stupid stuff. If I want music, I have to listen to the radio or the Victrola. It’s not the same.”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not.”

  The old lady smiled. “It’s the times, I guess.” She took my hand once again. “Good luck, dear heart.”

  She ambled off without looking back. I’d been at the Ritz for an entire year now, and I sure would miss it. 1931 had proved to be even worse than 1930, but I had a job, at least until tomorrow.

  Mr. Stein rarely visited the premises now, and for that everyone gave thanks. The guy never blew his stack, but he treated everyone—Edna, the twins, the projectionist, and the merchants who crossed the Ritz’s threshold—with icy disdain. Everyone except me.

  Unfortunately, his interest in me had deepened over the year I’d worked for him. With Mr. Stein around, I couldn’t even have a chuckle with the fellows. The pill would give them the evil eye and then make a lousy comment like, “Hate to interrupt the party, but I believe there’s work to do.”

  The nerve of the creep acting liked he owned me. I promised myself that one day, when I was in the chips, I’d tell him off, and not just for interfering with my social life. He’d continued his annoying habit of tossing his gold piece and leering at me like a Russian pimp. Once, he even pulled out a wad of cash and waved it under my nose.

  “I’m a very generous fellow, Dollface. All you have to do is ask.”

  David Stein’s money held no interest for me, and I’d never traipse down the primrose path with a married man. I thanked my lucky stars he only looked and never touched.

  Leah had been under the weather with influenza, and I knew I shouldn’t linger after the show. When I walked out to the lobby, Edna was entertaining her brothers by dancing a spirited Lindy Hop with the new vacuum sweeper. I joined Andy and Randy in applauding her antics.

  She pushed the sweeper in my direction and whispered, “Mr. Stein is waiting for you, Toots. Let me know if you want the twins to hang around, just in case.”

  Drat. I shook my head. “No, Edna, tell them to go on. I can handle him.”

  I knocked, my heart palpitating like a bass drum. After a long moment, Mr. Stein opened the door. He fixed his eyes on me, his gaze so intense I wanted to head for the hills. Of course I’d already lost my job, so what else could he do to me? I breathed deeply and walked inside.

  He pulled out a chair. “Sit down, doll.”

  Mr. Stein usually held court from behind his desk, but this time, instead, he perched on its front edge, his eyes never leaving my face. He looked imperious in his snazzy black suit and smelled as if he’d just left a barbershop. At twenty-three, the guy only had four years on me, but for some reason, I always quaked in his presence.

  When I moved closer, I noticed he’d removed his wedding band. His philandering had become blatant. I felt like a sap for letting Edna and the twins leave, comforted in the fact that except for brushing up against me, he’d never made a move. After tomorrow, I’d never see him again.

  “Mitzi, I wanted to tell you what a swell job you did tonight. I know the Ritz has been your home since you moved to Los Angeles, but all good things come to an end.”

  A compliment didn’t mean much since I’d gotten the ax, but I smiled anyway. “Thanks for the kind words, Mr. Stein. If you don’t mind my saying, it’s a shame about the Ritz becoming a talking picture theater. There are still a lot of folks who prefer silent dramas.”

  His mouth tightened. “Are you trying to tell me how to run my business, Dollface?”

  The bum hadn’t paid me yet, so I couldn’t afford to agitate him. “No, sir. Sorry.”

  His lips spread into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. When he slid closer, I could barely stop myself from squirming. “No need to be sorry, baby. Maybe the sound stinks, but it gets better by the day. Those fellows at Western Electric really know their stuff. Truth is I can’t keep scrounging around for silent prints. They’re not making many, just a few dribs and drabs. It’s like I told you when you first came here—the days of silent dramas are over. We’re getting rid of the Wurlitzer and going to recorded music.”

  Getting rid of the Wurlitzer? It really was curtains for the Ritz. They could spruce the old gal up, but without the mighty Wurlitzer, the Ritz had no heart. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Stein. I guess I should go now.”

  He barred my way when I stood. “Progress is the word of the day, little lady. Mankind must advance. Womankind too.”

  Mr. Stein had a laugh as chilly as his smile. He moved so close I felt his warm, peppermint-scented breath against my cheek. “Usherettes and popcorn schleppers are a dime a dozen, but you, you’re a pip, baby. You’ve got talent, you’re easy on the eyes, and with the right fellow in your corner you could go far. All you need is someone who knows the ropes.”

  He took a deep breath, then spoke in a rush. “Mitzi, I could be that someone. I’m doing big things with Regal Pictures. Maybe they’re not much of an operation compared to Paramount or Metro, but everything will change when they own their own theaters. One call from me, and you’ll be farting through silk panties. I just want to be your special friend. Is it too much to ask?”

  Farting through silk panties? How could such an educated fellow say something so crude? I felt warm and knew the color had come to my face. “Being my special friend” meant I’d have to go to bed with the jerk. Mr. Stein laughed, probably because I’d turned as red as a tomato.

  When I rose from the chair, Mr. Stein took me in his arms. We stared at each other for a long moment. From the look in his eyes, I knew he wanted to kiss me. I felt something stiff on the side of my thigh and noted the culprit poking the front of his pants. He wanted more than a smooch. When I tried to pull away, he held fast.

  “Please, Mr. Stein, I’m not that kind of girl
.”

  His voice sounded like satin. “Oh? What kind of girl is that?”

  I hated having this crumb bait me. “Mr. Stein, let me go. Please. My sister is sick. She needs me.”

  “Then it would be my pleasure to drive you home, doll.”

  He released me and adjusted his trousers. I inched toward the door. “No, thank you, Mr. Stein, but you’ve given me an awful lot to think about.”

  Mr. Stein laughed in his frosty way. “Yeah, I guess I have.”

  When I turned to leave, he grabbed me by the arm, his fingers digging into my skin.

  “Please, Mr. Stein, you’re hurting me.”

  He released me, then blew on my neck. “I guess I don’t know my own strength. Maybe it’s because I have a thing for you. C’mon, baby.”

  Mr. Stein held me fast with one hand and turned my face to his with the other. The front of his trousers looked as if they’d pop open at any minute. He moved in for the kiss. “I made you mad, didn’t I? How about a little smooch to make up?”

  With the Ritz empty, no one would hear me scream. I struggled, but he was one strong fellow. “Please, Mr. Stein, let me go. What about Mrs. Stein?”

  He released me immediately. I saw something vaguely resembling regret in his eyes. “She’s…”

  Before he could finish, I heard a most fortuitous knock at the door. The projectionist on the other side called out, “Hey, Mr. Stein, the wife and kids are waiting. It’s time to lock up the joint.”

  Mr. Stein glared at the door, his schlong still rock hard. “I’ll be out in a minute!”

  He flashed an icy smile as he adjusted his pants one more time. “Mitzi, you’re a very special girl, and I’m a fellow you can lean on. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stein.”

  He pulled me to him and whispered, “Call me David. Please.”

  I nodded, pushed his hands away, grabbed my pocketbook, and, though it took every bit of my nerve, strolled out instead of running for my life.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Stein. I mean, David.”

  He called after me. “Make sure you look pretty tomorrow.”

  Boy, did I need that final paycheck. “Yes, David.”

  When I walked out the door, I felt his eyes burn a hole in my back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Farewell, Broadway Ritz

  I left the Ritz at dusk. My arm throbbed from the goon’s touch, and I felt like a sissy for not telling him off. Imagine him thinking I’d fallen for that baloney about Regal Pictures. They’d probably throw the bum off the Regal lot, smirk and all.

  I thought I could take whatever that gorilla dished out, but no, I couldn’t. Why hadn’t I socked him in the jaw, or at least given him a piece of my mind? Because I needed my final paycheck, that’s why. Still, despite his behavior, I knew a real human lurked behind the icy exterior. On a few occasions, I had seen a flicker of light in his eyes when he dropped his king-of-the-castle act. Sometimes he would stare at me as if he waited to share a secret, but he’d catch himself and walk away. What did it matter? The guy probably had a carload of dames stashed around town willing to do his bidding.

  The scent of pine, chocolate, and cinnamon flooded Hill Street. An enterprising fellow stood in Bullock’s open alleyway, selling Christmas trees, hot cocoa, and gingerbread. Some unfortunates kept the evening chill at bay by huddling around a steel drum filled with burning wood chips. I looked about the immaculate boulevards and thought about Manhattan. Snow covered the streets of New York, and some poor folks subsisted in Hooverville, a tent city in Central Park. Still, no matter how brutal life in New York might be, I pined for her.

  Christmas lights twinkled from every lamppost, and in shop windows fairy princesses danced with mechanical elves. A burst of light, a buzz, and the neon ribbons that decorated each movie house flashed on and bathed Broadway in garish colors.

  The Palace Theater was screening Jill Carpenter’s latest movie, Platinum Madness. The theater management had plastered her lovely mug all over the street, along with a rave by Walter Winchell: “This flicker has it all, sex, sex, and sex, personified by luscious Jill Carpenter. Everybody and his mother are wondering what hijinks she’ll get up to next.”

  Jill Carpenter had money and fame, while I was a failure. What did I have? A heel who wanted to be my special friend, an uncle buried God knows where, and a sister with the flu. Reality hit me like a ton of bricks, and I bawled like crazy. I felt hopeless and knew I’d be out of a job. To top it off, I opened my pocketbook and only found one handkerchief. Life stank.

  I sat down on the curb, wanting to die. Now I understood why folks bumped themselves off. At that moment, if we still lived in New York, I’d have jumped from the top of the Empire State Building.

  Without warning, Paganini’s Sixteenth Caprice, Pops’ favorite, wafted through the air. I looked up at a Victrola sitting in an open window. It might be wacky, but it sounded as if the great Jascha Heifetz was making music in this lonely place just for me.

  Then I noticed something glittering on the pavement: eight quarters, three dimes, a nickel, five pennies, plus four Red Car tokens. A treasure. I scooped up the coins, and plunked them into my pocketbook. Hopefully, whoever lost this fortune wouldn’t miss it too much, but two dollars and forty cents meant I could take Leah out for a couple of decent meals as soon as she got well. I’d forget about Mr. Stein, Jill Carpenter, and that louse, Nussbaum, and celebrate.

  I trudged up 3rd Street to the Dorchester, still marveling at my good luck. The chilly air had forced the ancients inside. When I unlocked the front door, I heard Omar’s saxophone floating throughout the rooming house. Mrs. LaRue occupied herself by decorating a showy Christmas tree with ropes of popcorn, tinsel, and glass balls. She turned to me, a bright smile lighting her face. “How’s tricks, kiddo?”

  Tricks were lousy, but I couldn’t dump my problems on her. “I’m fine, Mrs. LaRue, but I worried about Leah all day.”

  Mrs. LaRue tossed more tinsel on the tree. “Worrying causes wrinkles. Mr. Fournier gave her some wicked good medicine he swears could cure bubonic plague. Her fever must have broken by now.”

  More good news. When I opened the door to our flat, Leah lay asleep. The influenza had sapped every ounce of her strength, but sweat matted her hair and soaked her bedclothes. Omar’s medicine had indeed broken her fever, but sleeping in a wet nightgown could worsen her flu.

  “Leah, come on, wake up. We have to get you out of that damp nightie.”

  She rewarded me with a weak smile after I rubbed her down with alcohol and helped her into a fresh gown. “What a lucky lady I am to have a sister like you. You take such good care of me. My little Mitzi, what a loving girl you are.”

  Leah fell back onto the mattress and passed out like a light. My stomach growled, and I searched the icebox for something to eat. Half a tuna sandwich and a cup of cottage cheese took the edge off my hunger. Time to hit the hay. I stripped off my dress and looked in the bathroom mirror. My arm throbbed, black-and-blue from Mr. Stein’s fingers. I prayed the bruising would fade before Leah caught sight of it.

  I climbed into my cot and thought of Zisel, prune Danish, and Central Park without a Hooverville. I remembered coasting down the hills of Washington Heights as a kid, my pals in bright winter togs, their laughter filling the air. We weren’t likely to see snow in this land of perpetual sun. The occasional child played in front of the other Bunker Hill boarding houses, but Mrs. LaRue didn’t allow kids in the Dorchester. Thanks to Nussbaum, I lived in little-old-lady land.

  I rolled over, fell asleep, and dreamed of lying in the arms of a smiling Fuller Brush man.

  ****

  Leah’s cough roused me before the wake-the-dead din of the alarm clock. I pulled myself up from my cot, wrapped an old bed shawl around my shoulders, and shuffled over to her bed. Her eyes fluttered open, and she lifted herself up, barely able to whisper. “Hello, Mitzi, how’s my bubala this fine day?”

  She fell back onto her pillow.
I let her slumber while I prepared for my last day of work. I walked down the hall to the bathroom we shared with the pensioners. From the bathroom window, I watched one of the carriages of the Angels Flight chug down to 3rd Street while the other ascended.

  Thank goodness for steam heat, because the unmentionables I’d washed the night before were dry enough to wear that day to my final performance at the Ritz. I planned to make it memorable. I dusted my cheeks, chin, and nose with face powder, mascaraed my lashes, then finished off with rose-red lipstick from Max Factor.

  I donned the last pair of Mr. Roth’s silk stockings, ones I’d hung on to for over a year, and in an attempt to disguise my chubby cheeks, I used a bit of rouge. It didn’t work. I’d found a swell pair of Woolworth’s earrings that didn’t turn my ears green. Zisel had sent me a red velveteen dress courtesy of her beau, Seymour. The frock would set a festive tone. I knew Leah wouldn’t mind if I borrowed one of her garter belts and her red pumps for this special occasion.

  I gave my sister a mixture of aspirin powder mixed with seltzer water, and then I set off. She’d get well soon enough, but now other concerns loomed front and center. It might have been selfishness on my part, but I wished she hadn’t insisted on paying back everybody who’d helped us leave New York. Leah had been too ill to work for a while, and we’d already hocked her fox fur and charm bracelet. She’d even hinted that Pops’ violin might be next. Over my dead body.

  Mrs. LaRue came in from the porch dressed in a silk kimono, a milk bottle in hand. She’d pin-curled her auburn locks and covered them with a hair net. She faced the morning sans eyebrows. Later, she’d paint, powder, and mascara herself into some semblance of glamour, but in the glare of the sun, she looked a fright.