Mitzi of the Ritz

by Lee René

  It didn’t look wicked to me—just another sunny California village with the usual mismatched architecture, citrus trees, and open spaces. The automobile sped onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Regal Pictures loomed ahead. I’d never shared Uncle Baron’s story with Mrs. LaRue, but I felt my destiny had tapped me on the shoulder. My uncle lost his life on the Regal Pictures lot, and something told me I’d discover the truth about his death at Regal Pictures even if it took forever.

  The studio gate might not have been as massive as Paramount’s or MGM’s, but it looked gigantic to me. Images of all their stars were everywhere, and garish posters and billboards affixed to the façade announced the studio’s newest offerings. One displayed the odious Rex Dallas posing with Jill “Hateful” Carpenter while Buster Sweet watched in the background.

  A ten-foot poster showed actor Bobby Fayette locked in a passionate embrace with Helga Nielson, the Regal star Walter Winchell had nicknamed “the dime-store Garbo.”

  A third figure stood over the romantic couple, ukulele in his hand, a handsome young fellow with wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a million-dollar smile. It took me a minute to recognize the crooner, but I’m sure my scream carried all the way to Sunset Boulevard.

  “Mrs. LaRue, stop!”

  She pressed the brake and the auto jolted to halt. “My goodness, I know the blond fellow in the poster. I met him in New York at Penn Station.”

  Edna tapped me on the shoulder. “You know Chick Hagan? Why didn’t you say something? They play his music on the radio all the time.”

  For the past weeks, I’d been too busy to read a movie magazine or listen to the radio. No wonder I didn’t know about Chick’s fame. Suddenly, the sky turned into a field of verdant clover. We looked up at the giant arrow circling a massive globe of green and amber glass. The green sphere glittered from its perch like the world’s biggest emerald.

  Mrs. LaRue inched the Model-T to the front gate. Throngs of would-be extras, young men and women in their Sunday best, massed at the enormous wrought iron main gate. Every one of them hoped to be among the lucky few chosen to work for seven dollars a day, plus a box lunch. In the face of the massive crowd, it looked as if we were out of luck. Edna gave a sigh of disappointment. “Golly, I guess we were too late.”

  Then the guard, a tough-looking goon with a deep scar on the side of his face, caught sight of Mrs. LaRue. He smiled like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Gert, is it you? Where the hell have you been hiding?”

  Not only did I learn Mrs. LaRue’s first name was Gert, but I also discovered her skill at playing the coquette.

  “I never left town, you big lug. You’re still as handsome as I remember.”

  When the big lug’s face turned bright red, Mrs. LaRue turned up the charm. “These kids are looking for extra work. Since you know everyone on the lot, maybe you can help.”

  When the guy looked into the back seat, he gave Edna and the twins the once-over.

  “Anything for you, Gert. One of the casting directors needs youngsters for a short with the Mischief Makers. He’s a pal of mine, so leave the kids with me.”

  She took the guard’s hand in hers. “And where do I find this Chick Hagan fellow?”

  I jumped at the mention of his name. The guard pointed to a paved path that veered to the right of the front gate. “Just follow the old road and look for the hula girls.” He grinned, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. “Gosh, it was swell seeing you again, Gert.”

  Edna and the twins scrambled from the auto. When I opened the door to join them, Mrs. LaRue grabbed my arm. “Kiddo, you’re not the extra type.”

  With that, she sped through the gate.

  The Regal Pictures lot resembled a small town, the paved streets lined with pink stucco bungalows. Mrs. LaRue motored past the striped pole of the lot’s barbershop, the music department, the doctor’s office, an ice rink, a bowling alley, and two abandoned glass-roofed buildings.

  “Those old stages were where we made silent dramas. The sun would bake you like a loaf of bread, and you’d go blind from the klieg lights, but I loved every minute of it.”

  We spotted a three-story brick warehouse sitting all by its lonesome near the rear gate. Some of those buildings must look menacing at night, but this place appeared dark and unsettling in the bright sunlight. Someone had bolted a “Keep Out” sign to the front door.

  “What’s that, Mrs. LaRue?”

  Her face paled, and the auto sped away. “You don’t want to go anywhere near there, kiddo. It was the Front Office a million years ago, but they started using it for storage in ’25. The sign says Keep Out for a reason. They store old nitrate film stock in a vault in the basement. They planned to dump the old reels into the Pacific, but I hear they never did. If that stuff ever went up, it would be like Mrs. O’Leary’s cow and the Chicago Fire all over again.”

  She didn’t have to say another word. Everyone knew horror stories about nitrate fires. They’d fortified the projection booth at the Ritz like Fort Knox, with only the projectionist allowed inside. If anyone fried, it would be the poor schnook showing the movie, not the audience.

  Mrs. LaRue slowed the Model-T to a crawl as we passed squads of men in overalls swarming toward a huge concrete building.

  “That’s Regal’s first sound stage. When they switched to talkies, everybody prayed an earthquake would take the damn thing down. Making silent dramas was duck soup compared to talking pictures. Between the blazing lights and the lousy dialogue, I said to hell with the baloney.”

  The auto lurched forward. She continued gabbing away. “I read they’re building another sound stage with nine-ton doors and concrete columns sunk into the ground. Metro has the biggest stage now, but Regal won’t be outdone as long as Ben Roth is in charge.”

  She gestured at two garish caravans sitting outside the huge stage. “They wheel out those dressing rooms for the lead actors.”

  I remembered Uncle Baron died in one of those firetraps. Gorge crawled up my throat, but it vanished the moment we passed extras in cowboy regalia, dancing girls, knights along with their fair ladies. Most were kids around my age, and as screwy as it might sound, I felt the same sense of belonging as on my first day at the Ritz.

  A bunch of girls in hula skirts, their bodies slathered in dark brown body makeup, rushed out of the sound stage, giggling and gossiping all the while. A young fellow strolled behind them, cool and collected. Purple eye shadow and black mascara defined his eyes and dark brown lipstick coated his lips. He flashed the same Fuller Brush man smile that had enchanted everyone in Penn Station a year before. I’d dreamed of him every night but never imagined our paths would cross again.

  I jumped out of the auto screaming like a banshee. “Mr. Hagan, it’s me, Mitzi, Mitzi Schector! Mitzi S-C-H-E-C-T-O-R.”

  He turned from the pack of hula dancers, broke into a brilliant grin, and sprinted toward me. “Wow! Mitzi? I can’t believe it! I’ve been looking all over the city for you. There’s a bunch of Schectors in the phone book, but no Mitzi.”

  I imagined his frantic search and couldn’t stop myself from giggling. “I’m sorry, but we were in a bit of a jam when we arrived in Los Angeles and never got a phone. Golly, if I hadn’t been searching for extra work, I wouldn’t have seen your poster. You’ve made it into the movies.”

  My laughter must have been contagious because he chortled along with me. “Yeah, Dollface, old Chick is in the chips now, making movies and cutting phonograph records too. I’m going to be on the cover of Photoplay, can you believe it? Only problem is that they keep putting me with gals who can’t sing. I need a partner.”

  “Your worries are over, Mr. Hagan. This gal is ready, willing, and able.”

  He laughed again. “It’s Chick, not Mr. Hagan. I’ve got you now, and I’m keeping you.”

  A famous fellow like Chick Hagan wanted me to call him by his first name? Maybe he wasn’t Jewish, but he had dashing looks, charm, and was a movie actor to boot. How lucky could a
girl be?

  Before I could say another word, a woman walked up to us with a determined stride. She appeared to be in her late thirties, a career gal with short marcelled hair. The woman wore a tailored suit with a narrow skirt, necktie, and oxford shoes. A dark-haired young lady followed her, camera and flashbulbs in hand. The older woman signaled to Chick.

  “Chick, over here. We need some publicity shots with you and the girls.”

  He took my arm and marched me over to her. “Mitzi, here’s a lady you gotta meet. May I introduce Miss Ida Cohen? Ida spotted me on the Broadway Limited when the boys and me were doing a number in one of the parlor cars.”

  Chick, grinning like the cat that’d swallowed the canary, pushed me toward her.

  Miss Cohen extended her hand. “Hello, little lady.”

  Head of publicity? “Hello, Miss Cohen. I’m a friend of Chick’s. Chick and I met on my way to Los Angeles a year ago.”

  Miss Cohen examined my face. “You’ve got a mug on you, kid. What’s your name?”

  “Mitzi, Mitzi Schector.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Mitzi Schector? So you’re the little girl with the great voice I’ve been hearing about.”

  Me? Who could have told her about me? I guessed Chick must have been singing my praises. “Yes, Miss Cohen, I sing a little, but I was afraid you might have heard about me from Mr. Roth. I got into some trouble with Rex Dallas a year ago on the Santa Fe Chief, and Mr. Roth helped me out.”

  Her face lit up as if she knew a secret no one else did. “Oh, so you’re the girl. Yes, I heard the whole story. Unfortunately, Rex has a fondness for young ladies.”

  She placed an arm around my shoulder. “Well, Mitzi Schector, after what I’ve heard about you, I guess we’ll just have to set up a meeting with you and the big man himself.”

  Zowie!

  We may have left the Regal lot in the Model T, but the kids and I floated back on a cloud. Mrs. LaRue had come through for us like a real brick. Edna and the twins were going to be extras on a film with “those lovable jesters, the Mischief Makers,” and I had a meeting with Mr. Ben Roth himself.

  On the drive back, Mrs. LaRue, Edna, and the twins had a million questions.

  “It’s all set, Monday morning, nine sharp, in Mr. Roth’s office. Miss Cohen said he has an old clunker of a piano there, the same one he played as a kid in his father’s theater.”

  How Mrs. LaRue managed to pat my knee and maneuver the auto at the same time was beyond me, but she did. “I knew there was something special about you from the moment I saw you. You’ve got a mug on you, kid.”

  Funny thing, Miss Cohen said the same thing. “Say, Mrs. LaRue, why don’t you come to Mr. Roth’s office with Leah and me?”

  She shook her head. “Aw, kiddo, you don’t need me. Sure, I used to work at Regal Pictures, but it was mostly extra stuff, a few bit parts here and there. Let me tell you, if Mr. Roth offers you a contract, don’t take a penny under fifty bucks a week.”

  Edna and the twins yelped in unison at the idea of making so much money. After all the trouble Leah and I’d endured because of Mr. Nussbaum, it looked like we were finally going to be in the chips. How I’d love to rub a certain Mr. Stein’s nose in it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Give ’Em Some Razzmatazz

  I couldn’t wait to share my good fortune with Zisel, but she beat me to the punch. The postman had delivered packages from New York the day after my reunion with Chick. I unwrapped the brown shop paper, then opened up a veritable treasure trove of goodies. In one box, Zisel had packed Elizabeth Arden cosmetics and a formal portrait of herself with her beau, Seymour. Although he dressed nattily, no one would call a gangly-looking fellow like Seymour handsome. Still, he’d been generous with us. What he lacked in looks he more than made up for in heart.

  Zisel had sent twenty smackers, two beautiful frocks with hats, and a bias-cut evening gown of crimson Celanese satin with a matching jacket. With its jacket on, the garment would be très elegant, but remove it, and—Katy bar the door! The V-shaped bodice nearly exposed my bosoms, and the back dipped so low even Jill Carpenter might pause before wearing it. I wondered what my daring sister was thinking.

  Zisel had also tucked a photo at the bottom of the box, the one she’d snapped just as Leah and I boarded the train. I hated the photograph on sight. I looked like a lunatic with a dopey smile plastered on my face despite the fact I wanted to die. I was sure Leah would add it to her “kvell collection” the moment she saw it. I found a letter addressed to me at the bottom of the box, opened it and discovered a sawbuck.

  My Darling Mitzi,

  Greetings and salutations! I hope times have gotten better for you, my sun-kissed darling. Here’s your copy of that photo I snapped at the train station so long ago. I hope you like it. I’ve also enclosed two Hattie Carnegie dresses that will look smashing on you. Please don’t show the bias-cut gown to Leah, she’ll hit the roof. It’s a pip from the French designer, Madeleine Vionnet. One day you might slip it on and trot off to some fabulous nightclub—stranger things have happened. I know you can use the cash. Buy yourself something swell.

  Seymour is taking me to Florida next week. I’ll be soaking up the sun but thinking of both of you with love. My darling, things are tough in Gotham, but I wish you were here instead of basking in the California sunshine. By the way, I haven’t seen hide or hair of the detestable Nussbaum, and that’s okay by me.

  Are you still searching for Baron’s grave? Somebody in Los Angeles must know something. Seymour says he will pay for a gravestone when you find it.

  Zisel

  ****

  On January 11, 1932, the sun deserted Los Angeles and it actually snowed. I ignored the chill and decked myself out in one of my new Hattie Carnegies, a navy sailor outfit with gold accents and a matching beret. Leah wore a chic frock of emerald green rayon. Our hose were of the sheerest cotton, and if you didn’t look too close, you’d swear they were silk. Leah and I had finger-waved our hair, then powdered and rouged to the hilt.

  We’d arrive at Regal in a limousine, riding in the lap of luxury, because when Omar wasn’t working on the railroad, he chauffeured swells around town. Where he got the vehicle remained a mystery, but he insisted on driving us to my audition.

  I had a million butterflies in my stomach, but despite not sleeping the night before and puking my guts up that morning, I’d never felt better. If Mr. Roth liked me, I wouldn’t have to worry about crumbs like David Stein. I’d be able to take care of Leah and maybe even see New York again. But if he didn’t like me—nah, I couldn’t think about it.

  Leah sat by my side as I vocalized the entire trip. Omar interrupted once to wish me luck. “Mitzi, I have a feeling this is your lucky day and mine too. I’m afraid we’ll all be seeing a lot more of each other. You see, I’m quitting the railroad and going to work for Regal.”

  My sister squealed with delight. “Oh, Omar, that’s wonderful, a dream come true!”

  ****

  We arrived at Regal’s front gate, and the scar-faced guard greeted us. Omar announced me, “Miss Mitzi Schector for Mr. Roth.”

  The guard glanced at Leah and me, then waved us in. “Oh, yeah, Mitzi Schector. You’re expected.”

  Omar drove through the gate and down a winding path. He easily maneuvered the turns, then stopped the limo in front of a four-story stucco building. The perfect chauffeur, he jumped from the auto and opened the passenger door for us. Leah turned to him. “Omar, aren’t you coming with us?”

  He smiled that sad little smile of his. “No, Leah. There’s no place for me in there. Mitzi, you knock ’em dead. Give ’em some razzmatazz.”

  Leah and Omar exchanged a long look before she took my arm. We walked through the massive doors of the front office, the pulse of Regal Pictures. My heart thumped like a bass drum as we skirted past the throngs of smartly dressed stenographers, hordes of lawyers, accountants, and errand boys.

  Leah announced us to a bubbly receptionist. “Mis
s Mitzi Schector for Mr. Ben Roth.”

  The woman’s face dropped; her jolly persona disappeared. She pointed to a waiting elevator, looked around, and whispered, “Ladies, just a warning, Mr. Roth is in a foul mood. He and his brother are tussling, and it doesn’t help his personality. He always gets in a tizzy when he talks to the New York office. Good luck, dearie.”

  I squeezed Leah’s hand as we went off to meet our future.

  ****

  A skylight illuminated an office of inlaid mahogany, stainless steel, and tinted glass, the wooden floor a zigzag of chevrons. A massive fireplace filled one wall. The single incongruity among the otherwise elegant furnishings was a battered upright piano sitting alone and forlorn in a corner.

  Mr. Roth sat behind an enormous desk so highly lacquered its reflection almost blinded me. The great man ignored us and finished off a plate of scrambled eggs and something that looked suspiciously like bacon. Between bites, he barked into one of three telephones on his desk.

  “Look, tell that schmuck we have our own theaters now, and we don’t need him. He only gets a Jill Carpenter movie if he takes a couple of westerns and a Mischief Makers short.”

  Miss Cohen was giving all her attention to Mr. Roth and had her back to us. Leah, mustering her courage, stepped forward. “Hello, Miss Cohen. We’ve never met, but I’ve heard wonderful things about you. I’m the sister of Mitzi Schector, musical genius.”

  Miss Cohen nodded but didn’t utter a word. Mr. Roth’s telephone conversation so engrossed him he never looked our way, just blustered on.

  “Listen, Sam, he’s just another schlemiel to me. You may think we need him, but we’ve got our theaters now, so we don’t take crap from a jerk like him. Oh, yeah? The son-of-a-bitch can drop dead.”

  I’m sure Mr. Roth’s language might have shocked a home girl, but Leah and I were modern babes, and his words rolled off our backs. Miss Cohen seemed amused and motioned us closer. “Ben is pretending to ignore you, but he knows you’re here. He’s talking to his brother in New York. If you ladies weren’t present, I assure you his language would be a lot saltier.”