Mitzi of the Ritz

by Lee René

  I hissed at her. “It’s for my art, Leah. Remember? Seventy-five dollars a week.”

  Despite her objections, the Factor mob agreed on a shade of brown shadow they said brought out the flecks of gold in my eyes. It didn’t make much sense since I’d be photographed in black-and-white, but I wasn’t about to quibble. Mr. Factor vetoed false eyelashes. “She does not need them. The child has the lashes of Garbo.”

  One of Mr. Factor’s minions coated my lashes with globs of mascara instead. Another flunkey applied rouge to the apples of my cheeks. I looked like someone had slugged me. A fellow brushed lip rouge on my mouth, then covered them with so much lip gloss they looked varnished.

  I hoped I’d escaped the worst. Unfortunately, I was wrong. The staff whispered among themselves and I heard murmurs of “furry” and “hirsute.” A six-foot-tall Valkyrie entered the room, examined my armpits and legs, then grinned like a demented fiend. “Poor girl, like an organ grinder’s monkey. I will remove all hair from body the Egyptian way and make her beautiful.”

  She proceeded to put me through an ordeal as tortuous as anything devised by the Spanish Inquisition.

  Some of my Barnard sisters shaved their legs, or used smelly depilatories. Others eschewed plucking and shaving, and thinned their brows and waxed their legs with Zip Wax and No-Tweeze. I didn’t know some ladies used wax on their underarms or that special place. Memories of Jill Carpenter’s bald privates floated into my psyche. “Please, I beg of you. Don’t touch me down there.”

  My tormentor stared at me, shocked and repelled. “I am not degenerate. I do not touch that place.”

  The torture of hair removal with a concoction of heated lemon, honey, and sugar began. It didn’t feel so bad when she applied it, but I screamed bloody murder when she snatched it off, ripping out hair and removing layers of skin. The lady torturer seemed to take pleasure in my agonized yelps. She grinned like a sadist when she showed me pieces of cloth covered with the clumps of leg hair torn from the roots.

  “My poor hairy child, you must be waxed at least once a month just to look human.”

  After four hours, this Cinderella emerged: plucked, powdered, and perfect. Everyone oohed and aahed at my grand transformation, an assistant handed me a mirror, and Rose’s camera flashed as I gazed at myself.

  I’d once attended the funeral of a gentile classmate and made the mistake of looking into the casket. The embalmer had applied the makeup with such a heavy hand the deceased resembled a wax statue. I looked like that embalmed corpse.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clarice

  Ida ushered us from Factor’s. “Girls, I have a feeling we’ll be fast friends, so from now on, please call me Ida. How about lunch? The eats are on me, and I know just the place, right up the street. Everyone in the business dines there, and their lamb is this side of heaven.”

  The restaurant’s host greeted us warmly and led us to a mahogany booth where a gang of waiters in bright red jackets swarmed around us. I looked up at ceiling beams carved from French oak, pointed at the murals depicting a bucolic France, then smiled for the camera. Rose had tagged along, her camera snapping my every move.

  A slender, nattily dressed man spied Ida and strolled over to our booth. Two young fellows in sailor suits followed him. Ida nudged me in the ribs.

  “It’s Bobby Fayette with his pals. Don’t say a word. I’ll do the talking.”

  Her admonition was unnecessary. Bobby Fayette, Zisel’s favorite actor, had been the face of American youth from my childhood. Just the idea of meeting him left Leah and me speechless.

  Mr. Fayette sauntered over, a million-dollar smile spread across his handsome puss. “Ida, my darling girl, please introduce me to these two lovelies.”

  Before Ida made the introductions, she signaled to Rose to shoot Mr. Fayette with his arm around Leah’s shoulder. Mr. Fayette, his blue eyes twinkling, bowed to Leah, then took my hand in his. The fine lines creeping around his eyes and his mouth belied his youthful features, but he grinned like a mischievous schoolboy, and as the flashbulbs popped, kissed my hand. Boy, it seemed as if every fellow I met was a hand kisser.

  “Ida, my dear, tell me, who is this ravishing creature?”

  “Bobby, we’re keeping this little beauty a secret for now, so mum’s the word.”

  Ida looked around the restaurant, then spoke in a whisper. “Bobby, I trust you to keep it under wraps. She’s David Stein’s newest discovery, a musical sensation named Mitzi, uh, Mitzi Charles.”

  “Uh, Ida, my—”

  Before I could correct her, Mr. Fayette said, “Mitzi Charles? Charming, absolutely charming, the perfect name for an ingénue, especially one so lovely. Oh, to be a boy of nineteen again.”

  Although his once-dazzling teeth were nicotine stained, he smiled even brighter. I felt the warmth of a blush edging up my face, but thankfully, the makeup probably hid it. Snap, pop, snap, pop. Mr. Fayette bowed. “Mitzi Charles, I am your slave.”

  He winked once again before strolling off.

  Ida patted my hand. “That Bobby’s a delightful rascal, isn’t he?”

  She continued smiling at his retreating figure. “With Fayette around, you always know when the fleet is in.”

  I had no idea what the heck she meant, but I had another question. “Ida, Leah and I appreciate every effort you’ve made for us, but our last name is Schector, not Charles.”

  Ida leaned closer and spoke in conspiratorial tones. “The change in the moniker was David’s idea. I thought he’d told you. Schector is a fine name, but it’s too Jewish sounding. We can’t have that, especially since our Mitzi looks like a gentile.”

  But I was Jewish. Before I could argue the point, a waiter escorted an elegant young couple to the booth across from ours. My head throbbed when I realized the young man was Mr. Stein, arm in arm with an exquisite blonde. He acted like a block of permafrost as usual, but his companion appeared to be quite animated and chatted away. He saw us, waved, seated the beauty, then whispered something into her ear. Whatever he said must have amused her because she threw back her head and brayed like a donkey. Mr. Stein strolled over to our table, a greasy grin plastered on his pompous mug, his eyes flashing in my direction.

  “Hello, Ida, I hope I’m not intruding.”

  Leah simpered like a little girl when he kissed her hand. “Leah, I’m one fortunate fellow to get to see you again.” Then he turned to me. “You look beautiful, Mitzi.”

  I felt myself flushing red, but managed to keep my aplomb. His lady friend wore full war paint: eye shadow, false eyelashes, plucked, rouged, and powdered. Mr. Stein obviously had an attraction for girls who looked like pickled cadavers.

  He stared at me for another moment, then glanced back at his table. “You’ll have to excuse me. I shouldn’t keep my luncheon companion waiting.”

  After Mr. Stein had returned to his guest, Ida turned back to us. “In case you don’t know the details, David and Ben have a grand business scheme. David owned the movie theaters, and Ben had the studio. He feared David might strike a deal with RKO or MGM, but lucky for him, they’d already filled their quota of boy wonders. David’s a brilliant kid, but he can be a cold fish at times.”

  I had to admit, Mr. Stein had brains enough to run the family business with his father at twenty. Edna had told me that when she started working at the Ritz, Mr. Stein wasn’t even old enough to sign the payroll checks. Now that he and Ben Roth were partners, Regal would take its place as one of the premier studios. Mr. David Stein would finally become a big man, a real Hollywood macher.

  Leah piped up before I could agree with her. “You’re wrong about him, Ida. David Stein is a lovely fellow.”

  Ida lit a cigarette and placed it in her holder. “Oh, he’s all right. I’ve known him since he was in diapers. Believe me, he’s a ray of sunshine compared to his mother. She hovered over that kid, indulged his every whim, but there’s a sad story behind the way she treated him. You see, once there were three Stein boys. The oldest died
when David was six. The other passed away in 1918 during the influenza epidemic.”

  Leah and I exchanged looks before Leah piped up with, “Our mother died of the flu in 1918 too.”

  Miss Cohen put a comforting hand on hers. “Sorry to hear that, Leah. David was the baby of the family, and his mother made keeping him happy the most important thing in her life. Problem is, she never denied him anything.”

  If Mr. Stein weren’t such a stinker, I would have felt sorry for him. Before I could comment, Mr. Stein’s luncheon date brayed like a donkey again and spoiled the mood. Leah glared at the young lady, her lips curled in displeasure. “Ida, who’s the girl?”

  Ida glanced toward their table, a nasty smirk on her mug. “Her name is Beth Cushing, a little Vassar girl David plucked from the New York stage. He insisted Ben sign her. I’m afraid Beth and David are more than friends, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

  The bum’s wife wasn’t even cold in her grave, yet he already had a high-hat squeeze and had made a play for me too. I wanted to scream at the louse, but I didn’t say a word. I wondered if he’d told his girlfriend she’d be farting through silk panties.

  Leah couldn’t hide her disappointment. She’d already picked David Stein out for me, but Mr. Stein and his lady friend weren’t my concern.

  “Ida, where did the surname ‘Charles’ come from?”

  She put down her fork. “Oh, that. Well, as Bobby pointed out, Charles is a perfect name for an ingénue, and it’s ritzy too.” Ida placed a cigarette into the holder and lit it. “You know, a few years ago we were going give the name Bernard Charles to a handsome boy and put him on the screen. His name was Schector too, Baron Schector. Sort of a coincidence, isn’t it? Unfortunately, he died, but I always liked the name Charles.”

  Leah gasped so loud that every eye in the restaurant turned to our table. The mention of Uncle Baron knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t speak, but Leah could. “Ida, Baron Schector was our uncle. We came to Los Angeles to find out where they buried him. Mr. Roth knew about us when he gave Mitzi her contract.”

  The color drained from Ida’s face. “I had no idea. Ben never said a word. Schector is a pretty common name, but now that I look closer, I see the resemblance. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention it, but at the time of his death, Baron and Clarice Dumont were madly in love.”

  I’d never told Leah about my sleuthing at the Hotel Hollywood. She gasped at the news, and I feigned shock.

  Ida tapped a fresh cigarette on her gold-toned case. “It’s been nine years, but I wonder if anyone will ever forget their end.”

  Leah twisted her napkin. “Please, Ida, can you tell us where Baron is buried?”

  Ida took a drag on her cigarette. “I don’t know where he is, and neither does Ben. Clarice’s mother had her hand in everything to do with the investigation. Maybe she paid off the sheriff to dispose of poor Baron. One of the benefits of Baron dying in Sherman, as they called West Hollywood in those days, rather than Los Angeles, was the studio not having to deal with the police.”

  I took her hand. “Ida, are you sure the sheriff disposed of Uncle Baron?”

  She lowered her voice. “Ben wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, but I didn’t. The world believes a lit candle in Clarice’s dressing room started the fire, but those in the know at Regal knew the culprit was Clarice’s mother.”

  Ida called Rose over, leaving Leah and me to mull over her words. “Rosie, you can go home now.”

  We waved goodbye to Mr. Stein and his shiksa lady friend, and Ida loaded us into her roadster. “Before I drive you home, I’m taking you gals to the cemetery where Clarice Dumont is buried.”

  ****

  A few minutes later, we entered a city of the dead, secluded behind a huge wrought-iron gate. Granite gravestones nestled among groves of palm trees swaying in the afternoon breeze. Ida drove her roadster past rows of marble tombs and headed to the rear of the graveyard. A limousine going the other direction passed us. I glimpsed a woman in the back seat, her face obscured by the veil on her cloche hat.

  Ida suddenly cried out and brought the auto to a halt near a poplar grove. She sat at the wheel shaking. “No, it can’t be.”

  Her hands trembled as she grabbed a flask from the glove compartment before taking a generous slug. “Ben would murder me if he knew I took a drink in public, but I needed it. Clarice’s killer was in that car.”

  The source of all our pain had just driven past us. We left the roadster and followed Ida to a beautiful pink marble sarcophagus guarded by a smiling cherub. The inscription read:

  Heart of our Hearts, Clarice Dumont, 1904—1923

  Clarice had been nineteen when she died, the same age as Uncle Baron. A fresh spray of white roses lay atop the tomb. Ida stared at them as if absorbed in a daydream. I hated disturbing her reverie, but I had to know about Uncle Baron.

  “Tell us, please, Ida. Did Clarice’s mother start the fire?”

  She looked up, her eyes rimmed in red. “Yes, but we couldn’t prove it.”

  She pulled a handkerchief from her vest pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Her mother was a drunken parasite who’d dragged Clarice from pillar to post from the time she was a child. After Clarice met Baron, she developed a backbone and threw the witch out on her ear. Somehow, she got back onto the lot. You’ve seen those old portable dressing rooms? They’re firetraps on four wheels.”

  Ida stopped speaking long enough to take another swig of booze. “Clarice was changing costumes when her mother got together with some bum with a grudge and started the fire. Ben’s father heard Clarice’s cries, but the fire spread so quickly he couldn’t get to her and had a heart attack. Baron broke into the dressing room, but, well, he and Clarice died together.”

  I looked from Ida to Leah. “ ‘Some bum with a grudge’ helped that woman murder my uncle?”

  Ida gave a nod. “Yes, a schmuck who worked for the old man. He’s long dead, but the mother walked away scot-free and made off with all of Clarice’s money. There’s no justice in the world.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Ida, lost in thought, pulled a card from the bouquet of roses and handed it to me. “Carlotta, Carlotta Dumont.”

  Written in a feminine cursive were the words, “I am sorry, C.” I pocketed the card.

  My uncle’s murderess walked the streets of Los Angeles as free as a bird. At that moment I hated Carlotta Dumont even more than Joseph Nussbaum.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There’s No Business Like Show Business

  My screen test turned out to be as much of an ordeal as the visit to Factor’s. A makeup man slathered my skin cadaver white with a greasepaint called Silver Stone No. 1, a favorite of the great actress Norma Shearer. They caked my eyes with purple eye shadow, then painted my lips mud-brown. When they finished, I looked as if I’d joined the ranks of Dracula’s wives. One look in a mirror and I howled like a mad woman.

  Luckily, Bobby Fayette, the biggest actor on the lot, tested with me. Although he played the romantic foil, they’d covered him with ghoul makeup—so much for Hollywood glamour. Bobby and the director worked like Trojans, giving me rushed lessons on acting in front of a camera. Mr. Stein flipped his gold coin and watched every take while I broiled alive under the lights.

  Gossip about Bobby Fayette buzzed throughout the studio grapevine. Everyone swore his star had waned, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. He spoke beautifully, everyone found him amusing, and most importantly, his films made money for Regal. Still, something seemed amiss, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  I soon learned.

  Edna, the twins, and I lunched in the studio commissary, a cozy place that always buzzed with rumors and smelled of chicken soup made from Mr. Roth’s mother’s personal recipe. When I mentioned Bobby, the three of them snickered. Extras always knew the real dirt, so Edna figured she’d wise me up in her favorite lingo, pig Latin.

  “Obbybay Ayettefay isway away ansypay. Bobby F
ayette is a pansy. He’s a three-dollar bill, a fluff, a queer.”

  It couldn’t be true. I turned to the twins. “But Bobby’s a he-man—isn’t he?”

  Both boys shook their heads in the negative and one of the twins, I think Randy, said, “Take it from me, Bobby’s a fruit. Women all over the world are nuts for the guy, but he’s a big powder puff. I still can’t figure out why a pip like Jill Carpenter married him. We heard Mr. Roth won’t renew his contract, and no other studio wants him.”

  It all fell into place, except for being wed to Jill Carpenter—the fawning male extras, chorus boys, and sailors flocking around him. Ida’s remark about Bobby and the fleet being in suddenly made sense. None of it changed the way I felt about him—the guy was still aces in my book. Edna said folks in the know swore Mr. Roth had hired Chick Hagan to be the “new Bobby”—younger, better looking, and most of all, a real man. Poor Bobby.

  ****

  I managed to run into that smirking, sex-happy jerk David Stein every day. He cornered me in the commissary a few days after my screen test. “Dollface, I want to see you in my office tomorrow at nine.”

  I answered politely, “Yes, Mr. Stein, I’ll be there.” I showed up all right, but to be on the safe side, I brought Leah along.

  We met in an office almost identical to the one Mr. Stein had at the Ritz but much grander, with an adjoining suite of rooms. The place reeked of masculinity, the walls painted bottle green, with leather and metallic accents. Spit-polished and orderly, Mr. Stein kept his office in the same meticulous order as the one at the Ritz.

  Mr. Stein posed in front of his desk waiting for us, his arms crossed like an omnipotent deity. He’d positioned the photograph of a waifish young woman with a sad smile in the corner of his desk. The poor girl must have been his late wife. He greeted Leah with open arms, smiling brightly. “Leah, it’s wonderful to see you again, especially since I’m the bearer of good news. Mitzi’s screen test was terrific, and we’re going to start working her right away.”