Mitzi of the Ritz

by Lee René

  Zisel

  ****

  I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I had a job when folks were starving, but working with the Mischief Makers had made me question what the heck I was doing in the movie business. I’d never dreamed of seeing my mug plastered all over the silver screen; I wanted to be a schoolteacher. Sure, I had cute looks and could sing, but girls like me were a dime a dozen. Most child actors were unemployed after the first pimple, and Regal was easing Bobby Fayette out of his stardom.

  I became lost in thought during my morning walk. Instead of the music department, I found myself in front of the old building that warehoused the nitrate stock. Mrs. LaRue’s admirer from the front gate stood guard. I turned to hightail it before he saw me, but unfortunately I wasn’t fast enough. From the grim look on his kisser, I was in for it.

  “What are you doing here, sis?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Well, then, beat it.”

  The nitrate stock in the cracker box could ignite at any time, so he didn’t have to ask twice. I noticed an open window on the second floor and abandoned scaffolding leading up to the roof. Breaking into the place would be duck soup. When I turned to point it out to the guard, his grim expression made me hold my tongue.

  I circled around and headed to the music department. Someone whistled at me as I neared the steps. I turned and nearly jumped out of my shoes. The wolf was Chick Hagan, the handsomest fellow in Hollywood. My head pounded, my heart leapt to my throat, and I felt the heat of a blush rising to my face. Chick walked over, spun me around, and planted a kiss on my cheek.

  “Is that you, Mitzi, my little Mitzi? Wow. You look like a million bucks.”

  Chick smelled of Eau d’Orange Verte, the same fragrance Bobby Fayette wore. He took my hand and held it for the longest time. “Dollface, you’ve grown up so fast.”

  My giggling started, and I couldn’t stop. “Golly, Chick, when you shoot with the Mischief Makers you’d better grow up fast.” I stepped closer. “When are we going to work together?”

  Chick grinned, his teeth glinting white in the California sun. My heart soared—I could have floated across the lot like a dirigible. “It can’t be soon enough for me, baby. Have you seen that swell poster of you they put it up at the gate?”

  Poster? What did a poster matter to me with Chick here? We gazed at each other, smiling and laughing nervously while we thought of small talk. I didn’t have the guts to say, “I adore you, Chick, and think about you every waking moment,” so I simply gazed into his eyes.

  A voice woke me from my reverie.

  “Chick, darling, who’s your little pal?”

  Jill Carpenter strolled toward us, looking as glorious as a Botticelli nymph. Miss Carpenter sparkled in white linen, and I wondered how a girl could be so beautiful. She sized me up as she slithered over to Chick, entwining herself in his embrace.

  He flashed an even bigger smile at her than the one he’d given me. “Say, Mitzi, have you and Jill met?”

  I extended my hand as I had before, but she never took her paws off Chick. “C’mon, Chick, the gal from Photoplay is waiting.”

  They walked away with Jill’s maid following them like a trained dog. The girl flashed a conspiratorial smile. “Hello, Miss Schector.”

  Jill Carpenter had hired Betty, the ladies lounge attendant from the Santa Fe. Betty rolled her eyes at Miss Carpenter, put her forefinger to her lips, then sashayed after them. I’d have to wait to get the lowdown.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Golden Falcon

  That evening Mrs. LaRue waited for me at the Dorchester’s threshold as usual. “So, Little Star, what happened at work today?”

  Mrs. LaRue loved hearing the latest studio gossip. Normally, I enjoyed chronicling my adventures, but I still hadn’t stopped reeling from my encounter with Chick and Jill Carpenter. Omar, Leah, and I dined on Mrs. LaRue’s stewed chicken and dumplings. I begged off a game of charades and went to our flat.

  Leah came to me a couple of hours later. “Mitzi, what’s wrong? You were so quiet at dinner.”

  My lip quivered, tears flooded my eyes, and try as I might, I couldn’t stop myself from bawling. “Everything is horrible, Leah. I’m a failure, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Leah stroked my hand. “How can you call yourself a failure? You’re doing so well in the movies, and you’re the most wonderful sister a gal could have. We’ll find Baron, just you wait and see.”

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought up Chick, but I had to tell someone. “No, it’s not that. Leah, I’m in love with Chick Hagan, and he doesn’t love me back.”

  She placed an arm around my shoulders. “Of course you’re in love with him. He’s so handsome and charming. A lot of girls are in love with him, but Mitzi, he’s not the boy for you.”

  Why couldn’t she understand the depth of my feelings for Chick? “How can you say that, Leah? He’s the man of my dreams, only he doesn’t know it.”

  She stroked my cheek. “I’ve met my share of guys like Chick Hagan. Believe me, a pip like you can do better. You need someone who’s educated and not chasing after everything in a skirt. From what I’ve heard, Chick Hagan runs with a very fast crowd. He’s a drinker, he gambles, and gets into a lot of hanky panky with the extra girls. Now, David Stein is a different matter, cultured, and so ambitious. He’s the right sort, Jewish, and only four years older than you.”

  Why would she mention him? I couldn’t tell her David Stein was also a sex fiend. If Leah knew the truth, she’d make such a big stink we’d be out on our ear.

  “Leah, Mr. Stein is attached to a young lady, and that’s the end of it.”

  She pulled away with a shrug. “A girl can dream, can’t she? I found a decent guy. I want you to have the same.”

  She’d never understand the ways of my heart. “I think it’s time for me to go to sleep, Leah.”

  Leah kissed my forehead and turned off the lights. I fell asleep to Omar’s saxophone.

  ****

  I took a gander at my poster the next day. An artist had added vibrant colors to the image of a smiling girl affixed to the Santa Monica Boulevard gate. It might be immodest to say, but my poster was the most beautiful one plastered across the studio wall. Could the girl with the pouting lips and flirty eyes really be Mitzi Schector? Chick thought so, and that was enough for me. Although I hated admitting it, Mr. Stein had been right—the maracas had no place in that poster.

  Ida summoned me to the publicity department where she commanded an army of workers laboring in the Regal Star Factory. The studio spared no expense to become the most up-to-the-minute in Hollywood, and publicity utilized the newest technology: wire photo transmission and dictation machines. I passed rows of secretaries typing away and studio drones answering fan mail and autographing stacks of glossy eight-by-ten photos.

  Ida had filled her “lair” with no-frills, black lacquered furniture, and covered the gray walls with images of actors from years past and a gallery of family photos. She pointed to a little boy of color dressed in short pants. “Wasn’t Buster the cutest little schwartze you’ve ever seen?”

  The Schectors never called people of color schwartzes, but I didn’t correct her.

  Ida wiped the image with her handkerchief. “His mother took him on the road when he was just a pisher, barely out of diapers. We signed him up for the Mischief Makers. Most of those kids outgrew the movies, but Buster just got better. Those were the days. We worked out of that brick box where they store the old film stock, and we shot in the glass stages. We made movies day and night, but what fun we had.”

  Ida pointed to another photograph. “Here’s Ben twenty years ago with his father and his older brother, Sam, breaking ground for the Regal lot. Here’s Al with Rose when she was a baby.”

  She moved to another photo, David Stein embracing a sweet-faced girl in white. “And that’s David with his late wife on their wedding day.”

  The late Mrs. Stein looked delicate enough to have blown aw
ay in a strong breeze, but she glowed when she looked up at Mr. Stein. They seemed happy, but now the poor girl was dead. Maybe he hadn’t bumped her off after all.

  “Golly, Ida, I didn’t know she was so young. Life isn’t fair, is it?”

  Her eyes misted. She turned away, wiped a tear from her face, then her sunny demeanor returned.

  “No, it isn’t. Let’s talk about other things. Mitzi, my girl, have you seen your poster? Believe me, it’s caused quite a stir. Can you believe there’ve been four auto accidents since we put it up? Fellows are rubbernecking to get a look, and David is over the moon. I’ve arranged a short interview and pictorial with Modern Screen Magazine. Of course, we’ve already written the entire piece. The magazine just needs some photos. I’m having Rose shoot some new publicity stills, some provocative ones, so expect to be busy for the next few days.”

  Ida slid a portfolio, musty with age and bearing a faded Regal Pictures watermark, onto the desk. “I have something else for you, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”

  Considering the ratty condition of the package, I expected an eight-legged beastie to crawl out. Instead, I found several stunning photographs of my dashing uncle. He’d tipped his Panama hat at a rakish angle like John Gilbert, the great matinee idol.

  I vowed to discover his grave no matter what. “Ida, if you find anything else, please give it to me.”

  She appeared hesitant. “Ben ordered everything destroyed after the fire, but I managed to hang onto a few clippings. They’re probably around somewhere. I’ll find them.”

  The photos of Uncle Baron reminded me of my raison d’être, as the French say, my real reason for working at Regal Pictures. It meant more than a regular paycheck and Chick Hagan. It meant God put me in the perfect place to search for the truth about Uncle Baron’s death.

  A freckle-faced boy stuck his head into the room and announced, “Excuse me, Miss Cohen. The Modern Screen photographer is here.”

  ****

  Ida had already written the interview, all the lies.

  Modern Screen: It’s my pleasure to introduce to the legions of readers Regal Pictures’ newest ingénue, Miss Mitzi Charles. Mitzi, I understand Regal plucked you from the debutante circuit to become one of their new personalities.

  Mitzi Charles: Yes, they did. You see, I come from a long line of New Yorkers. Members of the Charles family fought in the Revolutionary War. I was studying at Barnard College when a scout for Regal Pictures saw me performing in a school musical. Everything since has been a whirlwind of excitement. Regal Pictures brought my sister and me to Los Angeles. I’ve been working ever since.

  Modern Screen: We’ve noticed that Regal has dubbed you the “smiling vamp.” A very saucy moniker for a debutante, isn’t it?

  Mitzi Charles: Golly, it’s 1932, after all. I’m just a girl of the times.

  Modern Screen: Which of Regal’s personalities have you worked with, and whom did you like the best?

  Mitzi Charles: Everyone has been so swell, it’s hard to choose who’s the nicest. I met Rex Dallas and Jill Carpenter and they both were wonderful and so encouraging to a neophyte. Chick Hagan has been fabulous, and the Mischief Makers are such darling children. They kept me laughing throughout every scene I had with them. Bobby Fayette is a real gentleman too.

  Modern Screen: What’s next for you, Mitzi Charles?

  Mitzi Charles: Well, I’ll be in the latest Dallas and Sweet mystery, The Golden Falcon. Working in motion pictures with such marvelous people has always been my dream, and I pinch myself every single day. I’m such a lucky girl.

  ****

  By the time I walked onto the set, The Golden Falcon had been shooting for two weeks. The moment I caught sight of Rex Dallas, I became a mass of jangled nerves. Thankfully, Leah came with me to buck me up. I’d taken special pains with my hair and makeup and donned a pert frock of crimson bouclé because I wanted to make a favorable impression on the director, the famed Willy Taylor.

  Everyone in Hollywood knew Willy Taylor, a wiry fellow with bushy red hair, by his nickname, “One-Take Willy.” He’d worked with all the greats and had once been the most skilled director of silent dramas. The advent of talking pictures caused him to go loose in the upper story, and he hadn’t shot a film since ’28. Edna gave me the lowdown.

  “Willy Taylor abandoned Regal for better pickings at Paramount, only it didn’t pan out. Everybody knew silent dramas were passé, and the soundmen ran roughshod over everybody, especially directors. They’d yell, ‘Bad for sound,’ and order a reshoot even if the director liked what he had.”

  She spoke in a gleeful whisper. “Mr. Taylor attacked a sound guy with a claw hammer and then ran around the Paramount lot in his skivvies. They committed him to the bughouse, and he hasn’t worked since. He came crawling back to Regal with his tail between his legs and begged for a job. Poor fellow has to learn to direct all over again.”

  The moment we arrived on the sound stage, I felt heat, but it didn’t emanate from the blazing arch lights. The set reproduced the lethal squalor of a Chinatown alley. Mr. Taylor and the crew watched in silence as Dallas and Sweet, their faces slathered in heavy movie makeup, squared off. Who, I wondered, would strike the first blow?

  Before I could introduce myself, an assistant director tiptoed over and whispered, “Sorry, ladies, you came at a bad time. The guys are at it again, and it ain’t pretty.”

  Rex Dallas’s mouth twisted into a vicious grin. “My dusky friend, you were still rooting around in the watermelon patch when I visited your sister. Best poontang I’ve ever had!”

  Buster Sweet looked about thirty, muscular, with velvety dark brown skin, flashing black eyes, his lips spread in a faux smile. “I didn’t have time to joke with her about that pea shooter of yours. Wanna know why? I spent the night servicing your mother. For a dame who’s up in age, she’s one hot-ass gal. This poor ol’ darky gave it to her good.”

  Mr. Dallas gritted his teeth. “Back home we have ways to deal with bucks like you!”

  By this time, Mr. Sweet and Mr. Dallas were nose to nose. “I know about the pointy white hood you keep in your dressing room, but guess what, Cracker? We ain’t ‘back home!’ ”

  I thought they’d come to blows, but a miracle occurred. Mr. Taylor called, “Roll camera!” In an instant, they transformed into Paige and Sweet.

  Detective Paige looked at his comrade, “Buster, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Buster Sweet bugged his eyes out, looked from right to left, then rolled his eyes some more. “Yes, suh, boss! Them Chinese devils done took Miss Peggy and, jumpin’ catfish, we gots to save that poor little gal!”

  Detective Paige nodded. “Time’s a’wasting, Buster, time’s a’wasting!”

  They walked out of frame, and Mr. Taylor yelled, “Cut! Print it!”

  In an instant, the two men were back at each other’s throats again.

  Dallas’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “You black son-a-bitch, you stepped on my line!”

  “Stepped on your line? My hair turned gray waiting for you to spit it out, you drunken bastard.”

  Dallas stormed up to Mr. Taylor. “You’re in cahoots with the chocolate drop, aren’t you? He has more lines than I do.”

  Mr. Taylor appeared ready to throttle Dallas. “He has more lines than you because he’s not soused all the time and can spit them out.”

  Then the once-esteemed director suddenly burst out in tears. The crew turned away in embarrassment when he looked up to the heavens.

  “To think I once directed Fairbanks and Valentino. Now look at what I’m stuck with. I should’ve stayed in the nuthouse. Anything’s better than working with you lugs.”

  Mr. Taylor glared at the soundmen, then looked up at a microphone dangling overhead. “As for that thing, if one of you baboons starts that double talk about how the wa-wa is connected to the woo-woo, I’ll kill you!”

  The crew remained silent, praying this ordeal would end soon. Unfortunately,
it didn’t. Rex Dallas’s moans and groans grew progressively louder.

  “This coon is making as much money as I am. How can that happen in the United States of America? The South may have lost the War of Northern Aggression, but this is something only a Bolshevist Jew would have thought up.”

  I didn’t think things could get any worse, but they did. Dallas walked over to me, a salacious grin on his face.

  Dallas bowed with a flourish. “Goodness, I didn’t know I’d have such a lovely leading lady.”

  I nearly retched. “I’m pleased to meet you too, Mr. Dallas.”

  I’d prepared myself for a fiery encounter, but I needn’t have worried. Perhaps the liquor he’d consumed in the past year washed my image away, or my new glamour-puss look made me unrecognizable. Maybe I just wasn’t memorable. An assistant director introduced us, and the freshness of the predatory glint in Dallas’s eyes reassured me he didn’t remember me from the train.

  Mr. Dallas took Leah’s hand and placed it to his lips. “You’ve got a real peach of a sister, and may I say, you’re as lovely as she is.”

  Although she probably wanted to rear back and punch him in the nose, Leah remained the soul of decorum. “Yes, Mr. Dallas, I’m so proud of Mitzi.”

  I turned to Buster Sweet and extended my hand. “How do you do, Mr. Sweet? I’m pleased to meet you, too. Leah and I are your biggest fans, aren’t we, Leah?”

  The place suddenly went silent, everyone holding their breath. It seemed I’d committed a faux pas, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what.

  Mr. Sweet turned to me with the broadest smile imaginable, and proclaimed to everyone within earshot, “I’m pleased to meet you too, Miss, but it’s not Mister Sweet. Just call me Buster, plain ol’ Buster.”

  I heard a collective sigh of relief from the crew. Mr. Taylor strutted over and pumped my hand. “The name’s Willy, Willy Taylor. Sorry about that little dust-up, but you’ll get used to it. Those two are at each other’s throats all the time. I’ve heard good things about you, little lady.”