Mitzi of the Ritz

by Lee René

  He laughed even louder, and I wanted to knock his block off. “Doll, Ben flew off the handle because that’s the way he is. He’s really very fond of you and Leah.”

  How confusing. “Fond of us? He sure has a strange way of showing it.”

  Still David’s smile beamed such warmth I felt a million times better. “Yeah, well, that’s Ben, all right, and don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  Those green eyes sparkled, and his good looks struck me once again. “Listen, we’re raising both your salaries and paying for those tap lessons.”

  “Zowie! Can you image that? Mr. Roth blew his stack, then gave us a raise, all in one afternoon!”

  He had an intense expression on his face. “Say, Mitzi, I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me. But don’t feel any pressure to say yes.”

  He wanted to step out with me? He’d probably take me to one of those swell places on the Sunset Strip where he took Miss Vassar.

  “Gee, I’d love to, honest I would, but I can’t leave Leah alone. And besides, I’m making dinner. I was about to start the latkes.”

  He moved a bit closer. “Latkes? I haven’t had latkes since the last time I was in New York.”

  I couldn’t be rude to the bearer of such good tidings, could I? “You’re more than welcome to join us. Latkes are one of my specialties.”

  “You cook too? Is there no end to your talents? I’d be honored.”

  I must confess the next few hours were golden. Omar came home and poured chilled “medicinal” wine, David set the dinner table, and by the time Leah joined us, things were quite gay. Our guest dug into the potato pancakes and declared, “Miss Schector, these are the best latkes I’ve ever eaten.”

  Of course, I wasn’t surprised. People have hailed my latkes far and wide. Leah had a bright grin on her face throughout dinner, and I knew why. I hated to disappoint her, but a ladies’ man like David Stein could never be my beau. Still, I have to admit, things had gone quite swimmingly. We talked about everything from Edith Wharton to Franklin Roosevelt, who, I discovered, he grudgingly admired. “Movie folks, at least producers, think the guy’s bad for business. I don’t.”

  At the end of the evening, David insisted I walk him to his auto. Someone had parked a bright blue Ford Roadster with a cream-colored top and gleaming chrome wheels in front of the Casa. He stopped at the car, a huge grin on his face.

  “Golly, David, that’s a beautiful automobile, but I’m sorry that you got rid of your Cadillac.”

  He pointed across the street. “No, there’s my car. This one’s for you, Dollface.”

  “For me? You’re kidding. This is mine? Honest?”

  I tried to be nonchalant but failed miserably. “I love it, even if Henry Ford hates Jews.”

  David flicked a bit of invisible dust off the hood. “Ben bought this little honey for his wife, but it wasn’t grand enough for her. It’s been sitting in his garage for weeks, and I asked him if Regal’s new musical star should be seen riding the Red Car. He said, ‘Hell, no.’ It’s his way of saying he’s sorry.”

  He handed me the keys. “Maybe you’d like to take her for a spin?”

  I shook my head. “I know you’ll laugh every time I put the car in gear.”

  “Bet I wouldn’t.”

  Our conversation suddenly stopped. We gazed into each other’s faces for a long moment. Yes, David Stein was a very handsome fellow, indeed.

  ****

  “And a five, six, seven, eight, hey, you in the yellow shorts, yeah, you, pick up those feet! You, Mr. Big-Stuff in the second row, you call that dancing? Well, it ain’t!”

  A colored pianist called Fingers pounded out a tune on an old upright. The metallic cadence of forty pairs of tap shoes kept perfect time as they beat out the rhythm. Like the rest of the budding chorines, I’d dressed for battle in a cotton blouse, shorts, ankle socks, and tap shoes. Next, I mastered dance lingo and tossed around terms like the “wing,” the “grapevine,” “buffalo,” and “Irish.” Most importantly, after hours of practice I’d finally managed a decent “flap-ball-change.” After a few more hours of torture, I could smile and execute a time step at the same time.

  Mr. Roth had one of the older buildings where they used to shoot silent dramas rechristened the Regal Dance Academy. The place had no ventilation, and our skulls baked beneath the glass skylight. But ratty as it was, the plank floors were ideal for dancing. Regal put every female extra with a shapely figure and pretty face in bondage to the dancing master, Rollo Palmer.

  Perhaps Rollo didn’t use a bullwhip on his dancers, but he was a slave driver all the same. He preyed on the desperation of the kids, some of whom were as young as thirteen. We all needed jobs, but Mr. Palmer didn’t make it any easier on those of us who’d never danced before.

  Mr. Palmer showered his wrath on all and sundry but saved his nastiest comments for any dancer who hinted of arrogance. One in particular, a swarthy fellow with brilliantined hair and a sinister air about him, seemed to annoy him no end. I’d heard he’d been a chorus boy in New York who’d come to Los Angeles to make gangster movies.

  “You, Vaselino, with the greasy hair, stop looking at your feet! You might have been hot stuff on Broadway, but they’d skin you alive in Harlem.”

  Imagine thirty sweating dancers, the girls in shorts, the boys in cotton pants and undershirts, all crammed together in an oven. Two girls collapsed from the heat before Rollo finally brought in fans and tubs of ice to cool us off. He bellyached the whole time. “A bunch of softies, that’s what you are. None of you would last a day in New York.”

  Despite the heat, the smell, and the blistering sun, something magical happened when a group of dancers tapped their hearts out. We were all troopers, especially Edna. She’d undergone the Factor treatment and now sported bright red hair and plucked eyebrows. What she lacked in natural gifts she more than made up for with hard work and enthusiasm.

  I was one of the lucky ones, light enough on my feet to convince an unsuspecting public I could dance. “Smile, kid, keep smiling.”

  I’m sure I looked like a yutz, but miracle of miracles, Rollo approved. “Hey, kid, I like that shoulder thing. I grew up on the Lower East Side and—” He looked around the barn and whispered, “My name is really Reuben Finkelstein, but keep it to yourself. When you’ve grown up on Yiddish music, the feeling is in you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Rollo’s words inspired me to put those rhythms into my dancing. Funny thing, the more comfortable I got with tap, the faster the time flew. Sometimes I’d pretend to tap through the old neighborhood with all the old grandmothers and grandfathers in rhythm with me. Practicing tap became like practicing the piano and stopped being a chore I hated.

  That day I was alone in the dance barn trying a variation on a step when someone called my name.

  “Mitzi!”

  The voice belonged to Jill Carpenter. Pretending she didn’t exist wouldn’t work, so I went the polite route.

  “Hello, Miss Carpenter. If you’re looking for Chick, he left a while ago.”

  She came over to me, a smile brightening her beautiful puss. “I wasn’t looking for Chick. It’s you I want, sweetheart. You don’t like me any more than I like you, so drop the Alice-in-Wonderland crap. And, by the way, the name’s Jill, so you can dump the ‘Miss Carpenter,’ too.”

  Without warning, the smile disappeared and we went nose to nose.

  “Listen, sister. I’m the big cheese here, and don’t you forget it. It doesn’t matter to me if you can sing and dance, or even if David Stein is screwy over you. I’m the one who’s been slaving in movies since I was four. I helped make this dump, and no one’s going to take my place!”

  For months Jill Carpenter had treated me like something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe, but she’d gone too far this time. I’d give her an earful all right.

  “Listen, Goldilocks. I don’t want anything you have. All I’m trying to do is keep my job. Times are lousy—there’s a Dep
ression going on, or haven’t you noticed?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. If it had been anyone else in the world, I would have felt sorry for them, but not her.

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Times are always lousy for me. Do you know what it’s like to work like a dog so your mother can spend every nickel on booze and fancy men? Thank God for Benny. When I turned eighteen, Ben arranged for Bobby Fayette to marry me, and I threw the bitch out on her ear.”

  I’d seen the movie magazine photos of Bobby staring at her photo, pining after his foolish young wife. Don’t tell me their fairy-tale romance was another big fat lie.

  “Didn’t you love Bobby?”

  She broke out in empty laughter. “You are a dumb cluck, aren’t you? Haven’t you noticed Bobby is a pansy? Some sailor boy he picked up threatened to spill the beans to the press if Regal didn’t pay. Benny couldn’t take a chance, so he asked me to marry him. I got a swell mink coat as thanks for getting Bobby out of a jam. Marrying him got me out of one too.”

  Her face twisted, from frustration or pain, I couldn’t really tell. Jill blabbed on, and I kept my lips zipped. “I was Benny’s favorite before you came on the scene, but now it’s Mitzi this and Mitzi that. Well, I won’t have it.”

  She dropped one final word of wisdom before she turned away. “Oh, and as for Chick, forget about getting your paws on him. He’s mine.”

  With that she walked out. My anger got the best of me, but I didn’t cry. I sure would have loved to give her a swift kick in the rump, but what would that accomplish? He’s mine. What was he, her hot water bottle?

  After that little incident, I made sure I drove my little blue roadster to the lot every single day. Of course, motoring four blocks didn’t really make much sense, but I had my reasons. I wanted to improve my driving skills, and learn to shift and talk at the same time. But I had a far more important plan. One fine day I’d run it into Jill Carpenter and bounce the bleached slut to the moon.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Cinderella at the Ball

  Regal’s announcement about celebrating its twentieth anniversary on Friday, August 26, 1932, caused a minor sensation. The big shindig would take place three weeks after my twentieth birthday. Everybody in tap class buzzed over the big news that the studio was holding the party at the Cocoanut Grove and would be outfitting the dancers in gowns and tuxes. Everyone who worked for Regal received an invitation, but all I cared about was that Chick, my one and only, would be there.

  I lived for the days Chick strutted into class, his glorious smile flashing under the lights as he showed up every dancer in the joint. The guy was a natural hoofer and picked up any step Rollo threw at him. Sometimes Chick would twirl me around in front of everyone as if I were his girl. “Take a gander at those gams! We should step out some time, baby.”

  If Chick really asked me to step out with him, my tap steps wouldn’t go over big on a ballroom floor. I couldn’t rumba or tango to save my life. Leah insisted on teaching me a few steps. “What good does it do to have a sister who worked in a dance hall if she can’t teach you anything?”

  I’d spent part of the afternoon perfecting my box step when David poked his head into the barn.

  “Whatcha doing, baby?”

  I kept dancing away. “Practicing for the big party at the Cocoanut Grove.”

  “That’s a very good idea. It’s going to be sweet. Everyone’s coming, and the house band is Eduardo Durant, really hot, so there’ll be lots of dancing—rumba, foxtrot, tango—”

  I couldn’t fib to him. “Pops taught me a smashing waltz when I was eleven, but we never got to other dances. Leah is going to teach me the rumba and tango, but I’ve been practicing the foxtrot on my own.”

  He stood in silence, his arms folded while I danced away. His scrutiny got on my nerves. “What are you looking at?”

  My expression and clumsy moves must have told him everything. He shook his head and walked over to the Victrola.

  “I knew it. You’ve never really danced with a fellow, only other young ladies, right? I bet you even lead, like those Radcliffe girlies. We’ll get your dancing sorted out. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  He went through the stack of records, found one. “Bing Crosby will do.”

  Then he turned to me, his arms opened wide. I didn’t move, and we were at what you might call a standoff.

  “Mitzi, how can I teach you how to dance with you standing over there?” He laughed when I shook my head. “Are you afraid I’ll get fresh or something? I wouldn’t dare after you threatened to buy a gun and shoot me into a piece of Swiss cheese.”

  I stayed where I was. “My words were just for effect.”

  “You could’ve fooled me, baby, especially the part about laughing all the way to the electric chair.”

  “They don’t have the electric chair in California. They hang people.”

  He broke out into laughter. “Come over here.”

  I ramped up my courage and walked over to him. We stared at each other. I felt the heat rising to my face and got tingly all over. David smelled of lemon soap and peppermint. When he took me in his arms, my heart started racing. I noticed a dimple when he smiled. I found it easy as pie to follow someone as light on his feet as David. We moved from two-step to rumba. I bet my dancing wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it would be. “All right, sister, now we’ll dip.”

  David placed his hand on the small of my back and nearly lowered me to the floor. It felt like the most graceful dip in the history of ballroom dancing. He pulled me back into his arms, and we glided cheek to cheek as if we’d been doing it all our lives.

  Our lesson ended, yet David held me so close I could feel his heart beating. Maybe he wanted to get fresh—maybe I wouldn’t have minded too much. But he didn’t get amorous. Instead, he bowed and kissed my hand like a real gent.

  “Doll, anytime you want a repeat lesson, just let me know.”

  With that, he walked off, a big grin on his face. Did I have bad breath or something?

  ****

  An hour later, I hurried to Wardrobe, still questioning my encounter with David. Why did I let the guy get under my skin?

  “Mitzi, hey, Mitzi!” A voice calling my name wrenched me out of my reverie. My ticker began pounding like a bass drum when I recognized the voice—not Goldilocks, but Chick, my Chick. Be still my heart. He looked even more dashing than usual, in a white double-breasted suit. He flashed his million-dollar smile and pulled me into an alcove.

  “Baby, I’ve wanted to talk to you alone for the longest time, but with Ben and the Icebox breathing down my neck, I’ve been scared to talk to anything in a skirt. Boy, did Ben dress me down about my little shindig in Carlisle. I never thought I’d hear the end of it.”

  Who could have ratted him out? “Did David, I mean Mr. Stein, tip off Mr. Roth?”

  He dimpled, and I fell even more in love. “Nah, it wasn’t Stein, but he sure gave me a heck of a tongue-lashing about the kids smoking those, uh, Turkish cigarettes with you in the room. The hotel manager bellyached to Ben about the noise and certain young ladies.”

  He moved a bit closer. “Mitzi, all this time I’ve been hoping that maybe we could finish our conversation.”

  I felt the warmth inching up to my face when he whispered, “I saw you tied to the bed in The Golden Falcon and thought about the two of us together. Does that shock you?”

  Yes, shocked and excited me. “Uh, golly, Chick, I don’t know what to say.”

  He moved closer. “Say you’ll step out with me sometime.”

  Chick wanted me to step out with him? “I’d love to, Chick.”

  He chortled, then breathed in my ear. I felt the heat moving south toward my private parts. As Mrs. LaRue would say, “It felt wicked good.”

  “Your sister doesn’t like me much, does she? How about this? We’ll meet at the big Cocoanut Grove party. Since everybody has to be there, she can’t say anything about us spending time together, can she?”

  My heart
began hammering so hard I thought I might faint on the spot.

  “What about Miss Carpenter?”

  Chick looked around and moved a bit closer. “Jill? Don’t worry about her. We can’t let a little fling come between us, can we? I want to finish our conversation, but now, how about a little preview?”

  Then he did it. He leaned over and kissed me. I’d imagined his lips would be soft like a baby’s tush, but they were chapped. I hadn’t prepared myself for his tobacco breath, or the faint smell of whiskey lingering on his tongue. Still, none of it bothered me as much as the undeniable truth, one I found quite confusing: I felt nothing, zero, bubkes. No electricity, no passion, just a pleasant smooch from a handsome guy who needed a Sen-Sen.

  Chick ignored my bewilderment, took my hand, kissed it, turned it over, then stared at my palm. “Baby, has anyone ever told you that you’ve got one heck of a love line?” He began nibbling my fingers. “I think you better go now, Mitzi. I just might take a bite out of something else.”

  I took off before I embarrassed myself, but something made me look back. Chick lit a cigarette, but his eyes were still on me. Dying would have to wait, I’d faint first. I forgot about his tobacco breath and chapped lips. We’d try it again, and next time would be better.

  I’m sure that my feet never touched the ground as I floated toward the Wardrobe Department. My dream would soon come true, and I could barely contain myself. What difference did it make if Chick stank at smooching? We were finally going to finish our conversation.

  ****

  That evening at dinner, I mentioned the celebration to Leah and Omar. “I hear it’s going to be a big shindig, and everyone will be there.” Leah looked at Omar, then averted her face. “Have fun, Mitzi. I’m not going.”

  I couldn’t believe her. “Leah, everyone is going. It would be unprofessional if you don’t show up. You’re expected.”

  She shook her head. “No, everyone is not going. I hear they didn’t invite Buster Sweet because colored people aren’t welcome in the Cocoanut Grove.” She clasped Omar’s hand. “What about Omar? I’m not setting foot in that place without him.”