Rouge

by Richard Kirshenbaum

  Three lanky and well-appointed models formed a line in front of the table while a hygienist, dressed in nurse’s white, stood at their side. The models wore contemporary, if slightly advanced, fashions, each one sporting not a full circle skirt, but rather the more daring slim pencil skirts of the new caste of “working women.” The outfits were all in crisp, neutral, and clean skin-toned beige, and the models’ hair was pulled back into tight, neat buns replete with matching headbands to avoid competition with the hairline: a totally clean palette to draw attention exclusively to the face. These long lines accentuated their handsome height, as well as drawing the viewer’s eye upward as test lipsticks and rouges were applied. Today, however, would be all about the eye.

  Their faces had been freshly powdered, giving them each a somewhat ghostly look and creating a fresh canvas for testing. Josephine turned to her staff: her Swiss head of product development, Ned Born; Carl Epstein, the silver-haired, Bronx-born founder of the ISS (International Scents and Salves), which executed her manufacturing and production; her chief financial officer, Ralph Levin; and the other heads of departments she had asked to attend—head of testing, head of marketing. Finally, Josephine introduced the newest member of her team, CeeCee Lopez. No one was surprised. And with a nod and clearing of her throat, she both ascertained and informed them that she was ready to begin.

  The hygienist rose to attention. She applied the new product to the first model.

  Josephine watched as she brushed the thick black paste over the lashes of the first model.

  “Too messy,” she said. “Much too messy.” Her bejeweled wrist tapped against the tailored sleeve of her navy-and-white Chanel bouclé suit, while the layered ropes of her long pearls swayed.

  The hygienist nodded meekly and moved on. She applied the next round of black paste from a second bottle to the second model’s face.

  “Too thick and clumpy, Carl.” Josephine shook her head as Carl gulped.

  The hygienist nodded and moved away from the model, as though she were scanning a conveyor belt for defective parts. She withdrew a third bottle from her wheeled cart and applied it to the third model, her hand gliding noiselessly back and forth.

  “Stop.” Josephine raised her voice like a crossing guard alerting an errant child who had ventured into oncoming traffic. She stood from her chair at the head of the table and all but leapt to the side of the third model. She leaned within an inch of her face, studying her eyelashes. She remained there, staring, her smoky, almost Asiatic eyes intense against the question mark of her arched and plucked brows as though assessing an impossible choice. No sounds were audible in the conference room other than the breathing of the model.

  “Do you like this one?” Carl’s tremulous voice from the table finally broke the silence.

  “No,” said Josephine. “Not … yet!”

  The hygienist began to collect the bottles on her wheeled cart.

  “Vait!” she commanded again. “I do like that shade of black.” The room exhaled as Madame actually liked something. She turned back to the assembled group. “Please go back to the lab and start again, using that shade, and this time, let’s try it with something that will make it smooth and glisten. Let’s try CeeCee’s idea of using petroleum jelly, paraffin wax, or some agent like this. Carl, your wife wants to shine when she is going to the club for a wedding or a bar mitzvah. And Carl, we all want clean, clean, clean.” Her lovely, well-groomed hands sliced the air, punctuating each word with a staccato motion. “A recipe that doesn’t make such a mess. Our customers do not want something to stain and tarnish their clothes. We want easy and clean and fantastic.” She lifted her arms skyward to make her point. And that’s when she saw it. It came to her in a flash. She fixated on a curved oval dental repeat pattern detail in the ceiling. It was all she could see. The curve. That was it!

  “And vhy is the brush straight?” She looked at the applicator in the tube. “Why is it a straight brush, Carl? Is my eye straight?” She raised a well-plucked and penciled eyebrow, accentuating the upward curve.

  “No, Josephine, it is not.” He knew she was on to something.

  “Thank you.” She patted the arm of his tailored Savile Row suit. “I vant a curved brush as well. Apply for the patent today. Petroleum jelly or paraffin and the curved brush. That’s the answer. Call my new lawyer and tell him to meet me at my office first thing in the morning.”

  “The curved brush. Of course, that’s it,” CeeCee marveled out loud.

  “You have packaging? A name?” Carl asked.

  Josephine walked over to an easel and removed a white sheet covering the large product illustration. Everyone gasped when they saw the rendering bringing the package to life in vibrant pink and green. The contrast of the color scheme was so different, so original, it brought forth a round of applause.

  “This is Lashmatic.” She said it offhandedly, as though she were merely wiping off confectioners sugar after baking a plate of chocolate cookies, not setting out to invent a product that would create America’s billion-dollar beauty industry.

  32

  THE LOAN

  Beverly Hills, 1936

  Beverly Hills was running hot and cold mobsters, and Mickey was part of the flow. He’d been given the moniker “Handsome Mick” by his uncle’s cronies, all Italian and Irish wiseguys with a few odd Jews thrown in for good measure, either quick and wiry or heavyset and dumpy. No one had Mickey’s movie-star looks and six-foot-four-inch sculpted physique. And with his talents as a boxer, womanizer, and fashion plate, he quickly became something of a fixer for Hollywood stars who needed a loan or a girl. Hell, even a boy now and then. Not that that was his thing, but hey, everyone had different tastes in Los Angeles and he was more than happy to take the cash for other people’s vices. If someone liked buxom blondes, a jock, or to be spanked, he would procure it all for cash. His posse was loud and colorful, and they spent all their evenings at all the right places: the Cocoanut Grove and Café Trocadero (simply known as “the Troc”), or the races at Santa Anita, where he would go with the guys and bet on the horses.

  Mick lived by the motto “Broads, betting, and booze.” All the wiseguys cracked up at that one. Mickey loved the glamour and the evening clothes. No one looked better in a white dinner jacket and slicked-back hair than Mickey Heronsky. In fact, Mickey was so good-looking with his piercing blue eyes and cleft chin that he had been approached a few times by casting agents, but his Lower East Side accent was so thick he couldn’t get past calling girls “goils.” He also had no desire to submit to the morals contracts of the controlling studios and the snooping press agents his actor friends had to constantly endure. Mickey was having way too much fun for that. He abided by CeeCee’s rule: Never stay for breakfast with a broad. He would end his evening in a hotel or whorehouse and then wake up and leave pronto, shower at his house, and lounge in his monogrammed silk pajamas till noon, talking on the phone about all his ongoing deals. Twelve to one was tanning time by the Garden of Allah pool with an aluminum reflector for his Hollywood mahogany tan. As he slathered on the baby oil, he congratulated himself on being far away from the fruit stand and the smell of herring wafting from the fish store. He was now a filet mignon and lobster man.

  Mickey’s Mob ties were well-known around town, and he also befriended stars who played mobsters, like his great friend George Raft, who was one of the highest-paid stars in Hollywood. Mickey could not get over that his friend earned more than $4,000 a week and all he had to do was play hard-nosed people like his uncle and his friends in the movies.

  Mickey had lipstick on his mind, not just on his cock, while he attended the opening premiere of the much anticipated movie The Great Ziegfeld. After the curtain calls and applause, they were all humming Irving Berlin’s “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody” when they ran into Dax Shachter outside the men’s lounge.

  “Hi, Dax!” George Raft gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Dax here makes all the cosmetics for us actors in the movies. Needed sandp
aper to get off the greasepaint yesterday.” He laughed. “Hey, Dax, do you know Big Irving Heronsky’s nephew Handsome Mick?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure. Nice to see you both.” Dax shook both hands and nervously exited quickly with his date.

  “What’s his problem?” Mickey said. “I wanted to meet that guy and he just walked away.”

  “Don’t you know?” Raft gave him a scowl.

  “Know what?” Mickey blinked.

  “He owes your uncle Irv big-time. Irv lent him twenty-five thousand and he can’t pay it all back. He might have to sell his house.”

  Mickey smiled to himself. What luck. He slapped his date’s bottom to get her moving past the crowds.

  * * *

  Dax Shachter’s imposing Mediterranean villa sat on one of the smaller lots of Canon Drive, but it lived up to its image as a Spanish fortress more than a home when the two mobsters arrived to say hello. The high, wrought-iron gates finally swung open and they drove their cream-colored Cadillac Coupe into the driveway and adjusted their hats, despite the sunshine, stepping onto the running boards and into the bright light.

  “Mr. Shachter will see you now.” The diminutive and elegant Japanese houseman took them through the Mexican-tiled entryway and into the study, which was bright with a row of Palladian French doors that opened to swaying palm trees and a lovely oval pool.

  “Hey, Dax.” Uncle Irv stretched out his hand. “You know my nephew Mickey?”

  “Yes, we met last week. Hi, Mick.”

  “How have you been, Dax?” Irving reached out and lit a cigar with the heavy bronze lighter he plucked from the desk set. The small move without asking put Dax on edge.

  “Busy. Working on a new movie with Busby,” he said. “Trying to put together some waterproof eye shadow for this aquatic musical he wants to do.”

  “You’re a brilliant guy, Dax.” He puffed. “How smart are you about getting me my money?”

  “Well, that’s just it. The divorce cost me more than I thought and I had to sell my Picasso. I sent you fifteen thousand last month.”

  “Yeah, but where’s the other ten?”

  “I need some more time, Irv. Once the contract is signed for my new movie I can get you another installment.”

  “You won’t be able to work if you have a broken leg.” Irv grinned. “Any other ideas? I’m not in the waiting business.”

  “Look, Irv … I just sold the painting. The only thing I have of value is a house with a mortgage and … my stock.”

  “Stock?”

  “Of cosmetics. You know—eye shadow, lipstick. I’m starting my own line, but I had to make a huge order and they needed a pretty hefty deposit,” he explained.

  “Hey, Uncle Irv,” Mickey said, “can we step outside for a second?”

  “Why?” He looked at him as though he had two heads.

  “Uncle Irv, I am asking you to step outside.” Mickey glared, his biceps flexing beneath his collared shirt.

  “Sure thing. I guess my handsome nephew here wants a Hollywood tan.” He smirked.

  They walked through the doors to the pool area and took in the lounge chairs and aqua water reflecting the hot, bright sun as Mickey whispered in his ear. The scent of jasmine was overpowering.

  Moments later when they walked in, Irv walked over and shook Dax’s hand.

  “Where’s the product?” he all but barked.

  “Product?” Dax looked confused.

  “The lipsticks and nail shit, Dax. Where are they?” Irv demanded.

  “Oh, in my garage out back,” Dax stammered.

  “We’ll take ’em,” Irving said matter-of-factly.

  “Take them?” Dax looked both horrified and perplexed.

  “Yeah. They’re all ours now and it’s a clean trade. You’re off the hook.”

  “Sure. Of course.” He was sweating. “But can I ask, what do you two want with my cosmetics?” He had turned as pale as the ivory elephant tusks on the fireplace.

  “Seems my nephew here has a fancy idea about getting into the lipstick and beauty business. Has a girl he bangs who works in the biz and says they’re all rolling in dough out there. And we like dough.” Irv smiled.

  “It’s so much more than selling a few polishes. You have to know the products. You have to understand the women who will buy them.” Dax had aged in minutes. “It’s been my life’s work to have my own cosmetics company,” he pleaded.

  “Yeah … feel good your life’s work is keeping you alive,” Irv snarled.

  They loaded the boxes of cosmetics into the back of the coupe as Dax looked on, tears streaming down his cheeks. It would take five trips and a small pickup truck to cart away all the boxes.

  And that was how Heron Cosmetics was born.

  33

  PATENT PENDING

  New York City, 1936

  Josephine paced as she waited for her new lawyer to arrive. She knew there was no time to lose and she needed a way and a strategy to stop and beat Constance. The shiksa who had insulted her with her haughty confidence. Of course she was launching a mascara. She was sure her spies had stolen and planted the idea.

  She grew increasingly anxious with every passing minute as she waited. Suddenly, she saw Felix’s gangly, looming figure emerge from the shadows. He was so tall and emaciated she had the urge to feed him some kasha varnishkes.

  “We have a problem,” she said. “One that is going to cost us.”

  “Is it a matter of a patent?” he said with nonchalance.

  “What have you got for me?”

  She had plucked him right from Harvard Law School. They now had some Jewish students at Harvard, she marveled. And best of all, he had even interned at the leading patent firm Kenyon & Kenyon.

  “I filed the curved-brush patent when you called me,” Felix explained. “It’s pending and we’re first in line so even if they filed, it would be rejected.”

  “Gardiner’s planning on launching hers next month. Word around town is she is overconfident and has been pretesting without a patent. Here, this is the prototype. Called Eye-allure.” Josephine thrust the rudimentary drawings toward him, relishing in the victory.

  “Terrible name.” He looked at the sheet, marveling at her abilities. She was a master and he knew it. “Where did you get this?”

  “From a new friend.”

  Felix zeroed in on the rigid, linear application brush.

  “You know there’s already a patent on a straight mascara brush.” He smiled softly.

  “So will that knock her out?” Josephine asked.

  “I bought the straight-brush patent from the inventor. It cost about ten thousand dollars, but now it’s yours. She cannot launch without a lawsuit from us. She cannot win since we now have both the straight and curved brush patents.” He looked so young and, frankly, nebbishy, but she could have kissed him on the lips.

  “Felix, you are brilliant. Now go home to your family, it’s Shabbat,” she offered, thinking it was high time she had the staff make a Shabbat meal for her and Miles, if she was ever home on a Friday night.

  “Shabbat shalom.”

  “You see, I knew I needed a Jewish lawyer.” She tidied her upswept chignon and applied another coat of lipstick. She reveled in how close she was to a win.

  34

  THE LASH

  New York City, 1936

  Some would later admit they only understood the power of the product the moment Josephine lifted her head into the light. The women did, at least. The men were perplexed. But then they saw the undeniable shimmer in Josephine’s eyes and the graceful, extended lashes that framed her face like the divine Garbo in Camille. The men cast admiring glances and were doubly impressed as they saw the way the other women in the boardroom crowded around her, oohing and ahhing at the immediate and cinematic results.

  After the haste and stealth of a presidential motorcade brought her to her corporate offices, Josephine checked the line of her signature vermilion lips, cinched her newest cape with its adora
ble fur paws, and bounded out of the limousine. This time, she gave her driver more than her typical “Thanks”: a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

  “Why, thank you, Madame.” Harry looked astonished at the note.

  “Enjoy it, today is a day of celebration.” She dashed into the building and headed straight to the lab.

  “Is it finished?” she asked the technician without offering any pleasantries.

  “Yes, exactly as you instructed. The sheen, the brush, and all.” The hygienist handed Josephine a small plastic tube. It was barely larger than a tube of lipstick, in a slightly longer green case, and the pink top twisted off like a bottlecap. It looked like a small multicolored bullet. She opened it and studied the tip, a brush connected to the cap. It looked like a curved furry caterpillar covered in a jet-black paste. This was something that would go in pocketbooks. This would make any woman in America look like a movie star. To Josephine, this was the future of the beauty business, right here in her hands. The ultimate marriage of form and design, perfect even before it had been applied. And it was going to change women’s lives if it worked as she thought it would.

  “May I have a moment?”

  The hygienist nodded and stepped outside the room. Josephine glanced upward at the mirror on the wall. She looked beautiful already—her lip line flawless, the shade pure power and drama, her complexion creamed and porcelain. But she was missing one thing. She unscrewed the top, pulled the brush from the tube, batted her lashes, and held very still, applying Herz Beauty’s Lashmatic for the first time.