* * *
The boardroom was buzzing when she arrived in large dark sunglasses as big as saucers. No one understood why. Did she have an eye infection? they conjectured. They had never seen her eyes covered in the daylight before, and it made them uncomfortable, anxious even, as Josephine’s eyes were so expressive that they were a window to her soul, her moods. Now they had no idea what she thought, what she was up to. And it was frightening.
Most of the staff had assembled for the launch announcement, from secretaries to high-level department heads: lipstick, eye shadow, rouge, nail, and creams. Josephine entered quickly, taking her place at the head of the table, and the room fell to a hush. She stood behind her chair and took control of the room.
“We have achieved our dreams,” she began slowly, her sunglasses giving her even more of a commanding presence, if that were possible.
“We are the leading enterprise in the cosmetics industry. We have made the cosmetics industry. I do not know a woman who has not owned, used, or heard of Herz Beauty today. We have given every woman the tools to help her be seen in this world. To be her best self, to find her own beauty—inside and out—to be admired. And we have offered this to women of every echelon: mothers and daughters, homemakers and working women, actresses and spectators. We have empowered women to be beautiful, admired, and coveted, and we have given them this invaluable gift at an affordable cost. This was always our plan and we have achieved it. Now the future will test us. Do we buckle under competitors and tightening competition? No. We press onward! To the future.” She produced and displayed the green-and-pink tube. “This is the future,” she said. “This is what the future looks like.”
The assembled staff let out a collective gasp.
“Meet Lashmatic mascara. It is a simple black paste designed to enhance the eyes of any woman. It creates the perfect curtain to adorn the windows to our soul. Your lashes will shimmer, shine, and appear longer. Best of all, no mess or clumping.”
Curiosity permeated the room.
“And don’t you want to see what it looks like?” Josephine took a moment to let the drama build. She never had trouble working a room.
“It’s Palm Beach for the masses!” Josephine’s words had a hypnotic effect, casting a quiet, focused lull over the room as she presented the green and pink package to applause. No one could have guessed that she had never been to Palm Beach.
At the peak of her theatrics, she finally removed her sunglasses and everyone saw.
“And now for the results.” She smiled broadly. Whispers grew into fully vocal chants. She looked different, softer, younger, more beautiful, alluring. Her eyes had the “Hurrell” effect of palm-frond lashes, casting a dramatic shadow of lines across her razor-sharp cheekbones. Then the clapping and ovation. It was the pairing of these two things—her beauty and her words, her product and her packaging—that would make Lashmatic the final jewel in Josephine’s crown.
35
STAR-CROSSED
New York City, 1936
Constance and her staff were working overtime as they planned the launch like an attack ready to flank enemy lines. Check in with the warehouse that shipping would be on time. Notify the stores when the product would arrive. Follow up with the lawyers regarding the patent. The timing was perfect, the product even better now that her lab had worked to get the proper consistency. She could not fail now.
Far uptown, Mickey and CeeCee were having a late dinner at the Cotton Club in Harlem. He had come back to New York for a few days to pack up his apartment and sign the papers. He was selling the family fruit stand to his cousin Benny and moving to Los Angeles full-time. CeeCee had been in tears at the news, but she understood the circumstances. They would see each other whenever he was in New York and eventually when she could visit L.A. That didn’t make it easier, however, and she consoled herself with her favorite steak sandwich, only this time as a guest taking in the show as opposed to being in it. The irony of being Mickey’s guest in the all-white audience also did not escape her. No one said a word to him as the maître d’ led them both to a prime up-front table after he handed him a ten-dollar bill. Then again, no one would dare to question a six-foot-four, seemingly Italian mobster at the Cotton with a gorgeous seemingly Latin woman on his arm. In a white satin evening gown, white mink shrug, and the diamond bracelet he had bought her, CeeCee had the bearing and accoutrements of an exotic Latin princess and bore little resemblance to the awkward yet stunning ingenue who had shown up years earlier. No one recognized her, and all of the girls in the line had turned over since she had been there. The club favored chorus girls no older than twenty-one, and she wondered what would have become of her had she stayed. She thought of Gladys Potter. Was she still in show business or a mom or a maid? She would never know, and she forced the thought from her mind. Mickey ordered a steak sandwich, too, and they toasted with champagne to her new company and to the future. She was now partners with none other than Josephine Herz, who was going to fund her hair relaxer business!
“Here’s to my girl.” Mickey toasted her with his flute, his diamond cuff link illuminated in the overhead lights. “You are going to rule the world.”
“I thought of a slogan.” She blocked out the slogan with her hands. “‘CeeCee’s Relaxer. Be Cool and Calm.’ Get it? It cools and calms the scalp.”
“You are a gorgeous genius.” He leaned over and kissed her. They both paused as applause rose from the crowd when the energetic and talented Cab Calloway took the stage. Rudy had made the switch to Calloway’s orchestra and they would go backstage after the show. The spotlight shone on Cab’s slicked hair and elegant mustache as he started to scat.
“CeeCee, I have something to tell you.” Mickey spoke in a tremulous tone as the applause died down.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting married to a nice Jewish girl.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
He lit a cigarette for her with his gold lighter. “I’ve been thinking. You and all these broads…” He sighed.
“Excuse me?” She laughed. “Broads?”
“I didn’t mean you. I meant them. Well, they’re making money hand over fist in the beauty business. And…”
“And what?” CeeCee raised a beautiful arched eyebrow.
“I’m getting into the business myself. I just started a cosmetics company too. For the modern gal who wants to be a star. Every broad does. It’s called Heron. Heron Cosmetics.” He looked down, his long, black lashes somewhat downcast and his demeanor somewhat embarassed at telling her the news. “Get it? Heron … Heronsky?” He looked at her as if he were a teacher giving a troubled student a test.
“Heron. I think that’s an amazing name, Mickey,” she said tenderly, sensing a more fragile ego than he usually displayed.
“Yeah. From now on I’m going by Mickey Heron. I’m getting rid of Heronsky … sounds like a funeral home. Who wants to be saddled with that?” He puffed out his chest.
CeeCee looked at him, appraising him somewhat differently.
“See…” He took out a business card. “I hired this Hollywood gal I know out there who does animation work for Disney. She said I should use a bird—the heron—as my logo. So I did. You like it?” He looked at her adoringly. “Never even knew there was this bird called a heron.” He pronounced the word “bird” as “boid,” which made CeeCee giggle. “There aren’t any herons on Norfolk Street, I can tell ya that!” he wisecracked.
CeeCee looked at the elegantly illustrated long white bird on the white business card and shook her head. “Clearly she’s talented. I hope only in graphic design.”
“Don’t worry. She’s young, but looks like Marie Dressler.” They both laughed at the image of the old vaudeville comedienne and popular film star who had a face like a female prizefighter.
“Mickey, are you serious? You’re really going into the cosmetics business?”
“I am. What … what do you think?” He blinked.
“Well…” She pa
used. “I like the name and the bird logo, a lot. Heron. I actually think it’s genius. You know women better than anyone. You know what they like.” She shrugged. “How did it all come about?” She was truly curious.
“When I was in L.A. a few weeks ago, I noticed all the young actresses are wearing this lipstick and nail polish color. I never saw it before.” He took out a crumpled page and showed her a studio publicity photo of the actress Joan Blondell wearing red-gold nail polish and lipstick. “There’s a guy out there who makes the stuff for the film people. They all use it. It’s smear-proof!”
“That’s very interesting.” CeeCee’s eyes perked up at the news. “Go on.…”
He could tell she was interested. “Since my uncle Irv is a bookie out there he loans the stars and film people money. His friend is a big producer at the studio and we get him all the girls. I met Raft through him and his gang.”
“Well, I can see what you were doing in L.A.” She nodded her head in a mock disapproving manner. “Don’t worry. I know you can’t keep your pants on.”
“Well, so here’s the rub … all the stars and working girls wear the same makeup. There’s a guy out there, Shachter, Dax Shachter. He’s the one that makes cosmetics for the movies. He sells it only to the film people and it’s ahead of what they’re wearing in the rest of America. I’m telling you there is a business there.”
“In going to whorehouses?” She sneered slightly.
“Yes. And don’t worry. Not one of them can hold a candle to you.”
“Gee, thanks.” She sipped her champagne with a gloved hand.
“So here’s what happened. Raft told me Dax borrowed money from my uncle and he couldn’t repay old uncle Irv, so instead of having his legs broken he offered my uncle and me all his product. Now I have a garage full. Lipsticks in all shades, nail polishes in every color, eye shadows … the works. I told Irv I would take them, sell the stuff, and split the profits. It took us five trips in the car to pick up all the shit. I hired this Disney girl, slapped my new Heron logo on it, and I’ve been selling the lipsticks at seventy-five cents a pop. I’m making a fortune. And I’m down to my last twenty-five. Have to reorder. I’ll tell ya … it’s a helluva lot better and more profitable than selling peaches and plums. And it doesn’t rot! Here, I got a few for you—” He produced a few small lipstick cases.
CeeCee’s eyes lit up. “Wow, it even says ‘Heron Cosmetics’ on it and the name Ripe Cherry.” She surveyed the package with a bit of awe.
“I have a slogan, too.” His eyes glistened. “Every woman wants to get her Cherry back.…” He laughed.
“Don’t be vulgar.” She play slapped him.
“Don’t forget it’s smear-proof. Kiss me.” He kissed her moist lips.
“Only you, Mickey. You sleep with whores and run with the Mob and turn it all into a business. Only you!”
“Better than being a gigolo!” He grabbed his crotch.
She giggled. “I never met anyone else like you, and do you know what?” She kissed him softly.
“What?”
“I’m going to help you any way I can, Mickey Heron.”
“You will?”
“You can rip off the old gals. And Shachter. I’ll get you all the new product information on what’s launching and you can rip it off and manufacture to your heart’s content,” she said nonchalantly. “Like you said, the way I see it, the entire industry is one big rip-off game—except for CeeCee’s Relaxer!”
“You’d do that for me?” He looked like a little boy.
“You were there for me.” She kissed him hard on the lips.
“I like that. Your lips feel calm and cool,” he whispered as she laughed.
“Come … let’s dance.” They rose to the dance floor, and in full view she kissed her white, Jewish man who looked Italian. And while across the ocean the recently instituted racial laws in Nazi Germany forbade interrelations between gentiles, Jews, and blacks, in the all-white audience in New York, for these two and for this evening, no one at the Cotton Club gave a damn.
36
THE WIN
New York City, 1936
Constance wasn’t particularly fond of waiting on an answer from her own attorney. She had paid his firm plenty over the years and had not gotten even a return call. The fact that she, Constance Gardiner, was taking a taxi in rush-hour traffic to her lawyer’s office to get an answer was absurd.
Yet here she was, getting out of the cab, crossing Sixth Avenue, heading to the building, riding all the way to the top floor, and waiting patiently for her turn. Like a common, low-budget client. She was here to discuss the patent and she wanted answers, as the timing for the launch was crucial. She knew Josephine was working on the same idea, and she had to launch first and win. She knew it was an idea so big it would take her entire company to the next level and cash in on what she thought would be one of the biggest successes of her career. And time was money.
From the moment her lawyer entered the dark-paneled conference room with the air of a pallid mortician, she knew something was wrong. He sat and placed a large document on the table and stared into it, fixed and morose.
“We have a problem,” he said. He rustled the top page of the document.
“Peter, I know I have pushed you on this filing.” She removed the pearl-topped hat pin and her diminutive pale pink, silk couture hat with the lace veil and put it next to her white kid gloves and crocodile purse on the chair in a ladylike fashion, and then took the bull by the horns. “And when all goes well, I will make sure you get credit where credit is due,” she said in an animated voice, hoping her optimism would banish any lingering issues.
“The initial patent application was denied.” He looked down and continued to stare into the page. He could not meet her eyes.
“What?” She actually lowered, not raised, her voice in a hoarse whisper. “We had everything in order. There’s never been a problem with the patent office before. Why now? Why this patent?” She stood and paced the room, utterly confounded, distraught.
“Can’t we reapply?” she demanded.
“Unfortunately not.”
“Why not? You said it was merely a rubber stamp. Why?” she repeated, sounding increasingly like a petulant, thwarted, spoiled child.
“There is already an approved patent on a similar product.”
“But, that’s not possible,” Constance stammered.
“Someone pulled strings. Someone swooped in and bought the patent for a similar straight-brush mascara product. Someone…” He trailed off. “Bought the patent out from under us.”
She got the point, loud and clear.
“No. Out from under you,” she said angrily. “Did they say her name? Did they dare?”
“Not by name. Only by organization. Herz. And they already called the trademark office to let them know they would defend their patent against any new applications. I am afraid we are done.” He sat back in the walnut Queen Anne chair, his suspenders sagging as woefully as his expression.
“Then can’t we change the brush? Why does it have to be straight?” She banged the conference table, her large gold charm bracelet jangling and scratching the veneer.
“They had the same idea. They already filed a curved-brush application as well. I am afraid we have no choice but to abandon the launch for now,” he said in defeat.
Constance lost her breath for a moment. The room actually spun. In her fury, she left the room without saying another word to her vapid lawyer. She had heard that Josephine had fired her WASP lawyer and hired a Jewish one right out of Harvard Law School. She had mocked the decision in public at a cocktail party in Palm Beach at the B&T, laughing that the “immigrant just needed someone to speak Yiddish to,” and her group broke up at the thought. However, now she knew Josephine had bested her once again, in the legal department. In her shock, she missed the elevator and began to walk down the gleaming white-and-grey–streaked marble stairs, holding on to the wrought-iron banister because she was wob
bly. Her thoughts raced. She would miss her launch, and all the money she had spent on development was now down the drain, and all the while Herz would be launching her very own mascara product and getting all the credit. Her product. It was her product, properly developed and perfectly polished. And now she would be number two. Days later when she heard the package color scheme was actually pink and green, she went into a two-day alcoholic rage in which she was unable to rise from her bed, which was littered with empty gin bottles, all of which unleashed a massive and painful migraine. Even Van commented that he was concerned. He had never seen her so angry and distraught, and he hardly ever noticed anything.
It took a week to get back to herself, and when she looked in the mirror she found herself pale and drawn and had lost several pounds in the process. Weak and upset, she forced herself each morning to get up from the bed and into a cold shower to perk herself up. That was the Canadian way: she fought her demons with freezing water and frigid emotions. Yes, she was a fighter, and despite her paralyzing anger, deep down she knew she would live to see another day. She also knew she had a full slate of obligations and needed to regain her power and composure to lead. Her office had called and reminded her she had a couture fitting for opening night at the Follies. She had been invited by Florenz Ziegfeld’s widow, Billie Burke, to the Broadway opening of the Ziegfeld Follies of 1936 and the after-party and wanted to look her best, as she knew it would be one of the social events of the season. She personally had been doing Billie’s makeup over the years, flattered that the huge Broadway and film star trusted her and her alone with her maquillage. She knew tout New York society and the social press would be there on opening night and she bristled at the thought that her nemesis, Josephine, could be there, too, invited not by Billie … but most likely by the Follies headline star Fanny Brice or the great Balanchine, who she knew attended her salons and was doing the show’s staging. She forced it all from her stormy thoughts as her driver deposited her at Hattie Carnegie’s atelier at 42 East Forty-ninth Street and Park. The made-to-order department was headed by the talented designer Jean Louis, who greeted her with kisses and whose assistant brought her an elegant, slim flute of champagne. He had chosen a white crepe gown for Constance, one that looked best on their new blond in-house model. Carnegie always was able to attract the best models, especially as her former one Lucille Ball was becoming famous. Carnegie had been the one to order the ingenue and actress Ball to dye her brown hair blond to great results, and what looked good on the tall, striking blonde would look good on their top client Constance Gardiner, as they had almost the exact same measurements. Jean put the crepe gown aside for her before any other client could see it. Constance appreciated the gesture and actually enjoyed her fittings. It provided her with a creative respite where other people were doing all the work and she didn’t have to do much aside from being fussed over. Hattie stopped in, kissed her briefly, and asked after Van. Soon after, another young designer she had hired, Norman Norell, brought her the crepe de chine garment on a straight wooden hanger.
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