Rouge

by Richard Kirshenbaum

  “’Cause I never want to cramp your style, baby,” she said slyly. He knew she was lying. She wouldn’t stay anywhere other women had been, and he didn’t push it, since if there were a box office to his bedroom, it would have been one of the biggest hits in town. He put his hulking, defined arm around her shoulder and walked her out to the car. The California evening was bright and balmy, like a silk shirt on a sunburn, and CeeCee was enjoying the weather, knowing back home it was sleeting and snowing, while here the palm trees were performing a line dance for her in the sky. She looked back toward the hotel lobby as a group of famous jazz musicians and singers passed them, entering the hotel. They all nodded. The Dunbar was well-known for catering to the black elite, and on their way to the bar and lounge two jazz musicians nudged each other and looked back and appraised CeeCee while she ignored their glances. She could get used to this, she thought. Mickey took her by her white-gloved hand and led her to his waiting cream-colored Cadillac convertible. CeeCee slid up against him in her ivory satin evening gown.

  “Also, the music is better at the Dunbar,” she added, and laughed as he opened the door to his convertible.

  “We’ll come back later for a nightcap,” he said. “Who’s playing tonight?”

  “Lena Horne and Sissle’s orchestra.” CeeCee reapplied her Herz Capri Coral lipstick in the shimmering gold case and put it back in her evening bag.

  “Word around town is she’s going to be the first black female movie star.” Mickey put his arm around her. “Maybe you should go backstage and talk to her about CeeCee’s Relaxer,” he offered.

  “Maybe I should,” she said. “And it’s not called CeeCee’s Relaxer anymore, Mick.” She smiled as he drove down Central Avenue, hitting all the lights.

  “It’s not? What happened?”

  “I changed the name. It’s now called Queen CeeCee’s Hair Relaxer. What do you think?” She stared at his handsome face intently to gauge the reaction.

  “I love it.” He honked his horn at a straying Ford. “Damn L.A. drivers. Fuck you!” he yelled, giving the driver the New York finger.

  “Mickey, you never change. You only get better looking.” She ran her hand against his slicked-back curls and took in his glowing L.A. tan offset by the white dinner jacket.

  “You are my queen.” He pulled her closer in the auto’s front seat.

  “The girls at the Cotton Club used to think I was uppity ’cause I wouldn’t socialize with the stage-door Johnnies, so they would call me Queen. ‘There’s Queen CeeCee,’ they would say, and roll their eyes. ‘Too good for the likes of us.’”

  “Well, you are.” He smiled.

  “So it came to me one night that I wanted to create a positive image for my black girls, and voilà … Queen CeeCee. Turning a negative into a positive. Sales are off the charts,” she said with pride.

  “Of course.… You know”—he looked at her—“you could be in movies. You’re prettier than Lena Horne and you’d be a big star.”

  “Yeah, playing what? Maids? At least Lena can sing.” She looked into the side-view mirror. “Congrats on your lip gloss. It’s all the rage, Mickey. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Yeah. I did the deal with the studio and Hollywood Hurrah glosses are off to the races. I paid Dax to develop it, but now he wants his own company.” He steered the car into the right lane. “At first, I tried to stop him, but then I had an idea—I would fund him and own half his business. Like I did on Norfolk Street. Same concept. Old lady Grossman was selling her loaves of breads, challahs, and fruit pies out of my stand and wanted her own place. So I set it up, gave the old broad the up-front dough, and we were fifty-fifty. And I was up to my ears in pies.”

  “That’s why you’re brilliant, Mick.” She snuggled into him.

  As Mickey and CeeCee entered the Troc heads turned and swiveled. Who was the exotic, dusky beauty on Heron’s arm? Was she a new starlet in the studio system, a tawny singer in a soon-to-be-released opulent Latin-themed musical, or a married South American socialite on the town for a lark? Clearly she was someone, as CeeCee’s New York sophistication, couture, and diamond jewelry conveyed a more polished look than the usual corn-fed contract players who squeezed into a loaned studio gown from the costume department and wore paste jewelry. For CeeCee it was heavenly. They wined, dined, and danced the night away, Mickey nodding and introducing her to a wide array of familiar faces and Hollyood players. They kissed tenderly in the car and then returned to the Dunbar for a late-night drink and to listen to Lena, L.A.’s newest songbird. After a whiskey and a cigar, they made their way up to her room. In an explosion of arms and legs, they made frantic and passionate love over and over until they slipped into a trancelike sleep and reverie. In the morning light, he looked over at her and imagined them together like this, always. He slipped out of bed quietly so as not to wake her and put on his crumpled white shirt. He then walked over and kissed her gently on the forehead before leaving.

  “I’ll call you later. I’m setting up all your meetings.” She heard and smiled and shook her head, still half-asleep and savoring the night before, awake but not fully awake, that beautiful moment of half dream and reality.

  Mickey drove back to his new house in the Hollywood Hills, showered, dressed, and had his Mexican housekeeper, Maria, make him a lox, eggs, and onion omelet the way he had taught her to do, making sure the minced onions were golden brown before pouring in the frothy egg mixture. He loved the smell of it, as it reminded him of his bubbe when he a small boy. He then took to his phone and started dialing. He knew that CeeCee needed to meet some real L.A. players to try to set up some cross-promotional deals with Herz, and he was there to help her. He sat at his expansive wooden desk and flipped through his address book, his solid gold cuff links reflecting off the high-gloss veneer like a mirror. He came across the names of a few important industry players who owed him favors and he started making calls to set up introductions to leading up-and-coming actresses, producers, and their movie projects. He did this good-naturedly, with his usual flair and aplomb, and everyone he spoke to agreed to meet Miss CeeCee Lopez, vice president of Herz Beauty. CeeCee was also savvy enough not to talk about her Queen CeeCee line. That was for her accounts in Harlem and the salons near the Dunbar. CeeCee had two sets of business cards and could easily switch back and forth depending on whom she was talking to. Even her business cards were segregated, she thought, shaking her head. Each day, after a slate of meetings they would meet at the Dunbar for a romantic evening in bed together. They fell into a loving ease, where CeeCee would fill him in on her meetings and then exchange ideas about the latest product development on the Herz Beauty lineup or what she knew was still happening at Gardiner.

  Mickey marveled at CeeCee. She took to L.A. like the Santa Ana winds, whipping things up. Within days she had found a wonderful location on Rodeo Drive for the L.A. Herz Beauty flagship salon and started researching the current slate of movies in production. Mickey set her up with a top meeting at MGM to discuss Hedy Lamarr’s newest vehicle and partnership opportunities. Considered one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood, Hedy was the perfect choice for their next advertising campaign. A few years earlier she had fled Austria to escape both the Nazis and a wealthy, overbearing husband and while in London was noticed by MGM mogul Louis B. Mayer, who signed her up immediately and brought her to America. Her Hollywood film debut in Algiers opposite Charles Boyer had created a sensation. It was written that her beauty literally took one’s breath away. Josephine was delighted when CeeCee called her in New York with the idea.

  “Tell MGM we want her!” said Josephine. “She’s today’s version of Theda Bara. Her European sophistication is exactly what our brand stands for. You say she’s Jewish to boot?”

  “Yes, and originally from Vienna,” CeeCee explained. “She was married to the richest man in Austria, Fritz Mandl, and had to escape him.”

  “Perfect. We’ll take her and let Miss Palm Beach over there have that perky Janet Gaynor.” Josephine
laughed. Now that she was reading the movie magazines, she was more conversant on the subject of stars.

  CeeCee smiled. Her L.A. trip had been quite successful; it had taken her only two weeks to get the lay of the land, and she knew that Josephine would want her to come back again, fully paid. That would give her the opportunity to see Mickey again. She was starting to feel melancholic, as her trip was coming to a close.

  “Why are you leaving me, baby?” Mickey looked at her like a lost little puppy in from the cold after the two weeks flew by like a lightning storm. “Can’t you stay any longer?”

  “Josephine wants me back for the big new product development meeting, and I’m making an appearance at the Apollo Theater, where Queen CeeCee is sponsoring Talent Night.” She smiled.

  He shook his head and knew it was a lost cause, but he promised to see her in New York.

  When the time came for Mickey to drive CeeCee to the train station, he trudged slowly to open her door, as if his plodding would delay the waiting and hissing train. He removed her luggage from the trunk and tipped the dapper black porters to take it to the first-class car. He had hated the idea that she would have to sit in the colored section and had made plans through his connections to get her a seat in the whites-only first-class car. A call had been placed by the press agent of one of the most powerful Mob families in Los Angeles, indicating that Miss CeeCee Lopez, a new Brazilian actress signed by MGM, required a first-class ticket to New York City; under the circumstances, no one made a fuss. CeeCee knew she couldn’t fight Mickey about it and agreed to his parting gift. After what seemed like an eternal kiss, she sat back in her train seat, feeling lucky as she saw L.A. pull away. First class. She thought back to her first train trip from Virginia, where she’d had to stand half the way. Now she was in first class and a well-respected business executive. The African American porters were extra helpful, as they thought she was the most beautiful Latin woman they had ever seen. CeeCee also knew one more thing as she settled into her first-class seat. Sometimes a girl just knew, had a feeling, an intuitive moment. She knew she was pregnant with Mickey’s baby. And she wasn’t about to say a word to anyone. Not just yet.

  39

  SWEET REVENGE

  Beverly Hills, 1940

  PARIS FALLS—BRITAIN NEXT, the headlines screamed. Constance, like most Americans, stopped in her tracks and felt a cold chill travel down to the base of her spine as she read the newspaper. In Los Angeles it was all sunshine, screenings, and swimming pools. Was she living in an alternate universe? She knew things in Europe were bad but now knew it was worse than she could ever have imagined. In her mind she could process the fall of remote places such as Poland or the annexation of Austria, since they seemed so out of the way, even “second tier.” But Paris? Paris was the center of the world. Paris was everything. She couldn’t imagine her beloved Paris overrun by the Germans. Was she dreaming? She stopped in her tracks at the news concession in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel and bought the paper, as if the purchase would confirm the reality. She stood in the lobby and read as did others, standing, reading, and in shock. The proud and haughty French reduced to the conquered, the helpless. She shook her blond locks in disbelief. She recalled her trip to Paris years earlier, as her business was taking off and she had splurged, staying at the Ritz. She had saved up and booked passage to see the sights but had gone to learn the secrets of French beauty and massage techniques and, of course, to order couture. She had met a lovely brunette treatment girl in one of the better salons. What was her name again? Madeleine. She had lovely soft hands, and after her facial and cool caresses, Constance had invited her to lunch, sensing a subtle attraction. She immediately accepted and they went to a lovely café in the Marais. She remembered feeling giddy at being in France and suddenly free, just as she had when she’d first moved to New York. She had sensed a similar sisterhood with the young French girl, who seemed so nonchalant and open about her sensuality. After a simple lunch of a croque monsieur and a carafe of white wine, they walked arm in arm back to her small garret off the place des Vosges and had spent the afternoon and then the weekend making love and drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. It all seemed so decadent, so wonderful, and it had lingered in her memory the way one registered the beautiful burning sensation of an after-dinner liqueur at the back of one’s throat. Beautiful bliss, she had called it. It was only the third time she had performed oral sex on a woman and could still decipher her distinctive smell and taste: rosemary, musk, and a hint of vanilla. Where was Madeleine now? A wife, a girlfriend, a mother? Was she safe from the invading troops? She could only imagine the panic and the fear she must be feeling and hoped she was well and protected. And then, just as she always did when emotions became too raw or fresh, she banished the thought from her mind and focused on her business. The Canadian way.

  Despite the awful international news, Constance and Gardiner Cosmetics were riding high. Through her fame and company profits, she and Van had indulged in another pastime for the wealthy: horse racing. Constance and Van had become stockholders in the Thoroughbred Santa Anita racetrack, and their horse, Constant Gardiner, had come in second against the famed Seabiscuit in the Santa Anita Handicap. Just as she had used her mansion in Palm Beach to gain entrée to PB society, Constance started to cultivate the horsey set in Kentucky, where she now owned the fabled stable the Lucky Eight, recently renamed Constantly Gardening, and to mingle with the stars and Hollywood elite on the West Coast. She loved nothing more than an afternoon at the track, with a flask of gin and a good bet; she felt like a little girl at the races, satisfying her tomboy side by yelling and cheering in the owner’s box to her heart’s content. It was the one area in her life where she could scream and curse and no one would take notice or pass judgment, since she was a proud owner. Taking in the stunning San Gabriel Mountains in the background through her binoculars, watching her Thoroughbred Constant Gardiner, was a thrill. Although she played at being nonchalant, she got a kick out of mingling with such leading box office stars as Clark Gable and Lana Turner as she became a familiar face at the track. Spending time out west had also led to a few product breakthroughs. The latest beauty trends in Hollywood led her to create her incredibly successful “Garden of Allah” brow pencil collection: a movie-star eye kit that included a tweezer and colored brow pencils for the plucked and arched brow that was in vogue during the late 1930s. Her women loved kits, and there was even an instruction guide on how to pluck the brow and apply the pencil in a strong arc. Kits and guides were important to her women, as she knew they craved an easy way to achieve a current look and the information on how to get it.

  However, that latest winner product wasn’t enough for her. The triumphant commercial success of Josephine’s Lashmatic had taken her months, even years, to process. She had been so close and had been crushed at being the loser and Herz the winner. And Constance was not one to take it lying down. She had to admit her Eye-allure product would have been good, but when she tested Lashmatic she went into a rage. Everything about it was better: the curved brush, the consistent, mess-free shimmering liquid, and the now iconic package with its modern plastic twist-off top. The green-and-pink motif, of course, drove her to the edge of insanity and always set her teeth on edge when she saw a woman retrieve it from the bottom of her bag. It had given her more sleepless nights than she could possibly count. The rivalry and intensity had created such a powerful enmity that now decisions were being made out of ego and how to get back at her Jewish usurper. If only Josephine had been visiting her family in Poland, she would have been blitzkrieged, she would joke with her friends at the club. The idea that CeeCee had gone over to work for her archenemy also tormented her and was almost all she could think about.

  Ordinarily, product and retail innovation came from consumer need or desire. Now it came from revenge. What could she, Constance, do to wound Josephine as much as she herself had been wounded? It was a formidable question and one that kept her thinking and scheming till the earliest hours of t
he morning. Despite this constant ache and anxiety, she literally put on a good face and went about her business. The sun, the beaches, and the horsey sets of Palm Beach, Kentucky, and Los Angeles were always a fun diversion to take her mind off her aggravation.

  Constance and Van, having drifted even further apart, at least had racing in common and had attended the races with one of their friends, the pharmaceutical heir Jock Ashton. Jock was the L.A. version of Topper: a dashing womanizer and bon vivant. He had invested heavily in Santa Anita as well, and they were all driving back to Los Angeles in his navy Packard. They stopped for gas at a small, out-of-the-way service station when Jock nudged Constance. Near the gas station and the grocery store he had spotted a small hair salon.

  “Constance … pretty soon you’ll see a Herz salon opening right there…,” Jock said sarcastically. “She’s everywhere, that woman.”

  “Spreading like cancer.” Constance lit up a cigarette, her hand shaking slightly.

  And as she inhaled the purple swirling smoke, it suddenly hit her. That was it! What she had been searching for. She would steal Josephine’s idea the way Josephine had stolen hers. A low-cost, mass-market version of Josephine’s high-end salons for the average woman in more local environments. A place where her customer could go and buy Gardiner Cosmetics but also get her hair and nails done, all at a reduced cost. And she would paint the front door lavender just as Josephine had painted the lacquered doors in every one of her personal offices. She laughed out loud. That was it. She would call it the Gardiner Lavender Door Salon to boot!

  She knew Josephine would feel the same way she had when her Palm Beach pink-and-green motif had been stolen right out from under her nose for Lashmatic. Lavender and black! Perfect. She also loved the play on lavender from a garden, and she knew that her customer would not only appreciate an affordable place to have beauty treatments but also be happy to pay less for everyday indulgences. She would trademark the name and own it first before telling anyone, even Van. Best of all, she knew the low-priced competition would drive Josephine Herz insane.