Chapter Four

The Santa Fe Chief

The next morning Leah and I took our place in the elegantly appointed dining car with all the swells going to Chicago. The Broadway Limited attracted the carriage trade, regal matrons, sober businessmen, and a few cigar-chomping fuddy-duddies who treated the porters like slaves.

With everyone acting so hoity-toity and living high off the hog, you’d never know there had been a Crash. What fakes we were, two Jews facing the poor house, but since the other passengers dressed to the nines, we did too. I wore a Kelly green frock; Leah dressed in black gabardine, with faux pearls at her throat, the epitome of European chic. Who would have guessed we’d been born in Flatbush?

Sixteen hours after Leah and I had left New York, the Broadway Limited rolled into Chicago, where we’d change trains. We looked around the spanking new Chicago Union Station, only five years old, a stunning mass of steel arches and concrete. Folks called its main concourse the portal to the Midwest, yet the massive driveways built for taxis and automobiles offered no protection from the murderous weather. An icy squall dispatched newspaper pages higgledy-piggledy, reached under the ladies’ skirts and gentlemen’s collars, encircled heads, tossed hats into the air.

A porter, observing the mayhem, yelled out to me, “Watch out, little lady. There’s a reason they call the Chicago wind the Hawk.”

Yes, the wind reminded me of a bird of prey, grasping everything in its frigid claws. Only the newlyweds I’d seen in Penn Station took no notice of the freezing gale. They wrapped themselves in the young man’s greatcoat and floated away into their future.

The elegant Santa Fe Chief stood in wait for us, her sleek chrome lines majestic in the bright light.

A crowd of photographers swarmed over the platform, flashbulbs popping, the whole place scented with burnt glass and flash powder. Leah and I pushed through a mass of newsmen, none of whom paid us an ounce of attention. The air crackled with electricity as reporters jostled past the two of us. Suddenly, a cry went up, and a crowd blocked our way. “It’s Jill Carpenter!”

Every orb focused on a beautiful girl with silvery blonde hair perched atop a mountain of luggage. Another explosion of a million flash bulbs, and a photographer called out, “Hey, Jill, give us a smile.”

I heard a collective intake of breath when the young woman turned to face the cameras. Venus had just risen from the sea. Hollywood had named the goddess Jill Carpenter, the Movie Mirror’s cover girl and Regal Pictures’ rising star. Her skin looked as though it had been fired from the finest porcelain. She had plucked her eyebrows into near nonexistence, then penciled them back in, rouged her lips, and lacquered her platinum hair. Miss Carpenter smiled, revealing a set of dazzling white teeth. She finally spoke, her polished tones that of an actress trained in elocution.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I’m overjoyed to be here with you, and thrilled with the critical praise of my motion picture, Honeymoon Hijinks. I want to thank Mr. Ben Roth, President of Regal Pictures, for giving me this wonderful opportunity.”

Miss Carpenter blew a kiss at a powerfully built man watching from the sidelines. Mr. Ben Roth looked to be in his late thirties, and although he missed being handsome by a hair, he possessed something more compelling than simply good looks. Mr. Roth exuded power all the way from his polished oxfords to his homburg hat. He never averted his pale blue gaze from the actress.

At the mention of Ben Roth, something icy zipped up my spine, and it wasn’t the Hawk. Leah squeezed my hand, her eyes misted, and she looked away. We’d known his name since our childhood, when Pops’ younger brother, Baron, a handsome youth as wild as a whirlwind, ran away from home to get in the movies. My father left New York and searched all over Los Angeles before discovering Baron worked as an extra at Regal Pictures. Leah whispered in my ear, and I heard the catch in her voice.

“Pops had planned to bring Uncle Baron home by hook or by crook, but fate intervened. Poor Uncle Baron. He died on the Regal Pictures lot in a horrible fire that also killed the movie actress Clarice Dumont.”

Although Leah spoke under her breath, I heard the anger simmering beneath her calm façade.

“The world mourned Clarice, the golden-haired shiksa, but no one outside of our family knew about our Uncle Baron. The movie people sent blood money, a check signed by the president of Regal Pictures, Mr. Ben Roth himself. Remember how our poor grandmother shriveled up and died from grief? It was then I learned the difference between money and happiness. To hell with Ben Roth and all his gold.”

Without warning, Miss Carpenter turned her back on the reporters and dropped her fur cloak, revealing a winter-white sheath dress that accentuated every curve. The sleek lines were a dead giveaway. It had to be a creation of Regal Picture’s great couturier. “Look at that beautiful dress, Leah. Alexandre of Paris must have designed it just for her.”

Before Leah could reply, a lady standing near us harrumphed like an old yenta. She glared at the platinum goddess. “That Jill Carpenter is nothing but a common tart, and everybody knows she’s Ben Roth’s mistress. When she dumped her husband, the actor Bobby Fayette, the poor man tried to kill himself. She’s just another Hollywood hussy. Movie people are a bunch of floozies and lechers.” The dame elbowed her way through the crowd, probably to get a closer look at the floozies and lechers.

A roar from the newsmen and the throng separated as if Moses had parted the Red Sea. A tall fellow in a full-length beaver coat, a Trilby hat covering his dark hair, walked through the opened path. The theatrical makeup slapped on his face didn’t detract from his chiseled features. I recognized him immediately, the “dashing devil from Atlanta,” Rex Dallas, in the flesh.

“Look, Leah, it’s him. It’s Rex Dallas!”

Leading men cropped up in movies all the time, but my heart belonged to just one. I called out to my idol, yelling at the top of my lungs. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Dallas!”

Miracle of miracles, he heard me and turned his regal head in my direction. When I waved at him, somehow, someway, he saw me through the crowd. It must have been destiny. Mr. Dallas stared at me for the longest time, a huge smile on his face. How fabulous, my favorite actor noticed me. Then, from my periphery, I saw Mr. Roth had turned from Mr. Dallas to me, displeasure written across his face.

Mr. Roth bounded over to Mr. Dallas, pointed at me, then shook his finger in Mr. Dallas’s face. Mr. Dallas looked as if he wanted to slug Mr. Roth. A mass of reporters surrounded them, and the two men pulled apart. Suddenly, Miss Carpenter stepped forward. The crowd lurched, everyone converging around the two stars, and I feared we’d never get on the train. Suddenly, a man’s voice called out, booming above the hubbub, “Ladies, over here, please!”

A Pullman porter waved to us, and we rushed over to him. Once we climbed aboard, a comforting blanket of warmth embraced us, vanquishing the Hawk. The youthful fellow couldn’t have been over twenty-one and didn’t look like the other porters scurrying around the railway terminal. Passengers called those hardworking men of color in their snappy black uniforms “George,” and treated them like servants.

Though the Southern conviviality of the other Pullman porters charmed everyone, this young man seemed very much the Continental gentleman, with European features, and beautiful gray eyes.

“Ladies, I’m sorry, but there’s always confusion when movie people are on board. The stars from the big studios—MGM, Warner Brothers, and Paramount—often ride with us, but for some reason, the folks from little ol’ Regal Pictures get the most ballyhoo.”

Leah showed him our tickets, and he pointed toward the front of the car. “Follow me, please. It’s a long walk to your compartment, but at least you’ll be away from the crowd.”

He looked out the window at the mass of reporters. “Miss Carpenter caused quite the commotion, didn’t she?”

I still basked in the glow of my first celebrity encounter. “We saw Mr. Rex Dallas, too, and can you believe it? He smiled at me.”

The porter’s jaw dropped, so I guessed I’d impressed him. “Mr. Dallas saw you?”

No matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t believe my good luck.

“Yes, he did. I’ve always heard that actors are snooty, but he wasn’t, not the least bit. He waved at me, and it was thrilling, but for some reason Mr. Ben Roth seemed peeved with Mr. Dallas. I guess he’s one of those fellows who’re always in a perpetual funk.”

The baggage handler looked around the car as if someone might be listening, then whispered, “I really shouldn’t say anything, but to put it bluntly, Mr. Dallas likes young ladies, the younger the better. He’s a real Romeo, and chases after anything in a skirt.”

I couldn’t believe that of my idol. “But that can’t be true. It just can’t.”

Leah gave me the Look, a gaze passed down from the Mongolian hordes by the Cossacks to my grandmother. Bubbe never spanked or slapped me when I misbehaved. The Look was always enough. Now that fate made Leah my guardian, she’d picked it up. “Mitzi, if the gentleman says Rex Dallas is a lecher, then I’m sure he is.”

She turned to the porter and handed him a whole dollar. “Thank you, for your help and the information. We were afraid we’d be stuck out in the cold.”

The porter grinned, his cheeks blushing red. Leah returned his smile with a laugh as he added, “If you ladies need anything, anything at all, please call on me. My name is Omar.”

“Omar? What a lovely name. I’m Leah, and this is my sister, Mitzi.”

Omar looked down at his feet, his embarrassment obvious. “I’m afraid I can’t call you by your first names. The railroad won’t allow it.”

Leah steeled her shoulders. “Well, to heck with them. If you can’t call us by our first names, we won’t call you by yours. It would be impolite, Mister—?”

The porter didn’t say a word, just gazed into Leah’s face for the longest time. He finally whispered, “Fournier. My family name is Fournier, madam.”

Leah extended her hand. “Fournier? That’s French, isn’t it?”

He answered with a nod. “Yes, ma’am, I’m from New Orleans.”

“Our last name is Schector. We’re honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fournier.”

Omar looked down the hallway. Once he was sure no other riders were nearby, he shook our hands. “The honor is all mine, Miss Leah Schector. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Mitzi Schector.”

Except for Chick Hagan’s, I hadn’t seen a smile like his since the Crash. Omar still had the grin on his face when he signaled to us to follow him.

He led us through a labyrinth of elegant staterooms, sleeping compartments, and lavish suites. “Ladies, you’ll be very comfortable. The Chief has all the amenities—running water, electric lights, and a system that keeps the compartments cool in the summer and warm in the winter.”

The white-walled dining car gleamed with fine cutlery, bone china, and crystal vases overflowing with fresh flowers. The heavenly aroma of hot coffee, cinnamon toast, and griddlecakes scented the air.

Mr. Fournier led us to our sleeper. “Good evening, Miss Leah Schector and Mitzi.” He tipped his hat, then strolled off.

Minutes later, we entered the white and chrome Ladies’ Lounge, where a pretty attendant waited for us. “My name is Betty, like Betty Boop. I’ll see to your needs.”

She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, with sparkling eyes and skin the color of cocoa. Betty flashed a hundred-watt smile, then handed us fluffy towels and terrycloth bathrobes before directing us to the shower baths.

“Omar stopped by and said to take good care of you ladies. The water’s hot, the towels are clean, and you can wash your hair. I got Lux Soap, Queen Helene Shampoo, and Pond’s Cold Cream.” She looked around the lounge before lowering her voice. “I even have pads if it’s your time of the month. I can press your dresses if you want, seventy-five cents apiece.”

Leah and I whooped for joy at the thought of a shower bath. A few minutes later, I sloshed in hot, sudsy water, feeling quite decadent all the while. After our baths, Leah lined her eyes in black pencil and painted her lips deep carmine. I wondered who she wanted to impress.

My newly shampooed locks fell into loose waves. I changed into a stylish frock of crimson gabardine that Zisel had provided for the trip, and we were ready to find the dining car.

A grinning porter in a white jacket passed us, dinner chimes in hand. My stomach growled, and so did Leah’s. “Hey, kiddo, it’s time to eat. How’s about we put on the dog again and pretend we’re two swells?”

We locked arms and followed the porter.