“That isn’t important so long as you sound like you do. It can mean whatever you want—the thoughts that arise can be all the stories spilling out of your head so fast you can hardly write them down.”
Dubious, Lily stared at her. “If you say so.”
Riding the red cars on the appointed morning, Fritzi was as nervous as her friend. She’d begged Lily to put only a faint dab of rouge on each cheek, not overdoing it as she did when she went out at night. Lily wore her most demure dress. Outside the main house, Fritzi squeezed Lily’s hand. “Don’t let him scare you. He’s a very nice man. Good luck.”
She could barely concentrate on her work with Eddie for the next hour. About half past nine, she finished a take, paused to dab her perspiring forehead with a hanky, and saw Lily dashing past the barn toward the stage, waving. Fritzi ran to meet her.
“What happened?”
“I’m hired. I’m the story department—a whole twenty dollars a week until you go back to New York.”
“Lily, that’s wonderful.” They danced each other around in an improvised polka that amused Jock Ferguson and Eddie.
“There’s more. Mr. Pelzer said that if I work out, I can have the job when the company comes back next winter. I owe it all to you. He loves Tennyson.”
Another one of Hayman’s great ideas led to someone being fired.
While Fritzi changed clothes in a smelly horse stall, she overheard the partners arguing outside the barn.
Hayman: “Kalem’s putting out a list of the actors with every release.”
B.B.: “I dunno, Ham, it’s the brand name sells the picture. In the World one exhibitor said he advertises ‘A new Biograph every day.’”
Hayman: “Phooey. You get letters asking about the actors, don’t you?”
B.B.: “A few for Owen, lots more for Fritzi. But—”
Hayman: “Tell the names. Sell the names. They did it with Florence Lawrence pictures.”
Kelly: “After she left Biograph. Biograph doesn’t pump up anybody else.”
Hayman: “They’re nuts. They got the most valuable actors in America. Mary Pickford’s getting a big build-up since she and her hubby left them for Laemmle’s IMP outfit.”
Kelly: “I’m warning you. Publicize personalities, they’ll want more money.”
Hayman: “So what? If we have stars people know and want to see, we’ll make more money. Change, Al—change! It’s like the ocean. It’s always there, you can’t fight it, but it’ll carry you to fabulous new places if you let it.”
B.B.: “I like this man’s thinking.”
Fritzi listened to a heavy tread she presumed to be Al Kelly stomping away from the discussion, outvoted.
For her next picture, The Lone Indian’s Escape, they returned to the rugged and isolated area of North Highland known as Daisy Dell. About noon on the first day, B.B. arrived in a taxi and hiked down a rough trail to the spot where the company had set up Owen’s tepee. Excited, he showed a picture postal card bearing a photograph of a stout hook-nosed man in cowboy clothes.
“Found this yesterday, selling for a nickel at a theater. Ain’t it a swell idea?” Fritzi studied the legend with the photo.
ESSANAY LEADING MAN
“BRONCO BILLY” ANDERSON
“Like it, Owen? Like to have your name and your mug on one of these?”
“Anything you say, B.B.” Owen folded his grease-painted arms and gave Fritzi a smug look. B.B. rushed around the crude camp table where cast and crew had been consuming sandwiches and tepid tea.
“How about you, Fritzi?”
Surprised, she could only point at herself. Before she could add, “Me?” Owen jumped up with all the feathers of his great war bonnet quivering.
“Wait a minute, who’s the star of these pictures, may I ask?”
B.B.’s brow wrinkled in a studious way. “Why, Owen, based on the numbers of letters she gets and you get, I’d have to tell you”—he laid his arm over the sun-dappled shoulders of Fritzi’s pioneer dress—“it’s this little gel.”
Owen turned a distinctly darker shade of reddish-brown. “Oh, yes? Well, Mr. Pelzer, I’m not happy to hear that. I’m not happy at all. Her parts get bigger while mine stay the same. I tell you I don’t like it.”
To show how much he didn’t like it, he tore off his war bonnet and threw it down and kicked it.
“We’re having a talk about this, Mr. Pelzer.”
“Sure, sure, drop in tomorrow and—”
“Right now.”
B.B. sighed. “Okay.” He and Owen hiked back up the trail. Owen’s little talk lasted forty-five minutes, putting them behind schedule and seriously irking Eddie. The talk resumed in the studio office when the company returned at sunset. It was never clear whether Pelzer, the gentlest of men, fired Owen, or he simply quit. Fritzi didn’t learn the news until she reported next morning.
“I want to know how we finish the damn picture,” Kelly said.
“We find another Big Chief Hot Air,” B.B. said. “I finally had to tell Owen nobody’s really watching him.” He captured Fritzi’s hand. “This is the one we got to take care of, Al. This little gel is the star.”
The star? No one had ever used the word in reference to Fritzi. She knew she should be thrilled. In a certain way she was. Mostly she was terrified. She imagined herself on a raft being pulled irretrievably into a dark whirlpool, the movies, while distantly on the shore, Broadway lights twinkled and Ellen Terry waved a sad but resigned farewell.
52. Fritzi and Carl
Sit down, woman.”
“But that driver in the yellow car is my brother.”
“D’you hear me? Sit.” The man in the row behind gave her sleeve a rude yank. Fritzi turned and hit him with her handbag, a light glancing blow.
“Stand up if you can’t see, you bully.”
The scruffy man saw the fire in her eyes and stood on his seat rather than argue.
The three cars, Barney Oldfield’s white one, a green one, and Carl’s yellow racer took the starting flag and roared off for the second heat. Fritzi jumped up and down along with hundreds of others packed into the wooden amphitheater. “Come on, Carl. Beat him, beat him.”
Fritzi had never seen a racetrack like this one at Playa del Rey, within sight and sound of the Pacific. Basically a saucer surrounded by a high grandstand, the racing surface was Oregon fir overlaid with crushed shells for traction. The board track was banked all the way around, and from the top of the grandstand there was a fine view eastward to the mountains, west to the sunlit ocean.
This Sunday, the last day of April, Fritzi had no illusions about Carl beating Oldfield. He’d written to explain the rigged exhibition races. Even so, natural excitement and sisterly affection drove her to cheer wildly when Carl won the second heat by a length.
Gas and oil fumes mingled in the exhaust smoke rising off the track. In the final heat, two laps from the finish, Oldfield suddenly cut in front of Carl, clipping his left front fender as he passed. The impact sent Carl toward the grandstand wall, then into a spin when he corrected. Oldfield shot ahead. The third driver veered to the inner rail and scraped along it, narrowly avoiding Carl, who spun to a stop and killed his engine. Fritzi kept her knuckles pressed against her teeth until Carl restarted his motor and chugged out of the way of Oldfield, who was coming around again without slowing.
Carl finished a bad last, leaving the track while Oldfield took a victory lap. She couldn’t help feeling let down and angry. Oldfield had been reckless, almost involving her brother in an accident.
She fought her way down the stairs through the crowd afterward. The track garage was packed with hangers-on, heavy with smoke, everyone joking and shouting. Fritzi spied Carl off by himself, climbing out of an oil-stained coverall. She caught her breath when she saw a nasty purplish bruise on his left cheek, just above a smear of grease.
“Carl?” She waved and pushed toward him. He turned, and she got another shock. His right eye was barely visible in the slit be
tween swollen and discolored eyelids.
“Sis, my Lord, how are you?” He flung his arms around her, bending over with an enthusiastic hug. She drew back in his arms, gently touched his bruised and grimy face. “What on earth is all this?”
“The eye? A little fracas last night. On the way to town we stopped for a few beers at a roadhouse in Ventura and—never mind, it isn’t serious.”
“Could you see to drive?”
“Just enough. I’m through for the day. Want to meet the great man before we go?”
“Of course,” she said hesitantly, puzzled by the curious note of reluctance when he asked.
Carl turned his shoulder and thrust through the crowd like a Princeton lineman. She said, “How long will you be in town?”
“Till the end of the week.”
“That’s grand. We can see the sights. Mr. Pelzer, who runs Liberty pictures, said I could have time off to be with you. My director even rearranged the shooting schedule.”
They found the Speed King in the midst of a group of admirers. His oily race goggles were pushed up on his unruly hair. An attractive dark-haired woman hung on his arm. She gave Carl an unfriendly look as they approached. Fritzi was shocked by Oldfield’s sallow skin, the pouches under his red, watering eyes. Though a relatively young man, he looked old and dissipated.
“Barney, I’d like you to meet my sister, Fritzi. Sis, Barney and Bess Oldfield.” Mrs. Oldfield stared at her, plainly hostile.
“Pleased to meet you,” Barney said. “Your kid brother, huh?” Fritzi nodded. “He’s a good wheel man. Sometimes too good. Hope you enjoyed the show. Come on, sweet.” He pushed his wife and they walked off.
Fritzi pinned her hat as she left the noisy garage. “Carl, is something going on? Your boss seemed sore.”
“The king lost his throne last Sunday,” Carl said as they followed people toward the Pacific Electric stop. “In Daytona a young kid named Wild Bob Burman broke Barney’s land speed record. To make it worse, he drove one of Barney’s old cars. Barney’s been on a tear all week. Last night at the roadhouse there was an altercation. With people he didn’t know.”
“Who started it?”
“Barney, after half a quart of whiskey. Three of us pulled him off, which he didn’t appreciate. He socked me a couple of times.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. Why do you work for him?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Carl said. “Give me five minutes to clean up, and we’ll get out of here.”
When he rejoined her, his face was washed, his hands too. He’d put on a loose jacket and wrapped a dashing red silk scarf around his neck.
Back in Venice, they crossed Lion Canal on an arched footbridge as the spring daylight faded. She showed him where she lived. They strolled on several of the residential islands, then returned to the boardwalk. Within sight of the new and noisy Cloud Race roller coaster, they found a small German restaurant for supper. Carl rammed through the door like the spirited little boy she remembered. He didn’t simply sit in his chair, he dropped, making the chair creak and the waiter gasp.
Over platters of pork chops, cabbage, roast potatoes, and Crown’s beer, they caught up on things. The easiest topic to start on was their parents.
“What’s Pop going to do if the drys win and we have national prohibition?” Carl asked her.
“I can’t speak with any authority. I don’t see Papa or hear from him.”
“Same old problem, huh? Too bad.”
Fritzi looked away, wanting to avoid the subject. “I suppose Crown’s and all the other breweries will have to close. Or manufacture something else that’s legal.”
“That’d kill Pop.”
She sighed to agree.
Gradually Carl lost some of his tense, tired air. He talked with enthusiasm of his new interest in learning to fly aeroplanes. For dessert he ate two slabs of mince pie with ice cream.
Describing a driving exhibition in Denver, he mentioned a girl named Sissie. Fritzi said, “I also recall a Margaret, and one of your letters talked about someone in El Paso. Forgive me for being a nosy sister, but are you ever going to marry one of them?”
Carl’s face grew grave. “Not likely. There was one I really cared about, up in Detroit. Her name was Tess. Her father and his pals were a pretty snotty bunch, but she was different. She was a wonderful lady. I thought hard about staying, trying to make it work out, but—I don’t know. Something pushed me on. Something always does.”
With a puzzled smile he added, “Sometimes I wonder if it’s Pop. Maybe I’m scared he’ll drag me back to Chicago somehow, and I’ll have to deal with him every day for the rest of my life. I love him, but he’s a tyrant. Hell, who knows?” He grabbed his coffee mug, almost spilling it. Still clumsy as a puppy, she thought, touched. She was aware of him changing the subject:
“How about your life, sis? Any men in it?”
“Not presently, no.”
“What about the actors in pictures? Aren’t some of them pretty handsome?”
“Yes, but they all seem to fall into three categories. Married and happy. Married and cheating. Or madly in love with themselves.”
He laughed. “You care about settling down sometime, don’t you?”
“Well, I have my career to think about. When we’re back in New York this summer, I’m going to try the theater again. I’ve always said picture making’s temporary.”
“Sis, answer the question.”
“Of course I care about settling down. I have feelings. I’m not a female eunuch.” She tilted her head. “Are there female eunuchs?”
“I doubt it. Keep looking for your man. You’ll find him.”
To escape the subject she opened her handbag and drew out a picture postcard. “Here, I’ve been meaning to show you.”
When he saw the photo, he exclaimed, “Hey, it’s you.” Indeed it was Fritzi, posed rather coyly in a frilly dress and picture hat, with printing beneath.
FRITZI CROWN
A Liberty Pictures Favorite
“Two of our other actors have cards. Theaters sell the cards for a nickel. My boss’s idea. You’ll meet him when I show you the lot.”
At the end of three days Carl’s bruises didn’t look much better, but he seemed in better spirits, having been separated from his employer for a while. In an ice cream parlor, they sat on wire chairs beside a plate-glass window, eating chocolate cones. It was her last day with him. Saturday the Oldfield troupe headed for San Diego; tomorrow, and the rest of the week, she’d be working.
She brought up the subject she’d so far held in reserve. “You didn’t tell me Barney Oldfield opened a saloon on Spring Street.”
“He and a partner, some joe who used to work for a railroad.” Carl licked a gob of ice cream about to fall off the cone. “Barney let the other guy do most of the setup. The saloon’s one of the reasons we came to Los Angeles. I didn’t mention it because I can’t take you there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a men’s hangout. If it’s anything like Barney himself, it’ll be a rough place.” He hesitated but went on. “Everywhere we travel, seems like there’s a fight. Barney usually starts them. He plays nasty practical jokes on strangers.”
“You really don’t like working for him, do you?”
“Not anymore. Before I signed on, I couldn’t think of anything better. I’ve gotten a belly full. Barney’s great when he’s sober. But the rest of the time, which is most of the time, he treats his help like dirt. All the money and fame did something to him, and it’s a hell of a lot worse since Burman broke his speed record. You saw what happened at the oval.”
“Did he hit your car deliberately?”
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t think straight, is the problem. He’s in a rage all the time.”
“Will you quit?”
“I think about it a lot.”
“If you quit, what would you do?”
Carl couldn’t meet her gaze. “There’s the question. For which
I don’t have an answer. Maybe I never will. Maybe I’ll never figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with my life. Sometimes in the middle of the night, that scares me.”
She took his hand and squeezed hard. Sometimes in the middle of the night, the same unanswered question scared her too.
“What about that girl, Carl, the special one in Detroit?”
She was startled by the stark, almost anguished look that came on his face; she hadn’t realized the depth of his attachment.
“Tess? What about her?”
“Could you go back to Detroit and find her?”
“She’s probably married by now.”
“But you don’t know that.”
Carl’s dark eyes seemed to show both pain and uncertainty. “Maybe I don’t want to know, sis.”
Fritzi had no answer for that.
53. Mickey Finn
Carl sat with a plate of the pickled sausages, a pencil and a postcard colorfully illustrating last year’s air show at Dominguez Field. It was five o’clock, a day after his final outing with Fritzi.
He munched a sausage, licked the tip of his pencil, and wrote slowly. He hadn’t mailed a card to Tess in months, had no idea whether she’d receive this one. Deep feelings compelled him to send something to show he was alive and was thinking of her. He thought of her more than he would admit in the scrawled words that reflected his lifelong losing war with penmanship.
About a dozen customers lined the long mahogany bar, all men, most from the local newspaper and sporting community. They argued boxing and baseball while cleaning off the free-lunch plates of sliced turkey and ham and cheese. A day after seeing the place for the first time, Barney decided “saloon” wasn’t appropriate for a joint with his name on it. He ordered the exterior sign repainted to read OLDFIELD-KIPPER TAVERN. He told his partner, Jack Kipper, that the word tavern sounded more “high-class English.”
Tavern or saloon, it made no difference to the six gray ladies from the WCTU marching in a circle on the sidewalk, holding high their righteous chins and their placards denouncing alcohol and those who served it. Patrons sober and otherwise entering the saloon tipped their derbies and joshed with the ladies, who glowered and admonished them with Bible verses. In noisy South Spring Street autos honked, wagons creaked, horses neighed and left huge pods of manure where pedestrians crossed.