Dreams Bigger Than the Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

regarded as a cold-blooded killer. Frankly, Jay thought the man looked more like a movie star than a hit man.
    Gerry Catena, said to be a business associate of Abner Zwillman, slapped Puddy’s shoulder and paused just long enough for Jay to be introduced, then vanished in the crowd.
    A short, round-faced, cigar-chomping spark plug held up his dukes as Puddy approached. Jay recognized him immediately from the newspapers, where his mug had appeared more than once for his involvement in fights, in and out of the ring. A retired prizefighter, Nat Arno now worked for Longie Zwillman’s Third Ward Gang as an enforcer and as the head of a group of toughs, the Minutemen, dedicated to breaking up pro-Nazi meetings and busting heads. Nat whispered in Puddy’s ear and shook Jay’s hand like a vise.
    “Arno’s the name. Nat. Ever see me fight?”
    “’Fraid not.”
    “Nat does his best fighting on the street,” Puddy chuckled.
    “You know my motto, Pud, persuasion when possible, violence when necessary.”
    Nat shifted the cigar in his mouth and moved off.
    A fellow in his early thirties walked up and shoved his paw in Puddy’s. A moment later Jay met Morris “Moe” Dalitz, who led the Cleveland mob. Conservatively dressed in a blue suit and tie, Moe seemed interested mostly in criticizing the house owner’s collection of paintings.
    “Run of the mill stuff.”
    “What do you like?” asked Puddy.
    “The real, not the idealized.”
    Dalitz, despite his cruel eyes, extended lower lip, and small, hard body, could have passed for a cultured art collector. Apparently, a few days before, Moe had been in the Village trying to persuade the painter Edward Hopper to part with an oil, Room in New York .
    “On the left side of the canvas,” Moe explained, gesturing with manicured hands, “a man in a dark vest and tie slumps in a parlor chair reading a newspaper. On the right, a woman in a spiffy red dress sits at a piano with one hand on the keys. The lower part of her body is turned toward the man, the upper faces the piano. A table stands between them. His interest in the paper and her posture suggest that he’s indifferent and she’s sad. The haunting loneliness . . .”
    Moe would undoubtedly have continued had all the revelers not been interrupted by Luciano calling for everyone’s attention.
    “You ain’t seen your host yet and that’s ’cause he’s been tied up with a surprise. Ladies and gents, Abe Zwillman and Jean Harlow!”
    As the crowd applauded, Jean Harlow appeared in a sheer white dress that reminded Jay of a joke making the rounds: “I’m dying to see what the well-dressed girl will leave off this season.” Clearly visible were her breasts and nipples and more. The movie critics said that she had a perfect body and never wore underwear, observations any fool could have arrived at; the critics also said that she used peroxide, ammonia, Clorox, and Lux Flakes to bleach not only her famous platinum tresses but also her pubic hair. Though Jay couldn’t attest to the formula, he could to the color. Equally eye-catching was her creamy complexion, which resembled pink ivory and shone with a mysterious luminosity. On her left wrist she wore a jeweled charm bracelet featuring a pig, and on her left ankle a chain. She spoke like a guttersnipe and referred to herself in the third person, but her fans could never tell whether they were hearing her movie voice or her real one.
    “You wouldn’t mind, would ya, if Jean had a carrot?”
    The guests all roared because the rich repast did not include vegetables. “Miss Harlow,” she joshed, “has to keep her figure.”
    One of the Negro bartenders made a beeline for the kitchen and returned a minute later with a plate of tomatoes, carrots, celery, mushrooms, and asparagus spears.
    People immediately surrounded her, leaving Zwillman, called Der Langer , Yiddish for “The Tall One,” peering over the heads of her admirers. Though handsome, with black curly hair