Dreams Bigger Than the Night Read Online Free PDF

and bright observant eyes, Zwillman was no Clark Gable. A few years before, he and Harlow had been lovers. The columnists said Longie had paid movie directors to cast her and even invested in a film company for the sole purpose of advancing her career.
    “How did you meet?” a breathless woman asked Harlow. The inquisitor, wearing a yellow dress with spaghetti straps, leaned so close to Jean they nearly bumped heads.
    “In Chicago. I was appearing at the Oriental Theater. My host, Al Capone, took Abe backstage to meet me.”
    “ The Al Capone?” a strawberry blonde said with such longing that she looked as though she’d embrace Harlow.
    “None other.”
    The mention of Capone had elicited knowing looks and vacuous bursts of laughter, but before her fans could ask any further questions, she held up a hand.
    “Jean is not the attraction tonight, someone else is.” All eyes shifted to Zwillman. But Abe shook his head no. “We have with us a man who has been called the world’s greatest entertainer. It gives me great pleasure to introduce Al Jolson!”
    Materializing from one of the numerous rooms, a dapper Jolson, wearing an ascot, bounded into the crowd, shook hands with dozens, rolled out a repertoire of jokes and patter, puffed on a cigarette, strutted some dance steps, snuffed out the weed, called to the pianist, and, with the kind of Jack Diamond emotion that stamps a person as original, sang Fred Ahlert’s “Who Played Poker with Pocahontas when John Smith Went Away?”
    Looking through my history,
    I found a little mystery,
    About a certain dame—
    How did little Pocahontas,
    Take John Smith for all his wampus?
    I bet I know her game.
    He taught her how to play poker;
    She sent him home without his dough.
    Every time that he came back,
    He found her with a larger stack.
    Now here’s what I’d like to know:
    Who played poker with Pocahontas when John Smith went away?
    As Joli performed, holding nothing back, revealing his feelings in the tenor of his voice, Longie and Jean retreated to the back of the room and disappeared. Puddy and Jay stood tapping their feet and clapping hands to the rhythm of the song. When Joli had finished, a woman nearly expelled a lung yelling “More, more!” By the time Joli launched into his third song, the thundering in the house could have been heard in Newark. One of the waiters touched Jay’s shoulder. “Mr. Zwillman would like to have a word with you.” Puddy’s open mouth spoke for them both.
    A small fireplace cast a golden glow that filled the paneled room and reflected softly in the leaded windowpanes. Zwillman was stirring the embers to resurrect a flame. A phonograph, perched on a radio console, played Puccini arias. The record jackets were lying on a felt-top table, next to chips and a deck of cards.
    “Forget it, Abe, the flame ain’t comin’ back,” said Jean in the same voice she had used in the living room.
    Abe rested the poker against the bricks and contemplated her longingly, as he sat in a burgundy leather chair across from the matching couch on which she lounged. Her dress revealed more leg than one could see in a girlie show. However many hearts she had broken in Hollywood, she had definitely left one yearning in New Jersey.
    “Make yourself at home,” said Zwillman.
    Jay looked around at the substantial furniture and decided he hadn’t earned the right to sit as an equal. So he drew up a hassock, told himself not to slouch, and said nervously, “Nice house you got.”
    “Someday it’ll be mine,” Abe replied enigmatically.
    Incredulous that he could be in the company of a movie star, Jay enthused, “I’ve seen all your pictures, Miss Harlow.”
    “Jean’s here on a visit.”
    “Is one of those Cadillacs yours? I noticed the California plates.”
    “The red one. A gift from Abe.”
    “The black one,” said Zwillman, “belongs to Jolson. But he’s never driven it. He has a chauffeur.”
    “Maybe, kid, there’s a caddy in your