“Yeah.”
They drove down Beverly Road, and pulled up at a Tudor mansion with decorated half timbering, tall narrow windows, massive chimneys, and a roof pitched steeper than a ski jump. Dozens of cars had spilled over from the street onto the expansive lawn. Just outside the front door stood two Cadillacs, one red and the other an all-weather black phaeton.
A butler led them into the house, which was overflowing with raucous guests and booze. A rainbow of balloons floated overhead; three musicians on piano, trombone, and sax played swing. Ladies wore fur stoles and beaded evening gowns that reflected the lamps glowing like golden apples, their necks and wrists dripping diamonds and pearls and rubies, with gents in dark English suits and silk shirts—white on white, black, silver, blue—sporting bloated pinky rings and smoking foot-long Habana cigars that they lit from platinum Ronson lighters. Two priests and a man wearing a white satin yarmulke moved easily through the room, stopping at the sideboards stocked with roast beef, cold lamb chops, pastrami, chopped chicken liver, smoked salmon, and whitefish. One table held just fresh fruits and desserts: lemon meringue pies, cheese cakes, cherry, apple, and blackberry pies, chocolates, Danish pastry, custards, cream puffs, and vats of ice cream standing in iced tubs. Amused to see three men of faith at this shindig, Jay moved close enough to listen. The Jewish man was talking.
“We really must stand together and rally public opinion. From our Berlin sources, I understand the Nazis so fear a boycott that they have dispatched undercover agents to different countries to suppress dissent—any way they can.”
The younger of the two priests, a wispy fellow, agreed on the importance of unity. “With Jeremiah Mahoney behind the boycott, other Catholics will follow.”
“Brundage,” said the Jewish man, “is immune to reason and dogmatically insists the games must go on. I do begin to wonder whether his scheduled trip to Germany is to promote the glory of sport or himself.”
The older priest, completely bald, laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Rabbi Wise, the Olympic Committee may follow Avery Brundage, but the Amateur Athletic Union will have the final say. And Mahoney is the president of the AAU.”
Of course: Rabbi Stephen Wise! His face had looked familiar. But here in this house . . . unbelievable! In his early sixties and Hungarian by birth, the good man was strikingly handsome with sharp features and dark hair. Shortly after Hitler took power in January 1933, Wise had denounced the National Socialists and had organized an anti-Nazi protest in Madison Square Garden. Calling for a boycott of the Berlin Olympics, he was meeting with resistance from Brundage and his ilk.
The older priest continued. “Catholics stand with Mahoney, who is, after all, a former New York State supreme court justice and the head of the Committee on Fair Play.”
To which his colleague added, “And Jeremiah has started a letter-writing campaign in support of the boycott.”
“For the life of me,” said Rabbi Wise, “I can’t understand why Brundage would want to hold the games. They will only glorify the Nazi regime. The man’s a college graduate, an engineer, rich. What does he stand to gain?”
The older priest replied softly, “Avery regards the opposition as Communists and, pardon the slander, self-serving Jews.”
A bar with a brass foot rail held a prominent place in the living room, manned by three Negroes dressed in white jackets and shirts, black trousers, and red bow ties. Every conceivable drink from ginger ale and beer to Bols could be had for the ordering. Half a dozen waiters, all in black tuxes, appeared, evaporated, and then materialized at a guest’s elbow with a tray bearing a drink. Glancing around the room, Jay had the impression of exotically colored cocktails floating through the smoky light. Puddy identified the famous gangsters in attendance. Awed by the company, Jay was all ears.
Charles Luciano’s drooping right eye was a souvenir of knife-wielding kidnappers who’d severed his cheek muscles. Having survived that “ride” five years before had earned him the nickname “Lucky.” Puddy said the guy could barely read a newspaper, but had had the moxie to arrange the deaths of Joe the Boss Masseria and Salvatore Maranzano, the Mustache Petes. Lucky stood listening to Meyer Lansky or, as Puddy respectfully called him, “the little man,” who was saying:
“They never learn, do they? Traditions are fine, but what holds men together is money, not rituals.”
The third member of this trio, Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, agreed. “That omerta stuff’s old world. Come out to California and see the future. Los Angeles . . . that’s where it’s being made. Palms and pineapples and pinochle.”
A handsome guy with slicked-down hair, Bugsy was reputed to have a ferocious temper and was 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 i
n 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 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 future. Right, Abe?”
The big man chuckled and, resting his elbows on his knees, cradled his chin in his hands. “Let’s talk.”
“If I can be of service . . .” Jay replied cautiously, breaking off because he knew that some of Zwillman’s unsavory enterprises took a stronger stomach than his.
“Your reports on Dutch’s boys are good stuff.”
So he had finally determined his real employer.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You have a way with words. When I read your accounts it’s like reading a story. I’m impressed.”
“I like to write.”
“That’s what Puddy says.” Abe lit a cigar and tossed the match into the fireplace. “You’re probably wondering why I wanted this information. Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t want to see any drugs in the Third Ward. Call it religious scruples. The Ten Commandments may not forbid it, but Jews shouldn’t be using dope. I’ve warned Dutch before, several times. We’re still friends, but . . .”
What, Jay wondered, was Longie’s real beef, the drugs, or the calculated slight of Dutch’s ignoring repeated threats? Maybe there was even another reason. Jay repositioned the book lying on the coffee table next to the couch: The Great Gatsby.
“Jean loves to read,” she said indolently, reaching for her handbag and removing a box of Chiclets. Shaking a few directly into her mouth, she cracked her gum, inviting Zwillman’s displeasure.
“Sorry, Jean thought she was with her own kind,” she murmured and laughed mischievously.
Zwillman, who couldn’t keep his peepers from her puss, responded with an affectionate smile that seemed like a secret code, and then turned to Jay. “The name’s Klug, right?”
“That’s what my parents tell me,” Jay quipped, trying to appear snappy.
“Curse or clever?” Abe asked playing on the Yiddish double meaning.
“Clever, I hope.”
“Me, too.”
“He looks real smart . . . cute, too,” said Jean, flashing a smile that promised she was prejudiced in Jay’s favor—and that made him her faithful fan.
“You used to work for your father. How was that?”
“Awful. He believes in the sanctity of labor, no matter how dreary the job.”
Longie huffed sympathetically. “Some jobs ennoble, most don’t. As a kid I peddled door-to-door. It brutalized me. I swore that I would never grovel again. Let me give you some advice, son, whatever you do, do for money, a lot of it. There’s nothing worse than a bad job and a flat bank account. Better to be a pimp than a pauper.”
“I’d just like a job that doesn’t turn my mind to rabbit droppings—and pays well.”
“Since you want to write, what would you say to reporting for the Newark Evening News, in the arts section?”
“I . . . you mean . . . just like that . . . me?”
“You, Jay Klug. The editor owes me a favor.”
At that moment, Jay could have used a drink. His mouth felt like feathers, and his dry throat brought forth only a croak.
“Did you say what’s the deal?” said Zwillman.
Jay nodded emphati
cally. Longie briefly glanced at Jean.
“You’ll be the movie theater critic for the paper, and you’ll get paid twenty-five dollars a week. In return, I expect to see rave reviews for Jean’s work.” Longie fixed Jay with his gaze. “Understood?”
Finding his voice, Jay said too loudly, “Hell, yes!”
“One other thing. I got you a room at the Riviera Hotel. I keep one there myself. In return, I’ll want some favors, including your writing newspaper articles critical of the Olympics, and letters for the American Jewish Congress, which is leading the charge to boycott the events in Berlin. I’ll give you a list of names and addresses, letterhead stationery, and stamped envelopes. Dutch Schultz is on the address list. Be sure he gets a letter.”
Jay desperately searched through his mind for an explanation that he could give his parents. They would undoubtedly ask how he could be earning enough money to pay rent in the Riviera, known for housing well-heeled businessmen, artists, politicians, and, yes, even some mobsters. His father would say that cub reporters make bupkis and live in boardinghouses in which you can’t tell the bed from the board. Did he dare tell him the paper was footing the bill because he was on a secret assignment? No, his old man would reply that papers don’t assign fledgling pencil pushers to undercover work, and then fold his arms across his chest and silently skewer him with that gaze Honest Ike always assumed when Jay lied.
Gerry Catena materialized at the door. “A telephone call for you, Abe. Important.”
Longie reached into his vest pocket for a small leather case that held business cards, removed one, and wrote on the back his personal telephone number. “If you’re ever in a tight spot, this may help.”
No sooner had Longie gone than Jean asked if he knew how to play poker; when he said yes, they sat down at the felt-top table and stacked the record jackets on the floor. She dealt the cards and declared:
“Aces wild.”
“Sure.”
She regarded her hand, muttered “Shit,” discarded three cards, and took three more.
Jay took two and asked, “How do you like being in the movies?”
Dreams Bigger Than the Night Page 3