Dreams Bigger Than the Night Read Free Page A

shoulder. “Just for luck. I like to ward off any evil spirits. You know, it’s a Catholic thing.”
    “What do you do when there’s no salt around?”
    Willie guffawed. “Smart kid. I make the sign of the figa , like this.” Willie held up his fist with his thumb tucked under his fingers.
    The two men had just finished dinner. Puddy and Jay ordered coconut cream pie. Willie paused.
    “If I down another one of them cream pies, I’ll never fit into my new suit. Better I should just have cherry pie a la mode.”
    “That’ll keep you slim,” said Puddy. “So, Spider, you still working for your old man?”
    “Yeah, but a depression’s not a good time for powder puffs. And nothing else seems available.”
    “If he needs a loan . . .”
    “He would never ask.”
    “Money’s money.”
    “Not according to Honest Ike.”
    Moretti continued to play with the salt and pepper cellars.
    “What about you?”
    Before Jay could answer, Puddy said, “We could use a smart lansman .”
    “Why not?” thought Jay. His college degree had not brought him work commensurate with his education. Until now, the love he felt for his parents had kept him on the right side of the law. If his family learned that he palled around with Puddy . . . a shanda ! It was rumored that even Zwillman made sure his mother never found out where his gelt came from. The bribe of bread had corrupted entire nations. Just look at Germany. “What’s the deal?” he asked.
    “Tell you what,” said Puddy. “We’ll drive over to my place. We can talk there.”
    Through the dessert, Moretti kept up a running commentary on Newark’s nightspots, especially the Kinney Club at Arlington and Augusta streets, which offered a racially mixed clientele a taste of the forbidden in the heart of Newark’s Barbary Coast. The Kinney Club was more than Jay’s pocket could afford. Hoping for a return to the spats, he listened.
    Finally, they put on their overcoats. Sam Teiger clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Say hello to your parents, Jay, and always do the right thing.” Following Puddy into the gray street, he saw a new 1934 black Packard at the curb. A former schoolmate, Irv Sugarman, who’d left in the eleventh grade, opened the door. Irv apparently now worked for Puddy and Moretti.
    “Hello, Jay. Hop in.”
    The sound of the door closing behind him, as he slid into the backseat, gave him a sense of importance. He was a capable boy with connections to people who actually ran the city. Still, he couldn’t help wondering whether he would find himself in the underworld or in the respectable one, in crime or commerce? How would his family feel if his name appeared on a police blotter?
    They drove to Puddy’s office, a small room over a delicatessen, with spindle-backed chairs and a battered rolltop desk, which depended on a deck of cards under one leg to offset the sloping floor. From downstairs rose the mingled smells of pickles in brine, chopped liver and onions, Liederkranz and Limburger cheeses. Through the one window he could see in the lamplight the pushcarts lining the curbs and the canvas awnings of the sidewalk stores.
    “Sit down, Spider.” Puddy plopped down with his feet on the desk. “You don’t smoke, right?” Jay nodded without looking at him, his attention drawn to Moretti, who gravitated toward the window. Puddy removed the paper band from a cheap cigar, slipped it on his pinky, and struck a match on the side of the desk. “This stuff ain’t good for me. I’m supposed to be in trainin’.”
    Moretti stared at the street below. “You’re a born canvasback, Puddy. I don’t know why you keep fighting.”
    “Hey, I like it. Besides, it gives me a reputation.”
    “What, as a punching bag?”
    “No, a guy you don’t lean on.”
    Moretti said nothing.
    “We may have a job for you,” said Puddy. “But before I give you my spiel, you give me yours. What do you like doin’ most?”
    “Writing.”
    “Huh?”
    “Yeah, I like