‘I am, though,’ she said with a visible effort.
‘She’s not leaving me!’ Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. ‘Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.’
‘I won’t stand this!’ cried Daisy. ‘Oh, please let’s get out.’
‘Who are you, anyhow?’ broke out Tom. ‘You’re one of 1
The Great Gatsby
that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.’
‘You can suit yourself about that, old sport.’ said Gatsby steadily.
‘I found out what your ‘drug stores’ were.’ He turned to us and spoke rapidly. ‘He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drug stores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts.
I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him and I wasn’t far wrong.’
‘What about it?’ said Gatsby politely. ‘I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.’
‘And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of YOU.’
‘He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.’
‘Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!’ cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. ‘Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.’
That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face.
‘That drug store business was just small change,’ continued Tom slowly, ‘but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.’
I glanced at Daisy who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband and at Jordan who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com
1
chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had ‘killed a man.’ For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way.
It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, deny-ing everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.
The voice begged again to go.
‘PLEASE, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.’
Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.
‘You two start on home, Daisy,’ said Tom. ‘In Mr. Gatsby’s car.’
She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn.
‘Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.’
They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts even from our pity.
After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the un-opened bottle of whiskey in the towel.
‘Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?’
I didn’t answer.
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The Great Gatsby
‘Nick?’ He asked again.
‘What?’
‘Want any?’
‘No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.’
I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous menac-ing road of a new decade.
It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamor on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.
So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ashheaps was the principal witness at the inquest.
He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com
