“Now come, we can’t keep Jordan waiting. Always be respectful to her,” Daisy said in warning, as she pushed me back to the kitchen. And then she whispered, “She has something of a temper. And do not mention Jay Gatsby or—”
“What are you two talking about over there?” Jordan called from across the kitchen.
It was too late for Daisy to finish her instructions. Instead, she announced to the room, “Just giving him the rundown,” and went to start unloading gallon glass bottles from a bag.
Vivian came and grabbed my arm to present me before Jordan. “Nick saved my life! You should’ve seen him! I had no idea he had so much man in him!”
“Thanks?” I said.
“So, Nick,” Jordan said. “I can see that Daisy thinks very fondly of you. You saved Vivian, so I like you too. I won’t ask you to replace the spilled liquor, even though it was your presence that sent Daisy halfway to heaven and caused it to spill in the first place. But I do have a question. What is it that you do?”
“Well, they’ve got me operating elevators at West Egg,” I said with a shrug.
“Elevators?” She shook her head. “Nah, you’re way too smart for that.” Jordan snapped and her attendant brought me a picture of Tom Buchanan. “You ever seen this money-hungry slug before?”
I looked at Daisy, who was still distracted, or at least pretending to be so.
“In photos, I have... yes,” I finally said.
“This man sold his shopping center to Jay Gatsby Sr. so he could build West Egg Academy. They’re business partners, but that’s a problem—Mr. Buchanan’s a man of poor integrity, which puts Mr. Gatsby’s character into question too. And now Gatsby’s son has been showing up at UNIA meetings, leaving everyone to wonder what he’s after.”
“Shouldn’t he attend the meetings?” I asked. “He is Colored.”
“If you call that Colored,” Jordan snorted.
“Do you have to be purely Colored to attend UNIA?”
“Not the point. The point is the father has been in contact with me. He thinks his bootlegging business could be doing better here in Central Harlem, and I agree. Our business is too small to meet all the demand, but if Gatsby handles production and we handle distribution, then everyone gets rich.”
Jordan snapped again and the attendant brought me another piece of paper. This one was a flyer, which said,
NOTICE!
If you are interested in the development of your race, you will attend:
THE UNIVERSAL NEGRO IMPROVEMENT ASSOCIATION
Meeting in Central Harlem
6 to 9 p.m.
Live Art! Performance Theater! An Address from Garvey and More!
“They say the enemy never shows you both hands,” Jordan went on. “I’m not sure I can trust this... Mr. Gatsby. Especially not with Jay Jr. popping up at the very meetings that run counter to his papa’s missions. The son could be a spy for his father—invading my territory and stealing it without us noticing. I tell you what, Nick. I’m looking for someone to push a service cart at the next UNIA meeting to earn me some patrons. Find Gatsbyat the event, watch him, report back to me what he does, and I’ll give you a hefty reward?”
Jordan snapped again, and this time the picture that landed in my hands was one of Jay, a few years younger. He was sitting in a chair, deadpanning the camera. His father stood behind him, smiling. The photo was so staged and stale that it made me uncomfortable.
“What kind of reward?” I asked.
The attendant pulled a briefcase off the counter and cracked it open. Inside was a blanket of dollar bills.
“How’s three hundred dollars?” Jordan said.
Three hundred dollars. My first association with three hundred dollars was that I could use it to fund my own paper. I hadn’t touched the money we pulled from those safes under Mr. Wallace’s floor, and I didn’t want to. It came with ghosts. But Jordan’s money? It wouldn’t haunt me. It would be mine.
Jordan leaned forward and squinted at me. “No more buying out the blocks we work from. The public ain’t ready for Harlem! Harlem is our turf. If Gatsby wants to do business here, he does it our way—and no way else. What do you say?”
I looked over at Daisy. She was busy with unscrewing the lid off a bottle and pouring the contents into a gallon jug, but I could tell her ear was tilted toward us. She’d already accepted her own invitation into this seedy operation, and that made this mobster life seem less scary and more approachable.
