“No, it’s all right,” I lied, eyes diving to the ground. “Truly.”
I was willing to entertain, for Jay’s sake, that maybe Mr. Gatsby was right about needing to be more careful, at the very least.
We reached the bathroom, and I lingered at the threshold for a moment. Jay opened his mouth, like he was going to say something, but then he stopped himself when I didn’t turn to look at him.
I was grateful for the bath. But more than anything, I wished I were home. Some thoughts could only be unraveled in the comfort of the familiar—the soft bickering of my cousin and uncle, the smell of Auntie’s soup on the stove. These days, it was the only place I longed to be when the world made me feel out of place.
14.
After the protest, Harlem was weighed down by a heavy police presence. They patrolled the corners, waiting for another eruption, questioning late-night drifters once the sun went down.
But none seemed concerned with who started the fire that sparked the unrest—only with the reaction to it, and that was a problem. It meant no one would be looking for the arsonist.
I tried to let it go, but the more I tried the more it disturbed me. I was staying at Daisy’s house again, back in the downstairs room that was mine before West Egg. It was probably for the best, but it left me to wonder, as I sat stiffly on the floor, if I’d ever be safe anywhere else.
Gatsby Sr. barely even cared his precious West Egg had burned down. If he didn’t care, the police surely wouldn’t. Besides, they only wanted to keep Harlem quiet and calm, even if that meant giving hate a free pass.
I couldn’t let it go! Someone had set my room on fire, ruinedeverything—almost taken me down with it. If the police weren’t going to find out who did it, I would.
The first person I’d confront for information was Artie. He’d been the RA on duty when the fire started and was part of Charlie’s staff at theChronicle.
I’d been convinced Charlie was my room robber until Jay suggested otherwise. Still, I couldn’t shake the sense that Charlie was involved. If he had a hand in this, Artie would likely be in the loop. And if someone needed to handle the dirty work, who better than Charlie’s favorite gossipmonger—conveniently living in the Blue House?
Lately, Artie had been loafing around outside 267 West 136th Street, where a group of well-known writers had gathered to live and work. Artie didn’t get himself a spot there, but he was always outside hoping to be seen with someone noteworthy. He lived for proximity to fame.
I dressed carefully, pulling on a collared coat that hid most of my face and a cabbie hat that hung low over my forehead. I had to blend in and find Artie without attracting attention.
I found him wandering outside the brownstone as usual, waiting for a chance to pounce on some famous writer.
I seized my own chance, sneaking up behind him and pulling him into a nearby alley.
“Hey!” Artie yelped. “What the—Nick?”
“Did Charlie put you up to something?” I demanded.
“Nick!” Artie looked at me with horror. “What happened tohello? When did you become such a rabble-rouser?”
“Just answer the question.”
“You’re assuming I know what you’re talking about.”
“No one will do anything to find the arsonist at West Egg if I don’t. Pretty soon everyone will forget it ever happened. So, again, did Charlie ever have you do anything for him inside the Blue House?”
“Fine, yes,” Artie relented with a dramatic sigh. “But nothing to do with the fire. Charlie asked me to look through your things, see if I could dig up anything...incriminating. And RAs have a master key so it was an easy favor. I found your writings, your flyers, all your random scribblings—boring, if you ask me. I struck gold with your letters from Jay.Andyou’re welcome. Those were agreatpress opportunity.”
His words made my head spin. “So, you just wanted to ruin my reputation? What did you even get out of it?”
“Opportunity, Nick! Of course.” He grinned shamelessly. “But I’m not some maniac—I didn’t start that fire. Who would even go that far for a prank? I did Charlie one favor—and now he owes me.”
Strangely, I almost believed him. Artie was an opportunist, but he would never go as far as to be violent himself. Still, there was something shifty in his energy.
“I don’t believe that’s the end of it,” I said. “You know more. What is it?”
Artie hesitated, glancing around like he might be overheard. I could tell he wanted to talk just to talk, as if any opportunity to turn anyone in brought him a rush he couldn’t find anywhere else. Or maybe he just wanted to be rid of me.
“There’s a name,” he whispered. “Pierre. Mr. Buchanan came to see Charlie while we were working one day. I overheard him telling Charlie to use me the same way he uses Pierre.”
“Who’s Pierre?”
