Among those supporting the initiative is prominent real estate investor Tom Buchanan, who has contributed large funds to aid the bureau’s work. Buchanan has expressed concerns about maintaining the character of neighborhoods such as Harlem, which he describes as increasingly affected by the unchecked migration of Negroes from the South.
Thus far, Palmer’s campaign has resulted in five major raids, over 400 arrests, and the deportation of 54 foreign-born radicals. Authorities insist that their efforts are necessary to rid the nation of subversive influences. Harlem, rapidly becoming a hub of Negro commerce and culture, has drawn scrutiny, with officials vowing to curb the moral and social disruption brought by the invasion of Southern migrants.
I read it, and then reread it. Tom was funding the arrest of undesirables and sweeping in to rebuild over their bones? No wonder he was buying everything Negroes owned—he wanted to get rid of us. A man who moved like this required partners to help him cover up his image. Pierre was one—a corrupt guy who wanted crumbs from Buchanan’s wealth.
And Gatsby was another. He did business with Buchanan, a man who was supporting people who hated migrants. He sure ashell didn’t care about West Egg’s mission.
I grabbed a notebook from Pierre’s desk and jotted down notes from the papers. I was connecting the dots. I arrived here looking for anything I could find on the Blue House, but I was coming away with a full chart of evidence for why Buchanan needed to be stopped. He was coming for our community in Harlem.
With his hatred for migrants clear, could he have conspired to burn the Blue House down as just one more piece in his plot? One step closer to reshaping Harlem as a neighborhood and wiping away our presence?
Buchanan must have been thrilled to see his crime push Negroes into protest, to twist our anger into proof that we didn’t belong here.
“I just found what I needed,” I told Zihan, my voice shivering with tension as I turned to him. “Let’s get out of here.”
This was bigger than just one attack. Buchanan wasn’t just after real estate—he was waging war on our entire existence in Harlem. This wasn’t just about justice for the Blue House. It was about saving Harlem, my community, from being entirely snuffed out.
17.
The next evening, I was too restless to be alone, and I ended up sitting on the bench at the end of Daisy’s bed, telling her everything I’d found in Pierre’s place.
“You were right—the guys up here are the same as the ones down South,” I said. “They’re just smarter about it. On the surface, what Buchanan’s doing is not illegal, so he’ll get away with ridding Harlem of Negroes just because no one will care enough to stop him.”
Daisy pulled her knees to her chest, looking uncharacteristically exhausted without any makeup on. “You really think this means Tom had something to do with the fire?”
“Why else would Pierre—Buchanan’s man—be keeping an unpublished article about his funding of this Negro-hating bureau? Buchanan doesn’t want us around, but he can’t have everyone knowing that. So, he works with Gatsby on West Egg, even though he hates what West Egg stands for, and sabotages it from the inside. Whoever did the fire knew how to get into thebuilding, how to stay hidden... It had to be someone he hired and gave access to.”
She nodded in agreement, and I could tell she was upset beneath her thoughtful composure. “Couldn’t it have been Charlie?”
“No, these Buchanans... They don’t get their hands dirty. They have people like Pierre and Artie for that.”
“You’re right,” she said. “This might have been about someone in this city or at West Egg doing something crazy to get ahead. Which is what everything in this world seems to be about these days. I mean, what happened to morals?”
The weight of that thought pressed heavy on her the way it did me. She was frustrated, but also deeply weary of a world where the most violent people came out on top.
Buchanan’s friends could control what people read and thought. It was hopeless to think of lies drowning out the truth!
“I can’t tell you how tired I already am of just waiting for justice,” said Daisy. “Sometimes I want to just rob the rich! You know, like Robin Hood.”
Her words sparked something in me. “Wait, in a real way?”
“Could you imagine?” She laughed. “I can’t say I haven’t thought up my own revenge against Tom, stuck for hours in that kitchen of his. I like to think I’ve cooked up a fairly decent plan: You may not know this, but Jay’s father used to host these grand parties. He hasn’t had one in ages, but if he threw one, the whole city would come—all of the elites, Tom included. And while everyone’s there, drinking and flaunting, I would search his place and steal all his money.”
I snickered as I processed her words—what she was suggesting was a joke, but it was also thrilling. “You’d have access to most areas of the home because you work for him. And if you added me into your plans, I could open the safes. Together we could get a real look at his fortune and find proof he’s behind the violence at West Egg—and Harlem—at the same time.”
“And we could bring in Jay to help!” Daisy said excitedly as she perked up, thrilled by her own brilliance. “Stage a proposal for Jay Jr. and me, which would make Gatsby giddy to throw an engagement party. Buchanan would show up to support us, since he works with Gatsby and I work for him—there would be no question about it. That would give us time to search.”
I felt some doubt as this plan started to feel more real. “I don’t know if Jay would agree to something like this,” I said.
Was this really all for laughs? It sure gave us a way forward that didn’t leave us waiting on someone else’s approval. This was something we could take into our own hands!
“What do you think Jay wouldreallysay... if you asked?” Daisy said.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “You’ve known him longer.”
“Yes, but you could ask him,” she said, her tone sharpening some into seriousness.
“Why?” I asked. “I mean, why me?”
