“You’re investigating it for the police.”
He rolled his eyes. “You got me,Clumsy Nick. We have no leads so far, okay?”
“No offense, but I worry that if you’re in charge, things won’t be solved.”
Cannon took offense to that, and he tilted his head at me, eyes squinting. “I’m flattered you thought to come following me just to share that opinion.”
I looked around us, taking in the ground slick with grime and rainwater. The air was salty with shipping yard seawater and the sour stench of coal smoke reaching us from the distance.
“What are you doing out here, anyway?” I asked.
“Can’t a guy enjoy a walk?” Cannon said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t think I’d have a shadow.”
“Sorry,” I offered. “Perhaps this was strange of me.”
“Strange, indeed. You should be somewhere off with Jayfrolicking with gleeinstead. Go home, Nick,” Cannon said. “Let the detectives handle the case. If New York City has taught me anything, it’s that poking your nose where it doesn’t belong will always guarantee you anunhappy ending. Have a wonderful night.”
With that, he turned, long coat swaying as he disappeared into the misty haze of the streetlamps. I watched him go, a retort stuck in my throat as the silence swallowed me, save for the noiseof his footsteps and the distant hum of the city.
I stood there until his silhouette disappeared, inhaling the harbor air, as his words echoed in my head.Unhappy ending.Maybe. But I wasn’t done quite yet.
18.
A frigid wind tore through the city the morning of my lunch with Tom Buchanan, biting through my vest as I stepped outside. New York’s lingering cold still had teeth.
I layered up in a plaid vest over a white sweater, baggy golf pants, and two-tone sports shoes—respectable enough for a wealthy man’s table. After slicking my hair down until not even the wind could ruffle it, I caught the train to Long Island, bracing for whatever the afternoon had in store.
I confirmed my identity for the guard out in front of Buchanan’s estate and a carriage took me down the driveway, where four fancy cars were parked behind the glass wall of the garage.
Which one will we take with us?I thought.
I smiled to myself and then stopped when I saw Buchanan standing on the porch, hand in his navy-blue waistcoat, waiting. “How wonderful to see you,” he said as I folded out of the carriage.
His cold eyes betrayed the sentiment. He was performing, but so was I.
I walked up the steps, trying my best to act naturally, and shook his hand. “Likewise.”
His grip was firm, the eye contact too long, but finally I looked away.
He turned and led me through the house, and the set of doors, to the patio. A dining table sat in the middle of the terrace, with coal braziers set at either end for warmth. From the terrace extended a plot of grass. The lake was beyond it, and off the lake, the tiny beach led up to Jay’s house.
Myrtle was sitting at the table, and Charlie was straightening the silverware and plates. The food was abundant—roast chicken, salad, bread, olives, and carrots.
I took a seat next to Charlie, across from Myrtle.
“I always wanted to have you for a meal, Nick!” Charlie said with enthusiasm. “What’s mine is yours. So go ahead! Indulge yourself.”
“That’s nice, Charlie. Thank you.”Why are you always switching back and forth?
It was odd how the rich kept their fronts for social benefits, no matter how tense things got underneath it all.
Buchanan was staring at Gatsby’s house for a while, mulling something over. Then he came to sit at the head of the table. “I noticed some faulty lights at the Gatsby residence,” he said. “I’ll have to tell Gatsby whenever he’s back from his trip.” Buchanan raised his water glass at me. “A toast to you, Nick, and your timely arrival.”
Timely arrival? Was that a subtle dig at Colored folks being late?I had to wonder.
“Thank you,” I said anyway, and sipped on water. I really wanted the flask of gin in my pocket, but no way was I losing my wits at the table with these men.
“What made you apply to West Egg?” Buchanan asked.
