May turned to Nick, triumphant under his polite regard.
“Gatsby. Somebody told me—”
She paused and obligingly we all leaned in.
“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.”
A speculative thrill went through all of us. It was a brush with the underworld, the ones run by the Irish, the Italians, and the Jews in the city and the ones run by the pale-eyed, still-faced gentlemen who all seemed to style themselves princes and dukes of the far reaches of Hell. Both, went the rumor, came to Gatsby’s parties, dressed in their best and hiding their natures under hats, gloves, and fine manners. Nick, likely the only one at the table who had actually killed someone, looked reluctantly intrigued. Ada shook her head.
“No, he was a spy during the war.”
“For the Germans or the Americans?” asked one of the men I was meant to know.
She shook her head and pursed her lips. She pointed discreetly down, towards other masters, and I saw her other hand stole into her pocket where she was likely rubbing a saint’s medal.
“He’s no spy, he’s one of them,” said another man, giving us a significant look. “One of their princes, you know, or the son of such. It was everywhere in Morocco last year.”
“No, he must be an American,” insisted May. “He was in the American Army during the war. You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. You can tell right away he’s killed a man.”
She and Ada shivered dramatically, and I stole a glance at Nick. His mouth was perhaps a trifle stern, but he didn’t laugh at her statement. I noticed that our voices had lowered. It wasn’t that we were afraid of being overheard, but rather because I wasn’t the only one who liked secrets. There was never a secret like Gatsby, and even if he was a public sort of thing, it still intrigued.
Supper was served after that, and poor Nick ended up joining me and the group I had come with. The sister and her husband were drunk and disgustingly in love, and they only had eyes for each other. The undergrad had not been improved by drinking at all, and as the soup course went and the appetizer course arrived, Nick’s responses were getting shorter and shorter, and my charming deflections were growing less charming and moving towards some kind of accident with the unused cheese fork.
“Great God, of course it doesn’t open sideways!” Nick finally cried, and I took that as my hint to pull him away. The undergrad slumped back down with a muttered word I decided not to hear, and when Nick might have said more, I tucked my hand into his arm and started walking.
“Come on, this is getting too polite for me.” When he hesitated, I offered, “We can go find Gatsby.”
That brought him along.
“What are you looking for him for, anyway?” I asked.
“Well, he invited me. You know. Seemed polite to thank him.”
“What? He never did! Show me.”
He drew the invitation from his jacket, and I turned it over in my hands. It was good paper, deep red as if dipped in blood, with gold lettering sunk into the card stock. It felt heavy in my hand with all the weight of an imperial summons. It was real, and I doubted more than one or two had ever been printed.
“He did invite you,” I said, handing it back. The uncertain look was back in his eyes. If he was meant to be the associate of a man who might be a prince in Hell or a German spy, I thought he rather needed to toughen up.
“I didn’t think it was so strange,” he muttered, just as we passed by a tall and gaunt man with pale eyes and still face talking with Anastasia Polari, the famous silent film beauty. Her eyes were as dark as holes burned in silver nitrate and as hungry as winter, and he held her hand in both of his. There seemed to be either more or less joints in his fingers than there should be. Nick stared, his footsteps slowing, and I pulled him forward, touching my fingertip to his lips.