Chapter 8 #2
“Hello,” I offered with a wave, but the scene before me was unsettling. I did not know this person who clearly knew some of
me.
“Sorry,” Daisy said, hurrying toward me. “Could I have a moment?”
Daisy pulled me off to a small hallway, and through a door that led to a bathroom. The tub was full of clear liquid and the
toilet was surrounded by a chaos of wires. “Are you following me again?” she asked.
“Huh? I wasn’t!” I protested.
“You weren’t?” She squinted at me. “Really?”
“No! It was Vivian. She was fighting with some guy in an alleyway, and I had to step in. She was the one who brought us here.”
Daisy put both hands on her forehead in annoyance. “I told her I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Funny, Vivian said the same thing. But what trouble are we talking about, Daisy?”
She looked at me. “First things first—what you see here can’t leave here. You can’t tell my parents.”
“I would have to know the what of it all first!”
“Keep your voice down and I’ll tell you,” Daisy whispered to me, though it was clear she would scream if she could. Once it
was clear that I was holding my tongue, she continued somberly, “You know how the mob just up and killed your people? Well,
in New York, their mindsets are no better, but they’re craftier in their attacks. They do it while pretending to be our friends.
Jordan learned that the hard way.
“She was a housekeeper to a wealthy man—lonely, kind at first. When he passed away, she thought she’d earned his trust and
a share in his business, but one of his associates, a bootlegger, betrayed her, and stole her money, framing her for his crimes.
That left her to fend for herself. From then on, she swore she’d never trust another man with her livelihood.”
So that’s why the man was accosting Vivian—for the liquor in her bag.
I almost wanted to laugh in disbelief. “You’re not serious?” Auntie Lorraine and Uncle Beet would be beside themselves if
they knew!
“Keep your lips sealed,” Daisy said, grabbing my arms in an appeal for trust, her eyes desperately searching mine.
“Tom Buchanan is trying to take over the Wash ’N’ Fold.
He keeps making the rent more expensive in the area, hoping everyone will give up and leave.
And with school tuition already paid, and no refunds, I can’t just drop out, even if I want to.
Our family’s barely holding on. If I don’t bring in money for us, we might be next to pack up and run. ”
“I . . . won’t tell a soul,” I said. “I don’t talk to anyone anyway. I’m only surprised! I’d never believe you were running
liquor in your free time.”
Daisy didn’t look too proud of it. “It’s the only way to make enough money to support the family. Seems like you’ve been surrounding
yourself with the wrong crowd too, because the Gatsbys? They’re also bootleggers.” Daisy laughed without any joy and waved
a languid hand. “They sell their liquor to clients in Harlem who have no money and drink to kill the pain.”
“So, the rumors of Gatsby Sr. being a criminal are true?” I asked, stunned.
“Of course they’re true! That’s the only reason I talk to Jay. Jordan knows the right people to bring his father more business
in this part of New York. Gatsby’s got connections, but mostly with rich men who get their liquor elsewhere—so he’s looking
for a new deal.”
So, Gatsby made a school that helped people succeed in life but also played a role in flooding Harlem with liquor? No wonder
Jay treated drinking like it was nothing at The Green Light.
“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 Gatsby at 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.
“You want me to spy on Jay Gatsby Jr.?” I asked Jordan.
“Correct. Daisy’s trying her best, but it’s difficult. Jay Jr. is easy enough to find but hard to get close to. You go to school with him; you could get unique intelligence.”
I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to spy on a new friend—one of the only true friends I’d made in Harlem. How could I?
“I don’t think I can do this,” I said. “Jay seems like a good person.”
“Seems like,” Jordan echoed as she lifted a cigar to her lips, took a puff, and blew out smoke. “There are plenty of people with fake
faces with cracks you can only see up close.”
“I think that’s enough.” Daisy finished her duties and came to grab me by my arm, getting in the middle of the conversation
before I could respond. “We should get home before it’s too dark.”
“Yes, we’ve had enough drama for one night,” Jordan said, looking pointedly at me. “But take some time to think it over. The
offer stays open until the next meeting.”
New York—you’re way too fast-paced for me! I was expected to process twists and turns faster than I could figure out what my purpose was here.
I folded the picture of Jay into my pocket, and we turned to leave.
Daisy stomped and ranted on our walk home. “I cannot believe Vivian led you to the gang! I specifically told her not to.”
“What does it matter?” I asked. “Is there a right way to tell me you were gangsters? I can’t believe Vivian was serious about that whole street life conversation.”
“Gangsters?” Daisy stopped walking in the middle of the street, exasperated, and threw her hands up. “Well, when you put it that way, Nick! Jesus.” She slumped, looking more defeated than defiant.
“Not at all!” I pulled her to the sidewalk just as a reckless car sped by. “Actually, I was thinking as risky as it sounds,
bootlegging might pay better than any normal job. Three hundred dollars a task? That’s a fortune.”
Daisy sighed and kept walking. “It’s good money, yes. I’ve been sneaking some of my earnings into the Wash ’N’ Fold’s register