F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the
room where he lay and reassure him: “I‟ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don‟t worry. Just trust me and I‟ll get somebody for you ——” Meyer Wolfsheim‟s name wasn‟t in the phone book. The
butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I‟ve rung them three times.” “It‟s very important.” “Sorry. I‟m afraid no one‟s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant
that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, as they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you‟ve got to get somebody for me.
You‟ve got to try hard. I can‟t go through this alone.” Some one started to ask me questions, but I broke away and
going up-stairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk — he‟d never told me definitely that his parents were