F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby Roaring noon. In a well —fanned Forty-second Street cellar
I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man. “Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfsheim.” A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded
me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half- darkness. “—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, shaking
my hand earnestly, “and what do you think I did?” “What?” I inquired politely. But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my
hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose. “I handed the money to Katspaugh and I sid: „all right,
Katspaugh, don‟t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.‟ He shut it then and there.” Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into
the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfsheim swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. “Highballs?” asked the head waiter.