F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby “Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfsheim‟s nose flashed at me
indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: „Don‟t let that waiter take away my coffee!‟ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.” “Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an
interested way. “I understand you‟re looking for a business gonnegtion.” The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling.
Gatsby answered for me: “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn‟t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfsheim seemed disappointed. “This is just a friend. I told you we‟d talk about that some
other time.” “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, “I had a wrong
man.” A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfsheim, forgetting the
more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room — he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my