Tom Buchanan, Misunderstood

Chapter Four: Putting on the Ritz (Part iii of iv)

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On separate occasions later, between Nick and Catherine, I decided this is what happened:

Catherine retracted herself against the wall, and gazed down ten stories at the Sunday drivers in Queens, while Nick poured the McKees, Myrtle's sister, and himself four drinks.

"Nick Carraway," he said, pressing a flute into her hand.

She clutched it nervously. "Catherine Ellis," she said reluctantly. Her eyes darted at the McKees, who were marveling at the tapestries hanging from the wall. The Waldorf was remodeled along French designs.

"I work on Wall Street." I'm sure Nick put that self-assured smile on his face. "I sell bonds."

She nodded, her pupils skittering like those of a trapped rabbit.

"What do you do?" he prompted.

"I write for the New York Journal," she said.

"Really!" he exclaimed, and grinned his quiff grin. "That's impressive." She must have recoiled because he put the kibosh on the greasy charm and said much more modestly, "That must be wonderful. I wanted to be a writer in college."

"I just write articles for the women's page," she said.

"Well, that's nifty," he said. "I'd like to try that, but I just sell bonds." She must have looked puzzled—a lot of people don't care about bonds or stocks—so Nick added, "They're just the difference between booms and busts."

"Busts?" she asked.

"Panics," he added, "or prosperity."

"I see," said Catherine, who nervously noted that the McKees had disappeared into the other bedroom.

"If it weren't for people like me," Nick said, "The entire world economy would collapse."

That was the summer I learned that Nick had a lot of ways of making impressionable young women think he was a very important man indeed.

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"Myrtle," I began.

She cut me off with a kiss. Her fingertips danced across my back. Despite the haughty attitude she was developing, and the roll of fat she was growing, I found my heartbeat picking up speed like a new roadster still being developed by Ford himself, being raced on his private track for the first time.

"Mmmm, Tom," she purred. "Tommy Gun. My randy Tom-cat."

I clutched her hands before they could slide down my trapezius muscles and onto my sides. Myrtle was reading a lot of trashy dime novels lately—bodice rippers. That's where she got her ideas.

"Rrrrrrrawl!" she purred.

Restraining both of her hands, I pushed her back. She took that as though we were dancing, so she swayed with me. Abruptly, I smelled cheap hooch on her breath. Apparently, she'd had a few belts on the way here.

"You got any more of that panther sweat?" I said to delay her before she started clawing off my clothes.

"Hahahahaha!" Her voice trilled up the scale. "Tom-cat wants panther piss!" She meowed.

With anticipation, she happily sat on the bed, and stretched back. My forehead aching, I grimaced. I felt like I'd stumbled into the worst red light district in the city. From across the sky, a scarlet light burned in another hotel's window. Lonely drunks might stumble in looking for love and a fresh start, but in this neighborhood, they'd only find heartbreak and violence.