Beautiful Little Fools(55)

But he was just two blocks from Nick’s place. He blew on his hands to warm them, and soldiered on.



* * *



“MERRY CHRISTMAS,” FRANK said when Nick opened the door. The cold and the walk had sobered him, and now he felt nearly lucid again.

“Christmas is over,” Nick said abruptly, frowning.

Frank nodded, pushing his way into Nick’s apartment without waiting for an invitation. It was small and dark inside, no Christmas tree. Just a bed and a desk and a tiny stove in the corner. It was quite a downgrade from his house out in West Egg. “Nice place,” Frank said, not really meaning it.

“I like it better here,” Nick said, somewhat defensively. “It’s close to work. A ten-minute walk.” He paused, and then he added, “And I already told you everything I know, Detective. Didn’t I tell you to go talk to Daisy?”

Frank nodded. “I did talk to Daisy. Went all the way out to Minnesota. Quite a place your cousin’s got there.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Nick frowned again. “I haven’t been.”

“Then I stopped to talk to Catherine McCoy—Myrtle’s sister—in Illinois.” Nick frowned, knowing perfectly well who Myrtle was even if he might not know Catherine. “And then, in October, I went down to New Jersey to talk to Jordan Baker.”

“You’ve been busy,” Nick said drily.

“Sure,” Frank said. “I suppose.”

“What do you want from me?” Nick asked, sighing. He looked exhausted, as if life in the city had really weighed on him these last few months. New York had worn on him, the way it always seemed to do on young people who didn’t have quite enough money to live the high life in the city.

“Jordan Baker,” Frank said now. “You were seeing her last summer.”

“Sure… But it wasn’t anything serious. We had dinner a few times, and then it sort of petered out.”

“You know, she’s playing on the golf tour this fall,” Frank said, watching Nick’s face closely.

Nick nodded, stone-faced. “I’d heard that.”

“But it doesn’t make sense. Why would they let her back at all after they threw her out once for cheating?”

Nick shrugged. “Who knows how she managed it. Jordan is…” He let his voice trail off for a moment as if looking for the right adjective. “Resourceful, to say the least.”

“But you told me the first time we spoke that Jordan is… What were your exact words, Nick?” Frank paused a moment for effect even though he already knew the words he was looking for. Nick frowned, deeper, maybe remembering them, too. “An incurable liar.”

Nick nodded. “A good liar generally is quite resourceful, Detective.”

Frank pulled the hairpin out of his jacket pocket and showed it to Nick. “But I asked all three of the women about this hairpin, Nick. And it seemed like the only one who told me the truth about it was Jordan. I need you to help me understand that.”

“Jordan? Told you the truth?” Nick choked on the words, a laugh sputtering out of him. He took the hairpin from Frank and examined it closely. “Jordan told you about this hairpin? What’d she tell you exactly?”

“Daisy and Catherine both said they’d never seen it before. But Jordan told me flat out it looked like it could be Daisy’s.”

Nick laughed. “It probably was Daisy’s. Jordan doesn’t own anything. Daisy gives her everything. It isn’t a give-and-take kind of friendship. It’s a take-and-take-and-take kind of friendship, if you know what I mean?”

He nodded again. Sure… Maybe he did.

“So it might’ve belonged to Daisy,” Nick said now, handing the hairpin back to him. “But Jordan wore it last summer. Every date I went on with her, she had a pin that looked just like this in her hair.”

Frank thought back to his conversation with Jordan in South Jersey. He’d been so flabbergasted by her apparent honesty that it hadn’t occurred to him until right this very moment listening to Nick what it was exactly Jordan had said: Daisy was at parties at Jay’s house all summer. She could’ve dropped it anytime, Jordan had insisted.

But he’d never told her where he’d found the hairpin.





Myrtle April 1922

NEW YORK




THE END OF EVERYTHING BEGAN with the yellow car.

You didn’t see so much color out here among the ashes. It was part of the reason why I lived for my weekends in the city with Cath—color. Everything there was just bursting with it—red and green awnings of storefronts, pinks of taxicabs, the purple blue of the lilacs that bloomed in Central Park this time of year. Staring out my apartment window, above George’s garage, the entire world always looked dirty and gray.

So I watched the fancy yellow car drive into our lot with fascination. We rarely saw expensive cars like that around here, only once in a while, when a millionaire from East Egg might stop for gas on his way into the city. But I couldn’t recall seeing any car so bright. It felt a little like that first daffodil bloom peeking up through the April snow back in Rockvale: hope.

Still, I stared at the yellow car, at first, only a moment, before dismissing its importance. Probably just a rich man who’d gotten lost or had car trouble on his way out to Long Island. Wouldn’t be the first one, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. I walked away from the window and carried on with my morning. I’d put away the breakfast dishes and was trying to scrub a large spot of grease out of George’s brown overalls. I kept on scrubbing, scrubbing even though my knuckles were already raw from washing the dishes. There was a rhythm, a painful monotony to my housework. Depending on the day, I either let that put me at ease or drive me slowly mad.