The method by which Tom had conducted his inquisition into Gatsby’s affairs shall likely remain unknown to me as long as I walk the Earth. What fearsome aspect of mind or muscle he must have used to wring out the truth!

I met Walter around a week before the end of my eastern sojourn, on a day where brisk winds strong enough to extinguish a cigarette swept through New York City. Autumnal leaves and the occasional wide-brimmed hat or newspaper writhed like tortured souls in the melancholy storm. I sought shelter in a corner drug store in downtown Manhattan, and it was there that I would make acquaintance with Walter Chase. 

He was a tall man in his late twenties who wore a gray suit that wrapped around his body like a shower curtain. His sunken raccoon eyes and cringing rictus bore traces of youthful swagger that had since been punched, slapped or otherwise beaten out of him. He was nursing a dirty glass of bathtub moonshine when I sat next to him. I hailed the pharmacist to get a drink and was handed a chipped mug of foaming liquor.

I attempted to talk to him. Perhaps he thought I was one of Wolfsheim’s “gonnegtions” sent to ensure his loyalty, since his only responses to my queries concerning Gatsby were noncommittal grunts and gestures. As I probed further, I noticed his right hand drift to a lump in his belt. Only when I mentioned Gatsby’s death would he divulge anything concerning Gatsby’s prior life—evidently, he found it less frightful to speak ill of the dead instead of the living.

“Gatsby? Is that so?” he said. “A real pity. A real shame.” Cruel satisfaction seeped out from beneath his somber affectation as he bathed in glorious schadenfreude. “So,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

… I met the bastard in 1917 at one of Meyer’s backroom socials. You ever been to one of those?

(“No,” I replied.)

Right. Meyer, he has his network of fronts—we’re drinking in one right now, you know that?—and a couple of flagship ones too. Those ones have these really extravagant backrooms: cocktail bars, burlesque acts, and these massive noise-canceling linen panels with the most amazing murals painted on them…Right, so the guy—Gatsby, that is—he looked like spent cannon fodder from the War—wide eyes, a pressed uniform, and he had a certain intensity to him. Almost like a predator—not sure how else to describe it. A predator. Predatory. Yeah, that’s it. An animal, Meyer’s pet gentleman, yet to be trained.

Gatsby was one of those overeager faux-sophisticates you could sniff out a mile away. He—you’re in bonds, right?

(“Yes.”)

Then you know exactly the type of man I’m talking about.

(“Yes, I know who Gatsby is.”)

No, I mean—let me paint you a picture. He’d go to the martini bar and ask Young Parke—Young Parke was just a bartender back then, see—for the most absurd, ridiculous martinis, and he’d end up with some abomination with an onion, three olives and a salad of mint floating on the surface… and he would sip it so daintily. Now you get it?

(“Yes. I believe I do.”)

We were all sitting at the table. Slagle was discussing his business in Detroit with Meyer, who was simultaneously talking to Katspaugh about disciplining the cop who busted our Albany branch, and Gatsby was just sitting there cutting up his steak, and he’s gripping the knife like it’s a pen. I noticed Meyer stand up and sit next to Gatsby—I suppose he and Katspaugh had solved the cop issue. Meyer grasped Gatsby’s hand and readjusted the knife to a more natural position.

“Interesting,” Gatsby said. “I always figured that you held it like that.”

“No,” Meyer responded. “See, a true gentleman isn’t preoccupied with being one… You went to Oggsford, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re an Oggsford man?”

“Well—”

Meyer pinched Gatsby’s mouth shut. “Yes,” Meyer said emphatically. “You are an Oggsford man, and don’t you ever forget it!”

Gatsby affirmed his understanding with a shell shocked nod.

“Right,” Meyer said. “And since you’re an Oggsford man, you need to act like an Oggsford man. And you need to be distinctive. Refined. Larger than life.”

Gatsby stuttered, “But I thought you said that a true gentleman isn’t—”

Meyer again pinched Gatsby’s mouth. “A true gentleman shouldn’t look preoccupied with being one.”

Rubbing his twice-pinched lips, Gatsby yelped, “What the hell is wrong with you, old sport?”

Meyer looked at him wide-eyed, and Katspaugh sighed at the additional disposal he would likely have to carry out later. 

Meyer pointed at Gatsby and said, “That’s it.”

“What?”

“Say it.”

A hush more loaded than Katspaugh’s steel snubbie fell over the table. Finally, Gatsby muttered out the words, “Old sport.”

“Again!” Meyer cried.

“Old sport,” Gatsby said with more conviction than before.

“Good,” Meyer said with approval. “That phrase, that phrase is you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” Gatsby said. “Old sport.”

Meyer patted him on the shoulder and grinned. “Forgive me for my fit of passion. You’re a promising young man and it would be a mighty shame if your talents went to waste.”

Gatsby nodded. “Don’t worry, old sport. It’s fine...old sport.”

“Ha! You’re taking to it already. Now, let’s get you set up in Manhattan.”

And so ended the first of Walter’s recountings. His subsequent tales were filled with invective and vituperation, and they do not merit any sort of recognition within the pages of this book. The only line worthy of mention came at the end of our conversation.

“You know what the truly funny thing is?” Walter had said. “That phrase made him untouchable. It was like a barrier that separated him from mouth-breathing plebeians like you and me. That’s why Meyer went mad drilling it into him, so that he wouldn’t be shot dead by some triggerman who wanted his spot in the organization. All that ‘old sport’ business, only to get capped by some hick mechanic. Funny, isn’t it?”

“That truly is funny,” I replied. The sun was shrinking below the horizon and I decided it would be a good idea to go home. “Well, thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Chase,” I said to him.

Walter waved. “No problem, Mr. Carraway. Hey! Make sure to share my condolences with Gatsby’s family. What happened to him was a true tragedy. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”