%% Writing an implied scene from the Great Gatsby
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\centerline{\bf Gatsby and Wolfsheiem's Business Arrangement}
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\nopagenumbers

``Let's get moving, old sport.''

Gatsby and Wolfsheim shuffled through the back door of the Metropole, having left a decent sum on the tabletop.
Wolfsheim hopped in the driver's seat of his black Model A and pointed Gatsby towards a grey automobile %choose a car
with a collection of street names scribbled on what could be the inside of a wine label.
Wolfsheim's window rolled up and the Ford chugged away into the New York City grid.

Gatsby---sitting on the cold, leathery seat---interrogated and traced the directions received, which read:
\bigskip\line{
  \hfil
  \vbox{\halign{&\tt #\cr
    Head to the Grand Concourse\cr
    Turn at 203rd Street towards Jerome Park\cr
    Park at 234 East\cr
    Walk through the second alley to the right\cr
    Stop at Fabrizio's Drug Store\cr
  }}
  \hfil
}\medskip
In front of a young store attendant lay an out-of-sight counter with a number of hand-filled glass vials of alcohol interspersed and disguised in medicinal containers and a glass door with a ringing bell that commenced its small song immediately as a pair of men marched through the sparely open doorway.

``Hand me of them beveragges,'' Wolfsheim demanded the clerk.

``I'm not sure what you're talking about. We don't sell beverages here; you can grab some cough syrup or head down the street to Wesley's for a pop.''

``I know you've got stuff behind there, so just hand it over.''

The clerk glanced out towards the street and made an attempt at a subtle nod towards the partially silvered windows. He leaned in and almost but not quite whispered, ``you oughtta block the windows lest a copper peers in.''

Gatsby was already twisting the blinds partially shut---enough to make an onlooker's job difficult but insufficient to arise suspicion.
After an unbearably long pause, a mangled hand clicked the shiny deadbolt as a ``Closed'' sign spun around and reported to the outside world that the interior had become sacrosanct.

A servile hand obsequiently and delicately unpacked and passed one of the slightly brown-tarnished vials over the counter.

Wolfsheim gripped it heartily and, responding to a smiling nod from Gatsby, gulped down half of the dense, clear mixture.

``Would you like some?''

``No, thank you.''

Wolfsheim gave a nondescript shrug, drank the remainder, and set an emptied bottle on the counter, but he still looked wanting.

He grunted towards the register, ``Ya got much?''

The clerk reached into the register and peeled out a number of tattered and dimly green five and ten dollar bills, amassing an meagre pile in Wolfsheim's outstretched hand.
The clerk apprehended from the disappointed expression that Wolfsheim thought the amount he had been handed was insufficient and began to search the near-empty drawers for any speck of green left in the desolate grey.

He gave up his search after a short amount of time, which was treated with Wolfsheim's critical, ``Is that all you've aggtually got?''

The clerk let out a meek ``I think so,'' and attempted to search for a remedy to the issue, availing nothing.

Gatsby shook the clerk's hand, ``Thanks, old sport,'' as Wolfsheim turned towards the back exit so he could get into yet another car.

After the back door had shut, Gatsby showed off a small book's worth of folded dollars and grimaced, ``I guess he thought we might not want these.''

Wolfsheim took the money and muttered something about how everyone thinks they can be a con artist.

They soon parted, Wolfsheim taking the cash and Gatsby taking the Ford.
\bye