Fiction John Smolens

“Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

The Superior Gatsby

This is Part IV, the final installment of a multi-part series by John Smolens.

by John Smolens

Lake Superior is a matter of life or death. As soon as Gatsby leapt from the dinghy into the Lower Harbor, he understood that the fine line between succumbing and surviving was a decision to be made within seconds. If he did not begin to swim, he would drift away from Dan Cody’s yacht, which rode at anchor with a dignified poise, her lights seeming to beckon as their reflections danced across the dark rippled water.

He chose to live. Fortunately, he was a strong swimmer, and it was a mild September night when the harbor was bathed in the glow of a rising harvest moon.

Although his strokes were constricted by his double-breasted blazer, duck pants and two-tone broughams, he reached the ladder at the stern of Tuolomee and climbed aboard. Sopping wet, he straightened his jacket, and adjusted the knot in his silk tie, and then entered the saloon as though he’d been out for a leisurely turn about the deck.

Dan Cody, seated on the leather divan, martini glass in hand, looked up, alerted by the sound of water patting on his Turkish carpet.

Sitting next to Cody, Lila Banks reclined in a posture intended to exhibit the fine cut of her green silk gown. “My, that is stunning bathing attire.”

“Success?” Cody asked.

“Do I have Tuukka Hautamaki’s money? No, old sport,” Gatsby said. “But I learned that Lila has a twin sister. Identical, except her voice. What’s her name?”

“Lea.” She sounded bored. “Couldn’t carry a tune to save her life.”

“It didn’t,” Gatsby said. “She was stabbed under the trestle.”

Lila’s eyelashes, mascara laden, afforded her a gaze colder than Lake Superior.

“Emmet Jones?” Cody asked.

“Probably,” Gatsby said. “I believe he made off with Tuukka’s money, but he had an accomplice. Or should I say a consort.” He bestowed his smile upon Lila. “Perhaps you knew your sister sang her last song.”

Cody turned to her. “You? In league with Emmet Jones?”

Lila was accustomed to being waited on, fawned over, cosseted; not being called to accounts. “How did you know?”

“The fur coat,” Gatsby said. “It was a dead giveaway. Some women are born to wear fur—your sister wasn’t one of them. You’d part with such a garment only if it meant a great haul. When the police find your sister’s body, they’ll be inclined to think it’s you.”

“Dead women don’t sing, so it would be an honest mistake.” Lila drank the remainder of her martini and cast an assessing eye on Gatsby. “Those pink blotches on your lovely white trousers—would that be Lea’s blood?” When he didn’t answer, she smiled. “So, the police will be looking for you in connection with my murder. Such a pretty face for a killer.”

Dan Cody got up and veered toward the bar, where he poured gin into his glass. “Where’s the money Tuukka owes me for this latest shipment of Bronfman’s hooch? Emmet Jones must have it. Stolen from Tuukka, and then he double-crossed Lea.”

“Emmet opens the door, makes deliveries,” Lila said. “A man one rarely takes notice of at first glance.”

“But you took notice,” Gatsby said.

“In some men, darling, brutality is a most desirable quality.”

Gatsby went to the bar, where Cody was filling his glass yet again. “That’s enough. You know how you get.” Gatsby took the glass and placed it on the bar.

“But I don’t understand—” Cody turned toward the divan as Lila stood up holding a small nickel-plated automatic pistol. “Interesting,” Cody said, “I thought that knives would be her métier. Where could she hide a gun in that dress?”

“Concealment is an art form,” she said, and then turned to Gatsby. “But the subject was loyalty. So here’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?” Cody sounded suddenly quite sober.

“I have Tuukka’s cash, here aboard your boat,” Lila said. “And your pretty captain is going to take me to the Caribbean, where we can make good use of your boat and each other.”

Cody looked at Gatsby and then back at Lila’s pistol. “Just the two of you? My crew—”

“They’re carousing in Marquette,” Lila said. “You gave them shore leave tonight.”

“So after Emmet Jones stabbed your sister under the trestle,” Gatsby said, “you dispatched him with that pistol and took the money.”

“Emmet is adrift in the harbor,” Lila said. “And Dan can join him. The authorities will suspect a love triangle gone wrong. But Tuukka Hautamaki will know it was all about his money. We shouldn’t plan on returning to Marquette anytime soon.”

“Old sport,” Cody said. “You’re in on this?”

“Ever since you’ve taken me aboard the Tuolomee,” Gatsby said, “I’ve watched women try to take your money from you. Eventually, I suspect, you’ll die, making some woman rich.” Gatsby turned around and faced Lila. In the distance they could hear revelers, a drunken, off-key serenade about the harvest moon. “That’s the crew, rowing across the harbor. Lila, if you’re going to shoot Cody, then you’d better do it now.”

Cody buttoned up his evening jacket and ran a hand back through his hair. “Well, if you must.”

“After you shot Emmet,” Gatsby said. “I trust you reloaded?”

“Yes,” Lila said. “Why?”

“You’re going to need more than one bullet.”

“Why?”

“You’re going to have to shoot both of us. And then, when that crew comes aboard, you’ll have to explain yourself to them.”

“I should have reserved judgment about you, darling.” Lila aimed the pistol at Gatsby’s heart. Water dripped from his blazer with the precision of a ticking clock. A gentle breeze caused the porthole curtains to billow as though the room were encircled by a troupe of ballerinas. “Loyalty,” Lila whispered as she lowered the gun. “It ruins everything.”

Gatsby crossed the Turkish carpet and gently eased the pistol from her fingers. “You could swim ashore. Or the crew might lend you their boat.”

Regaining her composure, Lila went to the bar and poured herself a drink. “If I show my face in Marquette, you know what will happen?”

“Your former paramour,” Gatsby said, “he’ll hold you accountable.”

“Tuukka Hautamaki’s a true Renaissance man,” Lila said. “His métier includes ghastly unmentionables, such as the garrote.”

“His money,” Cody said, filling another glass. “Hidden on my boat?”

“If I can conceal a gun in this dress, darling, I can stash seventy-five grand on a yacht.”

Cody stared into his drink as though consulting a crystal ball. “Once my crew’s on board, why don’t we set a course for the Soo Locks? The price for your safe passage from Marquette will be half of your haul.”

“A third,” Lila said.

“Well, I’m feeling generous tonight,” Cody said. “A third, for each of us. Equal partners.” He raised his drink in a toast. “What do you say, old sport?”

“The wind’s rising,” Gatsby noted as he looked out a porthole at the moonlight shimmering on the eastern horizon of Lake Superior. “We’ll navigate by the moon, which will guide us toward a new world filled with infinite hope.”

About the Author: John Smolens, NMU professor emeritus, has published 12 books, including Cold, Out, Fire Point, The School Master’s Daughter, Quarantine, and Wolf’s Mouth, a Michigan Notable Book selection. In 2010, he received the Michigan Author Award from the Michigan Library Association. His most recent novel is Day of Days.