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“The old Metropole.”

“The old Metropole,” said Mr. Wolfsheim gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can't forget the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table and Rosy was eating and drinking a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and said somebody wanted to speak to him outside. 'All right,' says Rosy and begins to get up and I pulled him down in his chair. 'Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don't you.' It was four o'clock in the morning.”

“Did he go?” I asked innocently.

“Sure he went,” Mr. Wolfsheim said indignantly. “He turned around in the door and said, 'Don't let that waiter take away my coffee!' Then he went out and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.”

“Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering.

“Five with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me. “I see you're looking for a business connection.”

I was surprised. Gatsby answered for me:

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