"Meyer Wolfsheim? No, he’s a gambler." Gatsby hesitated, then added coolly: "He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919." "Fixed the World’s Series?" I repeated. The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe. "Why isn’t he in jail?" "They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man."