“So how about this Friday?” He asked. Why not? Quite willing. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. ‘Wait a minute, though. \"Why weren't you there?\" She asked Mike. "I'm your dupe no longer.
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