As they left the range, the raucous voice of Whitey followed them: "Yeah. Just around the corner ... in Brooklyn." The Midnight Sun turned out to be a giant barn which nightly conducted a giant miscegenous barn-dance. It was on the top floor of a theater building and was apparently used for basketball games during the day. It was the sort of place to which no white woman in her right mind would ever go with her date because the competition was too strong. There is nothing more exotically beautiful than the mixtures of black, brown, white and yellow races you find on The Rock. The elite of these mixtures was on the dance floor of The Midnight Sun ... exquisite creatures with startling faces and exciting bodies. "Jesus Christ on filter!" Lennox marvelled. "Don't tell me I forgot this!" It was beautiful, chic, queasy. There was a wild orchestra competing with its echo. There were tourists at the side tables in evening clothes and ermine. Lennox noticed a sprinkling of celebrities. There were dozens of white men prowling the edge of the dance floor like wolves, stopping dark girls, dancing with them for a moment, entering their names in address books. It had the horrid atmosphere of a black auction, and over all hung the tension of race hatred. The manager of The Midnight Sun was making difficulties. He had a nervous, sprightly air, and his smile was almost hysterical. Admission was two dollars and a half, but The Midnight Sun dances were semi-private. The party must be guests of someone. "Didn't you manage the old Downtown Club?" Gabby asked suddenly. "Yes, Miss." "Don't you remember me? You used to send out for Italian cassata for me." The manager smote his brow. "The ice cream lady! All your guests, of course. Please sign the members book." He produced an ancient double-entry ledger which Gabby signed in pencil. Lennox turned the pages back to December 24th and looked for the name Knott. It was not there. Neither was his own name. It was difficult to decipher anything from the smudged entries hastily scrawled in the dark. "Does Mr. Knott come here very often?" Lennox asked. The manager smiled hysterically and knew no one named Knott. "Is Mr. Norman here tonight? Mr. Eugene K. Norman?" "Somewhere on the floor," the manager told Lennox. He led the party to a small table surrounded by cases of empty beer and coke bottles, and disappeared before Lennox could ask any more questions. The waiter who descended on them for their orders was no help. At the table on their left were two magnificent blonde women with upswept hair and sequined evening gowns. On their right was an alcove filled with brooms, mops, and two sullen girls in angry conversation. Lennox got to his feet. "Mind the store," he told the Shroff and the Killer. "I'm going to case the joint for Norman."