By Geoffrey Wolff
Duke Wolff was once a perfect specimen of the yank clubman—a made of Yale and the OSS, a one-time fighter pilot grew to become aviation engineer. Duke Wolff was once a failure who flunked out of a chain of undistinguished faculties, used to be handed up for army provider, and supported himself with desperately improvised scams, exploiting employers, better halves, and, eventually, his personal son.
In The Duke of Deception, Geoffrey Wolff unravels the enigma of this Gatsbyesque determine, a nasty guy who in some way was once additionally a superb father, an inveterate liar who falsified every little thing yet love.
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Extra resources for The Duke of Deception
He asked. I nodded. ” I shook my head. I’m not much of an upchucker. I can and have eaten pizza on heroin. ” I nodded. ” “Something else,” I squeaked guiltily. ” By the time we had this conversation we were almost halfway home. Out of the city center and crossing the green fields and country roads back to Cumbernauld. ” he inquired tentatively I shook my head. I couldn’t speak now. All my concentration was on clenching. He sprang to action: reeling up the center aisle of the bus like a sailor in high seas as it careered around the winding roads, he made his way down to the front and talked to the driver.
Giants and fairies was how he described classical music. He could just as well have been talking about show business. Gunka said he’d buy me one of the big waxy discs for a present, yet as much as I had enjoyed the Norwegian composer’s opus, I wanted a pop music album instead. Gunka agreed that that might be a good place to start, and we whittled the options down to two: the Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper or a Monkees album called Headquarters. To my eternal shame, I chose the Monkees. This was because I was only eight and the Monkees looked cheerful and friendly on their album cover, whereas the Beatles had beards and my father had told me that you couldn’t trust a man with a beard because you didn’t know what he was hiding.
I nodded. ” “Something else,” I squeaked guiltily. ” By the time we had this conversation we were almost halfway home. Out of the city center and crossing the green fields and country roads back to Cumbernauld. ” he inquired tentatively I shook my head. I couldn’t speak now. All my concentration was on clenching. He sprang to action: reeling up the center aisle of the bus like a sailor in high seas as it careered around the winding roads, he made his way down to the front and talked to the driver.