It was 1913, and the seamier side of Philadelphia's night life was in full swing on Naragansett Street. Quentin Collins, who now wore the name Robert Hart, strode into the Club Liberty, moved to his customary table, and ordered a gin and tonic from the scantily-clad young hostess. She had, he noted, rather admirable attributes. Perhaps, if he stayed on in this city long enough, he'd have time to admire them at closer range some night.

He'd nearly finished his drink when he noticed the figure in an old fashioned tan cape and hat making its way toward him through the drifting cigar smoke. The man came up to his table, peered down at him with a somewhat startled look.

"Hello, Quentin," he said.

"I'm sorry. I think you've made a mistake."

The other man took a chair, uninvited, and removed his hat. "I'm not surprised you don't remember me," he said. "It's been at least sixteen years. I was very young then, and I've aged. You haven't."

Quentin peered into the somehow familiar face and tried very hard to place it. After a moment, he knew. He remembered a handsome blond boy not yet out of his teens, and a "house" in east Manhattan where there had been many other such boys. But he had taken this particular one away from them. "Geoffrey," he exclaimed. "Geoffrey Rawlings. My God, it _is_ you."

The other man nodded. "I couldn't believe it was you when I first saw you here. Do you know it's taken me two days to get up the nerve to approach you?"

Quentin looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Geoffrey," he said, and glanced around him as though to make certain they were not overheard. "What happened with us... That was a long time ago. I was a different person then. So were you."

If Geoffrey was disappointed, it did not show. He smiled faintly. "Actually, I was hoping to ask for your help with something. A small... problem."

Quentin looked at him guardedly. "It sounds more like a big problem," he said.

"All right then. A big problem."

Quentin leaned back in his chair. "Maybe you'd better tell me what it is first. But I should tell you... I'm afraid I'm not very confident in my problem-solving abilities these days."

"I don't know," Geoffrey said miserably. "Maybe no one can help."

"Never leave the game without placing a bet, my friend." Quentin signaled the waitress for two more gin and tonics, placing one of them in front of his companion. "So tell me."

Geoffrey sipped at the drink, winced, put it down again. "I'm a journalist," he said matter-of-factly. "And a very good one. I write for the Philadelphia Sun. You've heard of that?" Quentin had. "It sounds like you've done fairly well for yourself," he said.

"Yes, very well," Geoffrey said in a voice the implied he meant the opposite. He sipped the gin again. "I'd like to keep it that way. I'd like to keep my job."

Quentin had begun to understand. "And someone is trying to see to it that you don't, is that it?"

"Something like that."

"Who is it?"

"A man named Burgess. Alan Burgess. He... knows about me."

"And your generous employers would suddenly become less than generous if they knew."

''Yes.'' Geoffrey tossed the drink back, coughing afterward at the sting of the alcohol.

"So this Burgess has been blackmailing you."

Dismally, Geoffrey nodded.

"For how much?"

"At first he only asked for one eighth of my earnings. Then it became a quarter. Last week, he asked for half."

"Did you give it to him?"

"No. He's looking for me now. I've left him quite a dilemma, you see. If he carries out his threat to expose me, he'll lose his source of income, and so will I. If he kills me, the same thing occurs."

"I see." Quentin finished his own drink, carefully placing the empty glass back on the table. "Well I wish there were some way I could help, Geoffrey. I mean that. I just don't see how."

"Neither do I." Geoffrey picked up his hat from the table. "I guess I thought..."

"What?"

"Nothing. I guess I just had to tell someone about it. Someone I knew would understand."

Quentin rose along with him, wishing there were some less awkward way out of this. "Geoffrey, I'm sorry."

"So am I. Good night -- Mr. Hart."

He walked away, disappearing into the smoke and chatter of the club. Quentin stood there a moment longer, then, uttering a silent oath, went after him.

The street outside the club was deserted. Even the ladies of the evening had retired by this hour. Quentin emerged into the night chill, searching for a sign of Geoffrey's tan cape somewhere in the shadows. He saw nothing.

Odd. He couldn't have been that far behind him...

A sound came from the alley to his left. A groan, and a muffled voice. Silently ,Quentin moved toward it.

"I can't pay you any more than that," he heard Geoffrey's voice gasp. "The arrangement we had -- that's all I can manage. I swear."

The large man who had Geoffrey pinned to the brick wall of the club building cursed, and pressed the tip of a knife to Geoffrey's throat. "The wrong answer, my fair young friend. You will pay me. Or I'm going to start carving up that very pretty face."

"Why don't you go bleed someone else, Burgess? I've given you all I can give. Now for God's sake, leave me alone!"

Burgess started to say something more, but stopped to look up at the sound of another's presence in the alley.

"The man just gave you good advice," Quentin Collins said. "Why don't you take it?"

Burgess laughed, removing the knife from Geoffrey's throat to point it instead at the newcomer.

"Man?" he echoed derisively. "This sniveling little worm? He isn't a man. He's a--"

"I think you've more than worn out your welcome, Mr. Burgess. In fact, I think maybe you've had a sudden unexplainable urge to leave Philadelphia altogether."

The burly man glared at Quentin with contempt in his narrow eyes. "And who the hell are you?" he demanded. "Another one of them? This one's keeper, maybe? Eh? Or a lover... Which is it?"

Quentin started to approach him, stopping when Burgess flourished the knife.

"You're drunk, my fat friend," Quentin told him. "Now why don't you give me that thing before you manage to cut yourself with it?"

Burgess laughed again, and without warning struck out at him with the knife. Quentin stepped easily away, circling with the heavier man like opponents in a wrestling match. Swearing, Burgess started for him again, then bellowed with surprise when he was struck from behind by a forgotten Geoffrey Rawlings.

Geoffrey tackled him, trying desperately to knock him down. But Burgess was far too large a man for him to have succeeded. The fat man spun around, and the knife slashed outward in retribution.

Quentin heard Geoffrey cry out; saw him fall away from the knife with blood staining the sleeve of his coat. Quentin moved in on Burgess with rage blinding his actions, grabbed the heavy man by the coat collar and pulled. He'd meant to turn him around, kick him as hard as he could in the crotch of his greasy pants and leave him there in the alley with the slime he was kin to. But he did none of those things. Instead, he felt the cold, hard blade of the knife slide in between his own ribs, twist, and pull swiftly out again. He gasped, more out of surprise than pain, and stumbled away from a grinning Burgess.

"Damned disgusting faggot," the burly man hissed. "See how the two of you like bleeding to death in the gutter."

Quentin straightened up to look at him, still clutching his side where the knife had gone in. But where his clothing should have been stained with his blood, the pale glow of the street lamp showed that there was nothing but a small dark tear in the fabric of his suit. The momentary shock of Burgess' attack had left him. And the curse of his hidden portrait had once again protected him.

Burgess gaped.. "What in the name of--?" He looked at the knife in his hand, then back at the small jagged rent in Quentin's suit coat. No blood on the knife. No blood on the coat. Yet he knew he'd plunged the knife in. He'd plunged it in deep...

Quentin, who by all rights should have been on the ground dying, moved toward him. Burgess let the kinfe fall into the mud at his feet. Before Quentin could reach him, he turned and ran. His footsteps disappeared down the deserted street, echoing into nothing.

Quentin turned to find Geoffrey staring at him with almost the same expression of horror Burgess had worn.

"How- - ?"

Quentin didn't let him complete the question. "How badly are you hurt?"

"It's nothing. A scratch."

"It's bleeding quite a bit for a scratch. Come on. We'll get you taken care of."

"Where?"

"Just come with me."

Hesitantly, Geoffrey followed him. They walked three blocks without passing another living soul, turning at last into the stairway of a less-than-fashionable apartment house. They went up one flight and into the two room flat that Quentin-Robert-Hart called home.

"Sit down," Quentin told him, closing the door. "I'll get some water and balm and something to use for a bandage."

Geoffrey nodded and did as he'd been told, though the only place to sit in the sparsely furnished room was on the bed.

Quentin returned in a moment, sat down beside him and cleaned and dressed the injured arm.

"Does it sound terribly maudlin to say I'm grateful?" he asked.

Quentin smiled. "Geoffrey, you were many things, but maudlin was never one of them."

"Well you may change your mind when I tell you what else I have to say."

"Oh?"

"You're the only person in my whole miserable life who was ever nice to me."

Quentin tied off the gauze bandage, but did not release his hold on Geoffrey's arm.

"You never did accept the fact that I'm just not the sort of person you need."

Geoffrey shook his head slowly. "I only know you were the only one who understood. The only one who was different."

Quentin almost laughed aloud. "My friend," he said, "if only you knew how different. Sometimes I think there are very few things on the face of this earth I haven't done. And very few rules I haven't broken."

"I don't care about that."

Quentin looked at him, surprised, in a way, at his own honesty. "I've known more women --and men--than a sultan with a well-stocked harem. I suppose that doesn't bother you either?"

"That's something of a stupid question to ask me, don't you think?"

This time Quentin did laugh. "Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."
* * *
Quentin had risen and dressed not long after dawn, and went into the apartment's small kitchen to brew a pot of strong black coffee. Once, many years ago, he would have started this day off with a glass of sherry. But that had been 1897. And this was 1913.

"Good morning."

The voice came close to startling him. He looked up to see Geoffrey standing in the doorway. "Good morning. How's the arm?"

"Better. You know you never did tell me how you managed to avoid Burgess' knife last night? I could've sworn..."

"He was drunk," Quentin interrupted. "And drunks have lousy aim."

Geoffrey's answer was cut off by a sudden sound from the other room. The sound of the front door being forced open.

Both Quentin and Geoffrey came back into the room in time to see Alan Burgess kick his way through the splintered remains of the door. He was holding a pistol in one hand.

"Well I'll be damned," he breathed, still panting from the exertion of kicking in the door. "This is better than I'd hoped. Both love birds together.'"

"Burgess, get out of here."

The fat man turned the gun on Quentin. "I don't know how you did the knife trick," he said. "But then, I was pretty drunk last night. I don't think you'll be quite so tricky with a stomach full of lead."

Quentin did not appear ruffled in the slightest by the threat. "How did you find this apartment?" he asked bluntly.

"You have a reputation, Mr. Hart. Your description wasn't hard to match to a name. And there are more than a few young ladies down there who are willing to put names to faces for the price of a drink. You're quite a ladies' man, I'm told. Did your boyfriend here know about that?"

Geoffrey started angrily forward, but Quentin reached out to stop him. "Get out of here, Burgess," he said again. "There's nothing more you can leech from Geoffrey."

"Well now, I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that at all. I think maybe I'm gonna have two pidgeons to collect my rent money from instead of one. How about that?"

"You're crazy," Geoffrey seethed. "You can't..."

Quentin's hand tightened on his arm, a warning grip, and he let the sentence die.

They watched Burgess' pale, round face break into a leering grin. "Very touching," he jeered at Quentin. "Such tender compassion for your fellow man. Shall we see how understanding your lady friends are about your more unusual interests? Or maybe it gets better than that. Maybe you've got a wife somewhere who'd like to know about it too."

Quentin let go of Geoffrey and took a deliberate step toward Burgess' gun. "You know what you are, Burgess? You're a parasite. A bloated, blood-sucking parasite. I've seen men like you before. All too often."

Nervously, Geoffrey watched him take another step and said softly, "Quentin--"

"Most of them can't see past the ends of their fat noses."

"Quentin, don't--"

"You should listen to your friend, pretty man," Burgess growled. "Not that I wouldn't enjoy putting holes in you. I'd just rather collect my fees instead, if you know what I mean."

Ignoring the threat, Quentin kept right on walking. "I got a stomach full of people like you a long time ago, Burgess. People who don't have any real good reason to go on living. People the rest of the world would be better off without."

Geoffrey's voice was fearful, almost pleading. "Quentin, for God's sake..."

"Why does he keep calling you that name?" Burgess wondered. "Does our mysterious Mr. Hart have something more to hide?" Burgess' face reddened when Quentin moved closer. "Stop moving, damn you! Get back over there beside your fa--"

Quentin lunged at him, kicking him this time where he'd meant to put a well-placed foot last night. Burgess gasped, doubling over, but recovered in time to block Quentin's further assault. He knocked him away, recovered his grip on the revolver, aimed it again.

He pulled the trigger.

The report of the gunshot echoed through the room and beyond, but the man he had fired at did not fall.

For the second time in 24 hours, Alan Burgess' mouth fell open in disbelief.

He started to pull the trigger a second time, intending to fire until all the bullets were spent. But he was tackled again before he could shoot. Together, he and Quentin Collins fell to the carpeted floor, rolling over amid the splintered wood from the broken door. The pistol was still grasped firmly in Burgess' hand. Geoffrey began searching the room for something to use as a weapon, but there was nothing. He started toward the two men on the floor, intending to pull them apart, to kick Burgess as Quentin had kicked him.

But before he could reach then, the pistol went off again. Twice, three times. Alan Burgess cried out in pain and surprise, his porcine eyes growing wide and glassy. His mouth worked open and shut like the jaws of a snake, but no further sound came out. Instead, he slumped to the floor under Quentin's grasp. The pistol slid out of his hand onto the littered carpet.

"Quentin- -"

"Please, Geoffrey. Don't ask me questions I can t answer." Quentin rose, leaving the dead Alan Burgess on the floor, and went swiftly to the door. "We've got to get out of here."

"But he shot you. I know he did. And in the alley before, with the knife--"

"Never mind that now. Those shots will be bringing everyone in the building here before long. Come on!"

Still in shock, Geoffrey was slow to respond to the order. But he allowed himself to be ushered hurriedly down the hall and down a back staircase. They emerged into yet another alley; into the grey fog-shrouded chill of the November morning.

"What will you do now?" Geoffrey asked as 'they walked. "You can't go back there. There will be police, questions..."

"I don't intend to go back. Another town, another name, I just begin over again. That's all. That's all there ever is."

From the upper floor of the building they'd just left, a woman screamed. Doors began slamming. Voices began echoing. Quentin and Geoffrey moved more hastily away, turning a corner in the fog-clouded alley.

"The knife and the gun not hurting you," Geoffrey said, breathless with the pace they were keeping, "and the fact that you don't look any older than you did 16 years ago. They've all got something to do with each other, don't they?"

Quentin finally slowed his pace, hesitated long enough to take his bearings, then stopped walking altogether. "I think we part company here, my friend," he said.

"But you haven't explained..."

"Do yourself a favor, Geoffrey. Forget about everything you've seen here. Forget you ever knew Quentin Collins or had anything to do with him. It'll be better that way."

"But I can't--"

Quentin put up a hand. "No buts. No apologies, no regrets. And above all, no questions. All right?"

Puzzled, Geoffrey nodded. "All right, " he said. "Do you mind if I say just one more thing?"

Quentin smiled, and for a moment he looked much more like the person Geoffrey had known in Collinsport in 1897. "Say away," he said.

"I used to think there wasn't anyone... I mean... Well I don't know how or why. But I think you're the only soul I've ever met who was even lonelier than I am."

Quentin looked at him sadly for a moment. Then slowly, he extended his hand. "Good-bye, Geoffrey."

They shook hands. Then Quentin Collins turned and disappeared into the dim morning.
 

THE END