ability to conceal his pleasure at his achievements. In short, he dealt in fakes, and it 
was this latter quality he was most deficient in. There were those among his small circle 
of intimates who said it would be his undoing, but they or their predecessors had been 
prophesying the same for three decades, and Klein had outprospered every one of them. The 
luminaries he'd entertained over the decades-the defecting dancers and minor spies, the 
addicted debutantes, the rock stars with messianic leanings, the bishops who made idols 
of barrow boys-they'd all had their moments of glory, then fallen. But Klein went on to 
tell the tale. And when, on occasion, his name did creep into a scandal sheet or a 
confessional biography, he was invariably painted as the patron saint of lost souls.
  It wasn't only the knowledge that, being such a soul, Gentle would be welcomed at the 
Klein residence, that took him there. He'd never known a time when Klein didn't need 
money for some gambit or other, and that meant he needed painters. There was more than 
comfort to be found in the house at Ladbroke Grove; there was employment. It had been 
eleven months since he'd seen or spoken to Chester, but he was greeted as effusively as 
ever and ushered in.
  "Quickly! Quickly!" Klein said. "Gloriana's in heat again!" He managed to slam the door 
before the obese Gloriana, one of his five cats, escaped in search of a mate. "Too slow, 
sweetie!" he told her. She yowled at him in complaint. "I keep her fat so she's slow," he 
said. "And I don't feel so piggy myself."
  He patted a paunch that had swelled considerably since Gentle had last seen him and was 
testing the seams of his shirt, which, like him, was florid and had seen better years. He 
still wore his hair in a ponytail, complete with ribbon, and wore an ankh on a chain 
around his neck, but beneath the veneer of a harmless flower child gone to seed he was as 
acquisitive as a bowerbird. Even the vestibule in which they embraced was overflowing 
with collectibles: a wooden dog, plastic roses in psychedelic profusion, sugar skulls on 
plates.
  "My God, you're cold," he said to Gentle. "And you look wretched. Who's been beating 
you about the head?"
  "Nobody."
  "You're bruised."
  "I'm tired, that's all."
  Gentle took off his heavy coat and laid it on the chair by the door, knowing when he 
returned it would be warm and covered with cat hairs. Klein was already in the living 
room, pouring wine. Always red.
  "Don't mind the television," he said. "I never turn it off these days. The trick is not 
to turn up the sound. It's much more entertaining mute."
  This was a new habit, and a distracting one. Gentle accepted the wine and sat down in 
the corner of the ill-sprung couch, where it was easiest to ignore the demands of the 
screen. Even there, he was tempted.
  "So now, my Bastard Boy," Klein said, "to what disaster do I owe the honor?"
  "It's not really a disaster. I've just had a bad time. I wanted some cheery company."
  "Give them up. Gentle," Klein said.
  "Give what up?"
  "You know what. The fair sex. Give them up. I have. It's such a relief. All those 
desperate seductions. All that time wasted meditating on death to keep yourself from 
coming too soon. I tell you, it's like a burden gone from my shoulders."
  "How old are you?"
  "Age has got fuck-all to do with it. I gave up women because they were breaking my 
heart."
  "What heart's that?"
  "I might ask you the same thing. Yes, you whine and you wring your hands, but then you 
go back and make the same mistakes. It's tedious. They're tedious."
  "So save me."
  "Oh, now here it comes."
  "I don't have any money."
  "Neither do I."
  "So we'll make some together. Then I won't have to be a kept man. I'm going back to 
live in the studio, Klein. I'll paint whatever you need."
  "The Bastard Boy speaks."
  "I wish you wouldn't call me that."
  "It's what you are. You haven't changed in eight years. The world grows old, but the 
Bastard Boy keeps his perfection. Speaking of which-"
  "Employ me."
  "Don't interrupt me when I'm gossiping. Speaking of which, I saw Clem the Sunday before 
last. He asked after you. He's put on a lot of weight. And his love life's almost as 
disastrous as yours. Taylor's sick with the plague. I tell you, Gentle, celibacy's the 
thing."
  "So employ me."
  "It's not as easy as that. The market's soft at the moment. And, well, let me be 
brutal: I have a new wunder-kind." He got up. "Let me show you." He led Gentle through 
the house to the study. 'The fellow's twenty-two, and I swear if he had an idea in his 
head he'd be a great painter. But he's like you; he's got the talent but nothing to say."
  "Thanks," said Gentle sourly.
  "You know it's true." Klein switched on the light. There were three canvases, all 
unframed, in the room. One, a nude woman after the style of Modigliani. Beside it, a 
small landscape after Corot. But the third, and largest of the three, was the coup. It 
was a pastoral scene, depicting classically garbed shepherds standing, in awe, before a 
tree in the trunk of which a human face was visible.
  "Would you know it from a real Poussin?"
  "Is it still wet?" Gentle asked.
  "Such a wit."
  Gentle went to give the painting a more intimate examination. This period was not one 
he was particularly expert in, but he knew enough to be impressed by the handiwork. The 
canvas was a close weave, the paint laid upon it in careful regular strokes, the tones 
built up, it seemed, in glazes.
  "Meticulous, eh?" said Klein.
  "To the point of being mechanical."
  "Now, now, no sour grapes."
  "I mean it. It's just too perfect for words. You put this in the market and the game's 
up. Now, the Modigliani's another matter-"
  "That was a technical exercise," Klein said. "I can't sell that. The man only painted a 
dozen pictures. It's the Poussin I'm betting on."
  "Don't. You'll get stung. Mind if I get another drink?"
  Gentle headed back through the house to the lounge, Klein following, muttering to 
himself.
  "You've got a good eye. Gentle," he said, "but you're unreliable. You'll find another 
woman and off you'll go."
  "Not this time."
  "And I wasn't kidding about the market. There's no room for bullshit."
  "Did you ever have a problem with a piece I painted?"