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."