8: Petofi

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=90 BGCOLOR="#CC9900" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="047005a0dwnjzk.gif"> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U><B>home</B></U></A><B>     | </B><B> </B><B> </B><B>  </B><FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFCC66" FACE="Arial" ><B>Cassie's Writing</B></FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id53.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="1: New Orleans"><U><B>1:  New Orleans</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id54.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="2: Mary Margaret"><U><B>2:  Mary Margaret</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id55.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="3: Rumrunners Row"><U><B>3:  Rumrunners' Row</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id56.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="4: Speakeasy"><U><B>4:  Speakeasy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id57.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="5: Sys Deal"><U><B>5:  Sy's Deal</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id58.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="6: Reunion"><U><B>6:  Reunion</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id59.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="7: Disaster"><U><B>7:  Disaster</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><B>8:  Petofi</B><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id63.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="9: Cuddeback"><U><B>9:  Cuddeback</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id64.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="10: Angelique"><U><B>10:  Angelique</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id65.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="11: Making Plans"><U><B>11:  Making Plans</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id66.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="12: Chicago"><U><B>12:  Chicago</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id67.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="13: Nora"><U><B>13:  Nora</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id68.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="14: The Gypsy"><U><B>14:  The Gypsy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id69.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="15: The Trap"><U><B>15:  The Trap</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="16: The Gift"><U><B>16:  The Gift</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id71.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="17: Beth"><U><B>17:  Beth</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id74.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="18: Together Again"><U><B>18:  Together Again</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id75.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="19: Petofi Strikes"><U><B>19:  Petofi Strikes</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U><B>Taking Wooden Nickels</B></U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>8:  Petofi</B></div> <div> <B>Warning:   this chapter contains sexual violence that might be disturbing for sensitive readers.</B></div> <div> <B>For a brief summary of this chapter, please click here:</B></div> <div> <A HREF="id73.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Summary of Petofi"><U><B>Summary of Petofi</B></U></A></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=390 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div>      Two of the hoods sat on either side of Quentin in the back seat.  One took his gun and pushed it into Quentin's ribs.  The other two got into the front.  The one in the front passenger seat turned around.  "Don't move and don't talk," he warned.  "Mr. Bartelli don't want you messed up but we'll do what we have to do, you understand?"</div> <div>      Quentin nodded, just barely.  His mind was racing.  He knew what was coming next, and he thought he'd rather be dead if he couldn't find a way to extricate himself.  He'd been warned not to move, so he didn't turn his head when he heard a small noise from the back of the car.  He hoped it was Dave.</div> <div>      Before long, they were back at Bartelli's place.  The four men escorted Quentin down the steps and rapped sharply at the door.  The little peephole slid open momentarily and then shut again.  The door swung open to let the men in.  The cocktail crowd had gathered, and no one paid any attention to the men crossing the floor to the elevator.  Quentin realized with a sinking feeling that he was running out of options.  He hadn't seen Dave at all.  He thought about bolting and making a run for it, but as if they'd read his mind, two of the men grabbed his elbows and were propelling him toward the elevator.</div> <div>      Bartelli was waiting for them in his suite, dressed in a silk robe and enjoying a cigar.  He seemed to be in a very good mood.  He dismissed two of his men but indicated the other two should stay.  He sat down in a soft stuffed chair and regarded Quentin and the two men holding him by the elbows. He addressed the two hoods first.  "Lester and Floyd, thank you for returning this runaway to me."  Then he looked at Quentin. "Well, dear boy, did you expect to see me again so soon?  Are you frightened?  If I were you, I would be quaking in my shoes."</div> <div>      "Why don't you just leave me alone?  I don't want anything to do with you," Quentin said.  He didn't want to sound like he was whining or pleading because he knew that wouldn't work with the count.</div> <div>      "All the better.  I am a sadist, Quentin, haven't you learned that by now?  I get a great deal of pleasure from the pain of others."</div> <div>      "If that's as you say, then there's no other deal we can make?" Quentin asked. When Bartelli shook his head, Quentin, feeling desperate, warned,  "Fine, try and get your jollies from me then."</div> <div>      Bartelli beckoned Quentin with his finger.  The two men pushed him forward.  Bartelli looked at them and ordered, "Get him down, boys!" They forced Quentin to his knees.  Bartelli opened his robe.  He was naked under it, tightly muscled and very hairy.  Already, he had become aroused, and Quentin began to struggle, repulsed.  "Come and meet your friend," he said in a teasing, nastily threatening manner.  He put his hand on the back of Quentin's head, but Quentin shook him off.</div> <div>      "No," Quentin answered, glaring at Bartelli.  Bartelli smiled, almost benevolently and then slapped Quentin across the face again. "Keep hitting me.  I still won't do it," Quentin said defiantly, "and even if you do get it into my mouth, I promise you I'll bite it off."</div> <div>      "You have no manners.  You need to be more respectful of your betters," Bartelli said slowly, glowering at Quentin.  In spite of the glower, Quentin suspected that Bartelli was actually enjoying himself immensely.  This was just a game.  "You need to be taught a lesson, my boy."  He made a motion to the two men, who pulled Quentin to his feet again.  Bartelli stood up, too.  "I warned you that I take a great deal of pleasure from inflicting pain. It gives me the greatest joy to teach this lesson to you."  He turned to the two men.  "Take him to my desk."</div> <div>      Quentin tried to pull away, but Lester and Floyd were stronger than he was.  They pushed him into the living area, to Bartelli's large oak desk.  One of the men swept all the objects off the desk with his arm.  They bent Quentin over the desk, struggling to hold him down.  Quentin was determined not to make this easy for any of them.  As he kicked out, he caught one of the men right on the knee and he fell over.  Quentin jumped up, but the other man landed squarely on his back, pushing him down on the desk again,  struggling to keep him face down and immobile.</div> <div>      Quentin felt a firm hand on the back of his head.  The next thing he saw was stars.  That hand had smashed his face into the desk, hard.  He thought he felt blood pouring from his nose and mouth, and he was too stunned to move for the moment.  He began to struggle again when he felt hands at his waist, tugging at his pants, but by then it was too late.  The two hoods held him down by his arms and shoulders, preventing him from moving.</div> <div>      "Quentin, when I tell you to do something, it's not a request."  Quentin heard a whistling, cracking sound and then grunted with surprise and pain as he felt a belt or strap cut across his buttocks.  He ground his teeth together, determined not to cry out again.  "I expect you to do what I tell you."  Another blow.  Bartelli spoke in a low, almost soothing voice as he delivered each succeeding blow.  <I>I won't give the bastard the satisfaction,</I> Quentin told himself over and over.  <I>He's enjoying himself too much.</I>  An edge of excitement crept into Bartelli's voice now.  "Do you understand me, Quentin?"  He struck again and again.  "Answer me!  Do you understand me?"</div> <div>      With as much control as he could to keep his voice level, Quentin answered, "I understand you."</div> <div>      The whipping stopped. What came next was much worse. He felt Bartelli's hands caressing him.  "I'm sure that didn't hurt you too much, did it?  Besides, we both know that won't last, don't we? Give me that jar." The hands went away, but he felt pressure on the small of his back.  "Leave me.  He is for me alone.  I'm not sharing him."</div> <div>      Lester and Floyd let go of him and began to back away.  Immediately, Quentin was trying to jump up again.  Bartelli grabbed him by the arm and struck him in the face yet again.  Quentin spat into his face, which either enraged or delighted the sadist further. Bartelli hit him again and again.  He was very strong, and Quentin realized he would never be able to overpower this monster.</div> <div>      Bartelli had pushed him back down again.  Quentin felt the hands again, between his legs, spreading his buttocks. Bartelli was smearing something greasy on him.  He knew what it was for.  He couldn't  stop himself from pleading, "Please don't do this to me."</div> <div>      Bartelli laughed.  "I don't want to hurt you too badly this first time.  You should thank me for easing the way for you.  I'm sorry you won't enjoy this, Quentin.  I assure you that I certainly will."  He pressed himself forward, and as Quentin felt the shocking, ripping  pain of the forced entry, he couldn't stop himself from screaming, "No! Don't!"  Bartelli just laughed a little more wildly and began thrusting himself in and out. Tears of pain and rage filled Quentin's eyes and spilled down his face. Bartelli put more of his weight on Quentin's back so that he could lean forward and whisper into his ear.  "Ah! You are as tight as I'd hoped.  So--you haven't been opened by that perverted friend of yours, dear boy?  I much prefer virgins and you are attractive, do you know that?"  Quentin felt his rage and humiliation increasing.  "Tell me that you are enjoying this, my boy," Bartelli whispered, chuckling with pleasure as he began to move faster and harder.</div> <div>      Quentin concentrated on the taste of  the blood in his mouth. Maybe it was coming from his lip, where he might've bitten through it to keep from crying out any more.  He remembered the first time he and and a young housemaid, Bridget, had been together.  It was her first time, and he remembered she had bled.  It had scared him.  They were both hardly more than children when they began their affair.  It had been some time after he'd begun an affair with Laura but years before he met and married Jenny. Beth had never been with anyone before him, either. He wondered if he had hurt them the way he was being hurt now.  He hoped not; he didn't remember that either had screamed or cried with pain.  He'd been with many women, many of whom had never had sex before but he'd never forced them--at least, he didn't think he did.  He hoped he didn't because the feeling of being forced to do something against his will was a worse hurt than the physical pain he was suffering.  Bartelli was panting and gasping, and Quentin knew he'd be finished soon.  The last thrust or two very nearly caused him to lose control and scream again as he felt like he was being split in two, but he just bit his lip all the harder to remain silent.  Bartelli collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily.  "Tell me you liked it, Quentin, tell me you want more," Bartelli whispered tauntingly.  "I must say that I enjoyed myself very much. I have an insatiable appetite, but don't worry, my boy.  You'll learn to accept that.  Maybe you'll learn to like it, too."</div> <div>      Don't say anything at all, Quentin thought to himself, he is crazy.  Now that it's over, I've got to think of a way out of here.  I'm not going through this again.  As if he'd read Quentin's mind, Bartelli stroked him and said, "Now, Quentin, I'd like you to follow through on that little request I made before and then perhaps I will return the favor," Bartelli was saying.</div> <div>      Quentin thought quickly, trying to buy himself time.  "May I wash up first?" he asked finally, forcing himself to sound completely docile.</div> <div>      Bartelli laughed heartily and got up.  Unexpectedly, he slapped Quentin's backside, making him cry out involuntarily in surprise and hurt. "Certainly a reasonable request! You are a mess!  The bathroom is through that door."</div> <div>      With as much dignity as he could muster, Quentin got his clothes together and went into the bathroom.  He locked the door behind him.</div> <div>      "I heard that, Quentin!  Don't take too much time in there, my dear," Bartelli jeered.</div> <div>           Quentin looked at himself in the mirror and then looked away.  He couldn't stand the sight of himself, his face puffy with shock and streaked with tears and blood.  There was only a little blood still oozing from his nose and mouth.  He couldn't stand the smell on himself, either.  It was an odor he usually associated with the aftermath of a pleasurable encounter.  Now he just felt nauseated and incredibly filthy. He ached all over, and he felt as if he was bleeding everywhere.  Running the water, he washed his face and then used a towel to pat it dry.  He had bitten into his lip, and he spat the blood into the sink.  Eventually the cut would stop bleeding and heal--like nothing had ever happened.  It wasn't anything to worry about.  He was a little more concerned about whatever was running down his legs. He used the towel to wipe most of it away. He tried to use the mirror to inspect the damage. He couldn't really see anything; apparently the strap hadn't left any visible welts although he still hurt. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his pants back up. He took a washcloth, rolled it up, and stuffed it down his pants to soak up whatever was left. </div> <div>      Now he looked around the room.  There was a small window.  He could probably climb out.  He began running the water in the tub.  "Feel like taking a bath, eh?"  Bartelli called from outside the door.  "Fine idea, my boy, I just don't want you to stay away from me too long, do you hear me?"  He banged on the door, and Quentin jumped.  "Do you hear me, Quentin?"</div> <div>      "Yes, I hear you," Quentin answered.  "I won't be long."  He let the water run a little more quickly to cover the sound of the window being pushed open.  He really felt he could squueze through the window; the problem was going to be how to get down once he was out.  They were on the top floor, and the ledge was rather narrow.  There was a fire escape that he could inch his way to, but he was afraid Bartelli would see him through one of the windows.  Well, but this way was the only way out.</div> <div>      Quentin climbed onto the toilet seat and then hoisted himself out the window.  He had to sit on the ledge, wincing from the pain.  Again, he felt hatred welling up inside him.  He had to move fast, though--there was no telling how long Bartelli would wait before becoming suspicious.  Bracing himself, Quentin shifted himself so that he was half lying on the ledge outside the window with his legs dangling inside.  He inched his way along the ledge until he got his long legs out the window as well.  He was lying on his stomach on the ledge.  Looking down, he felt dizzy.  Looking up, he felt a little more hopeful. Because Bartelli had the top floor, Quentin only had to be able to climb up and over the ledge to reach the roof.  </div> <div>      He got up on his hands and knees and crawled forward a little, trying to find a place to try and stand up.  He didn't want to come to close to the next window; he didn't want to risk someone--especially Bartelli--seeing him out on the ledge.  Gingerly, he managed to stand up.  He clung to the wall like a bat, fighting off the waves of dizziness. He could reach up and touch the ledge to the ceiling, but he didn't think he was quite tall enough to pull himself straight up.  He looked for an opening or crack in the wall so that he could boost himself up.</div> <div>      Suddenly, he heard the sound of someone approaching.  That's it, he thought.  If it's Bartelli or one of his goons, I'm jumping.  I'm not letting Bartelli touch me again.  Just my luck, too, he thought.  Here's a good place to put my foot.  The footsteps came right to where he was clinging to the ledge.  Quentin was mentally preparing himself to jump when Dave peered over at him.  Quentin burst into tears.</div> <div>      "For god's sake, Franky!  What you blubbering for?  Gimme your hand!"  Dave was leaning over, reaching out his hand to Quentin.</div> <div>      "Here, wait a minute," Quentin managed to say between sobs.  He was ashamed of the tears but couldn't control himself.  He put his foot into the opening in the wall he'd found and stepped up.  At the same time, he reached for Dave's hand.  Dave clasped both hands around Quentin's and pulled.  Quentin grabbed the edge of the roof with his free hand and helped pull himself over, falling on top of Dave.  He'd begun trembling, but he managed to hug his friend.  "I've never been so glad to see someone in my life!"</div> <div>      "Well, me neither," Dave agreed.  "I seen you climb out from across the street so I run over to the next building, went up the fire escape like a kitty cat and then jumped the roof next door to here.  What in hell are you up to, anyway?"</div> <div>      "Dave, we gotta get outta here," Quentin said urgently.  "If we're caught, we'll get killed-or worse."</div> <div>      Dave studied Quentin's tormented expression and thought that "or worse" had already happened.  "Let's go, man.  We'll go down the way I came up."</div> <div>      Dave led the way across the roof, crossing to the next building.  There were several pigeon coops up here, and all the birds were cooing.  Dave went to a door, which led down a dark stairway.  They were running as fast as they safely could.  "Hey, listen, I'm sorry I couldn't get to you before now," Dave gasped out.  "They come into the lobby and went up so fast, I didn't have time to warn you."</div> <div>      "Was that you on the back of the car?" Quentin asked.</div> <div>      "Yeah, we gonna have to take the subway this time.  I didn't bring no car."</div> <div>      They'd gotten to the bottom of the building, both of them almost completely out of breath.  This building only had apartments in it.  Dave led the way to the front door and looked out.  He waved Quentin back.  "No, no!  I see 'em.  We gonna have to go out the back."  He turned and looked back at Quentin's very white face.  He pushed him back.  "Go, go!"</div> <div>      Quentin forced his legs to move.  They felt like rubber.  They went to the apartment in the back, and Dave pounded at the door.  A young woman opened the door, and Dave pushed his way in, pulling Quentin after him.</div> <div>      "Hey!"  the young woman said, alarmed.</div> <div>      "Miss, we ain't gonna hurt you.  We just need to get out of here!"  Dave explained rapidly.</div> <div>      "Just go on and get out then.  Hurry up," the woman replied.  She didn't seem especially surprised.  She took them to the back of her apartment, to the rear bedroom.  The window opened onto an alley.  She pulled the window open, and the two men climbed out.</div> <div>      "Thanks!" Dave said.</div> <div>      Before the woman shut the window in their faces, she said, "You know your pal's clothes are all torn up?"</div> <div>      Dave glanced at Quentin briefly, then jerked his thumb at the wall at the end of the alley.  "We go over.  I'll boost you."  He bent over and laced his hands together so that Quentin could step up.  Quentin pulled himself to the top of the wall.  As he clambered up, Dave took a good look at his friend.  Yes, both his shirt and pants were ripped.  On top of the wall now, Quentin leaned down and reached for Dave.  Dave grabbed Quentin's hand to help him climb up the wall.  They both jumped over to the other side.  "Listen, Franky," Dave began, "we're not that far from where my ma and sister are staying.  Let me take you there."</div> <div>      "Oh, no," Quentin protested.  "I don't want to take the chance of leading those goons there."</div> <div>      "Don't worry.  They're still looking for you around front.  They won't see us."  When Quentin still protested, Dave said, "Look, Franky, we have to get you cleaned up."  Quentin stopped and looked at Dave.  "You look like you been in a fight--got some blood on your face," Dave explained, looking away.  "We got to take care of you.  Get you some new clothes--yours got tore up in the--the fight. Shirt looks like it got some blood on it, too."  Quentin used his sleeve to wipe his mouth and spat again. Dave watched him and said sharply, "Now don't argue with me no more and come on." </div> <div>      They made their way to the next subway and caught a train to Harlem.  Quentin wanted to stand and hold onto the rail, but Dave whispered that people would be able to see he'd been in a fight or something.  They'd remember a white man going into Harlem with torn and bloody clothes.  "Don't forget that man will have people looking for you," Dave hissed.  "Now, do what I tell you, willya?"  Resigned, Quentin sat down, wincing and shifting his weight uncomfortably.  Dave seemed at a loss for words.  Finally he said, "I guess you still in trouble with that devil-man, huh?"</div> <div>      "I guess," Quentin answered.  "I'm gonna have to find a phone and call Edward.  I don't want him to hang around, waiting."</div> <div>      "You don't want me to get you home to him?"</div> <div>      "NO!" Quentin said sharply.  "I don't want those people after my family."</div> <div>      "Okay, there's a phone in the corner drugstore.  We get you cleaned up first, you make your call okay?"  Dave hesitated.  "Frank?"</div> <div>      Quentin swallowed hard.  "Don't ask me.  Please."</div> <div>      "Okay, kid.  You just take it easy, okay?  We'll be home soon."</div> <div>      Home.  Quentin closed his eyes and leaned his head back, fighting back more tears.  He really had to stop this crying.  It was all shameful enough, without him acting like a baby on top of everything too.  With the shame because of his tears, he again felt the rage within him burning.  He imagined himself with the power, with the scimitar that the count was so afraid of.  Only he wouldn't use it to cut the man's damn hand off.  Not at first. He'd cut the man's penis and testicles off first and stuff them into his mouth.  THEN he would cut the hand...</div> <div>      "Frank!" Dave was shaking him.  Dave had seen the changes in his friend's expression, and he was worried.  Quentin snapped his eyes opened, rage and hatred burning in them.  "Frank!"  Slowly, Quentin's expression cleared and he looked at Dave.  "Next stop, kid."  They got off, and Dave led Quentin down the street.  </div> <div>      "Listen, Franky, my mama don't know anything about this, see?"  Dave explained quickly.  "All she's gonna  know is, there was an accident--or maybe you got into a fight.  So don't say nothin, okay?"  People sitting out on the stoop enjoying the afternoon air stared with curiosity at Dave and Quentin as they went up the steps and into a building, but no one asked any questions.  "This is really my aunt and uncle's place," Dave explained, opening the door to the flat.</div> <div>      Ethelette and Mary Margaret were in the kitchen with a woman who must be the aunt.  They swarmed over Dave and put their arms about him.  Then Mary Margaret noticed Quentin and smiled at him shyly.  Ethelette came over and hugged him, too.  Quentin hugged her back uncomfortably.  He felt unclean.</div> <div>      "Mama, we'll need to stay over a night before we move on to our next job," Dave was saying.</div> <div>      "Do you think I could get a bath?" Quentin asked, seemingly unaware that he was interupting the conversation between Dave and his mother.</div> <div>      "A BATH?" Dave asked, incredulously and at the same time, his mother asked, surprised, "In the middle of the day?"  </div> <div>      "Maybe he has a date tonight, Mama," Mary Margaret said softly, trying to be helpful.</div> <div>      "Well, I kind of got into a scrape," Quentin said, which was at least true.  "I just want to get cleaned up."</div> <div>      Now Ethelette studied him a little more closely.  Quentin blushed.  "You did get into a scrape all right, child," she said appraisingly.  "Go make sure the bathroom's free, Mary honey," she said to her daughter.  "Dave, I think some of Uncle Willy's clothes would fit this boy.  They both tall and skinny."</div> <div>      Quentin was embarrassed to be drawing attention to himself, but he desperately wanted to get into a tub and wash all the filth off himself.  "I think it'll be all right," Dave said to him.  "C'mere, I'll show you where the bathroom is.  This ain't like what you're used to Frank.  We all share a bathroom in this here building.  But I think you'll have the privacy you need because don't no one tend to be around in the middle of the day."</div> <div>      "Good," Quentin said, relieved.</div> <div>      They met Mary Margaret coming out of the bathroom.  "Got it running nice and hot for you," she said, ducking her head.  "You can fix it if you like."</div> <div>      "Thank you," Quentin said, and smiled at her, genuinely grateful.  She smiled slightly, very shyly.  Too bad...Quentin thought momentarily.  Then he asked Dave, "Look, could you maybe bring me a bag with the other clothes?  I think I just want to get rid of these.  And would you get me a bottle of something, please?  Anything, I don't care."</div> <div>      Dave looked at him curiously but decided not to press.  "Sure, no problem, Franky," he said.  Quentin shut the door to the bathroom in Dave's face and latched it.  Shaking his head, Dave walked back to his mother's apartment.  Quentin stripped the clothes off and threw them into a pile in the middle of the small room.  He couldn't look at his them, especially the washcloth. He shuddered and climbed into the tub.  He slid down, bending his knees, until he was almost totally submerged and ducked his head under the water, too.  He stayed under the water as long as he could and then popped up for a breath of air. The warm water was soothing to his aching body. He bobbed up and down like that for a while until he heard banging at the door and came up, sputtering.</div> <div>      "Frank!"  Dave called.  "Open the door!"</div> <div>      "Leave it there," Quentin said.  "I'll get it."</div> <div>      "What is wrong with you, man?  Open the damn door!"</div> <div>      Quentin hesitated, then reluctantly got up out of the tub.  Wrapping a towel around his middle, he unlocked the door and cracked it open.  "What is wrong with you, man?  I ain't gonna look at you, for Chrissake!"  Frank persisted, looking concerned.  So Quentin let him in, reaching for the bottle with his free hand.  It was cheap wine, but he didn't care.  Frank also had a worn pair of jeans, a shirt, underclothes, socks, and the requested paper back.  He set the clothes down on the ledge.  </div> <div>      Quentin took the bag.  "Thanks, Dave."  Hanging on to the towel, he bent over and scooped the clothes up and stuffed them into the bag.  He rolled the top of the bag and pushed it at Dave.  "Think you can get rid of these?  Burn them maybe?"</div> <div>      Dave looked at Quentin, concerned,  and thought that except for the puffiness of his face, there didn't seem to be a mark on him.  Yet something was terribly wrong. He had a dawning horrific suspicion that he quicky shoved out of his head because it was too ugly to think about.  He did say, "Franky, you want to talk about this?"</div> <div>      "No, no, Dave, please, just leave me alone for awhile."</div> <div>      In a way, Dave was relieved.  "Sure, Franky.  You just let me know when you want to talk.  Ma is fixing us up a bed for tonight.  We'll decide what to do later, OK?"</div> <div>      "Okay," Quentin said gratefully.  Dave took the bag of clothes and left.  He heard Quentin latch the door again and then heard the sound of the wine bottle being opened.  He shook his head, feeling genuinely helpless and more than a little concerned.</div> <div>      Quentin took a deep drink straight from the bottle.  He would've liked to stay here for hours, asking Dave to fetch him more bottles, but he knew he had to call Edward and make sure they were safely away.  First, though, he wanted to make sure he'd washed off every trace of Bartelli from his body.  He took another deep swallow.  The cheap wine was sweet and burned pleasantly in his throat.  He'd hoped it would relax him right away, but it really wasn't working because he was still filled with rage and hatred.  The lightheadedness he was beginning to feel only seemed to make him angrier.  He kept drinking, though.  He thought he'd rather be drunk and angry than sober and angry.  Being drunk at least blunted some of the pain.</div> <div>      He got out when the bottle was empty, and his head was swimming.  He dressed in Dave's uncle's clothes.  They were well worn but clean.  He supposed he looked like a real working stiff now.  Hopefully no one would recognize him in these clothes.  He went looking for Dave, and stopped outside the apartment.  He heard his friend arguing:  "I don't understand why this is such a big deal!"</div> <div>      "Look, why'd you want to bring trouble here?  You can't tell me that white boy isn't in some kind of trouble," a man was saying.  Quentin guessed this must be Uncle Willy.</div> <div>      "Yeah, he got into a little fight, but it really wasn't no big deal," Dave was saying.  "We're on our way to a new gig, anyway.  We just stopped here for the time being."</div> <div>      "Where's his family at?  Why didn't he go there?"</div> <div>      "They're in Maine, Uncle Willy.  That's kind of far."</div> <div>      "Just seems kind of funny how you'd be so concerned about this white boy when your own mama and sister almost died in a fire."</div> <div>      "Why you say that?  You think I'm not concerned about them?  But I know they're well took care of here.  All I'm tryin to do is help a friend out, is all."</div> <div>      Quentin had heard enough.  He rapped on the partially open door, gently.  Dave and his uncle had been facing each other across the kitchen table.  Both looked angry.  The uncle was tall and thin, like Quentin, and he looked worn out and tired.  They both turned to look at him.  The uncle shook his head and walked away.  Dave looked embarrassed.  "You hear all that?" he asked.  "Uncle Willy don't mean nothin."</div> <div>      "It's all right," Quentin said softly.  "He's right, you know.  I shouldn't stay here.  It'd just cause a lot of trouble."  Dave opened his mouth to protest, then shut it.  "Dave, is there a phone somewhere I can use?"</div> <div>      "Yeah, come on down to the drug store," Dave said.  He led Quentin back out onto the street and they crossed over.  The phone was located at the back of the store.</div> <div>      Quentin called Edward's hotel and asked for his suite.  There was a pause, then a click, several rings, and Frances picked up the phone, answering very cautiously.  Quentin groaned inwardly.  They were still there!  "Frances, listen--this is Frank Scott."  He imagined she was groaning inwardly too.  "Is Mr. Edward there?"</div> <div>      "Yes, he is.  Shall I put him on or would you like to leave a message?"</div> <div>      "Put him on, please."  Ninny.  </div> <div>      "Yes, Mr. Scott.  I'll have to get him.  He's lying down."</div> <div>      "Is he all right?"  Quentin was alarmed, remembering the last time he'd seen his brother.</div> <div>      "Yes, sir, but he was quite shaken up by all that's happened.  The police were just here.  And the doctor.  He had to put six stitches in Mr. Edward's head."</div> <div>      More guilt.  "But he's all right otherwise?"</div> <div>      "I believe so, Mr. Scott.  Hold on and I'll get him."</div> <div>      After what seemed an interminably long period of time, Edward spoke weakly into the phone:  "Quentin?  Are you all right?"</div> <div>      "Yes, Edward, what are you still doing there?"</div> <div>      "I wasn't going to leave without you.  Where are you?  Can you come here or do you need me to send you a car?"</div> <div>      Quentin was touched, but he answered firmly.  "No, Edward, don't send a car.  And don't wait any longer.  You all have to get out of here.  Get back to Collinsport.  Can you still make that train?"</div> <div>      "Quentin, where are you?  I want you to come here," Edward answered, as if he hadn't heard his brother.  "Then we can leave together."</div> <div>      "I can't come with you," Quentin said.  "I don't want to draw any more trouble to you.  Look--I got away from those fellows.  They're going to be looking for me."</div> <div>      "Did they hurt you?  I called the police."</div> <div>      Quentin shut his eyes tightly.  "No, they didn't.  And calling the police isn't a good idea, Edward.  If they're not being paid off by those guys and they're honest, you're only going to make the bad guys angrier."  Edward began to sputter.  "Edward, please.  Just listen to me.  Get Jamison out of here.  All of you go home.  I'll come when I can."  There was a silence.  "Please, Edward, please," Quentin begged.  "If something else happens to you or Jamison or Elizabeth, I'll lose my mind.  I can't stand it.  Please, Edward.  Please tell me you'll go."</div> <div>      Edward sighed.  "Will you come home, too?"</div> <div>      Quentin let out a long sigh of relief.  "Yes, I promise, I will come home."  How many times had he told Jamison the same thing?  "I mean, I'll come when it's safe.  I promise.  Please just go."</div> <div>      "I want you to call me wherever you are and let me know that you are safe," Edward said, setting his conditions.</div> <div>      "Yes, I will."</div> <div>      "I will do some checking and see if I can find a safe place for you to go for awhile.  You'll call me at least once a week and let me know how you are?   If you need anything, you just ask for it.  I'll cable you money or whatever you need.  You will call me?"</div> <div>      "Yes, I will," Quentin promised.  He would've promised anything Edward asked just to get his family out of town.  He honestly meant to follow through and call Edward to stay in touch with him.  </div> <div>      "What about now?  I can leave you some money here--"  Edward began.</div> <div>      "Edward, listen, I don't need anything now.  I'm fine.  I'm getting ready to get out of New York myself.  I'll call you at Collinwood, all right?  You'll be at Collinwood by tonight?  I'll call you, I promise."</div> <div>      "Very well.  Yes, we'll leave as soon as I can get a cab.  I'll expect to hear from you tonight, then.  Quentin, please be careful."  The old man's voice was breaking.</div> <div>      "You, too.  Edward,"  Quentin replied and stopped.  He was having difficulty speaking.  He swallowed.  "Thank you, Edward.  Thank you for everything."</div> <div>      "Don't say that," Edward said sharply.  "You sound like you are saying goodbye."</div> <div>      That hadn't been Quentin's intention.  "No, I'm not, honest, big brother.  I'm going to call you.  It's just that I wanted you to know--I just wanted to say--"</div> <div>      "It's all right, Quentin," Edward said softly.  "I understand.  I love you, too."</div> <div>      "I'll talk to you tonight--after you get to Collinsport," Quentin said thickly, his eyes filling with tears, and then he hung up.  He leaned his head against the pay phone.</div> <div>      "Let's go back home and get something to eat," Dave said, concerned.</div> <div>      "No, you go.  I don't want to cause your family any more trouble," Quentin answered, getting control of himself.</div> <div>      "What're you talking about?  Uncle Willy?  Don't you be listening to him, Franky!"</div> <div>      "But he's right, Dave.  I think I've done enough damage."</div> <div>      Dave looked at him, considering.  "Well, where you think you're gonna go?"</div> <div>      "I'm not sure yet.  Out of New York.  I want to pay Mr. Bartelli back for what he's done, but I need to get out of here first."</div> <div>      Alarmed, Dave said, "Franky, you want to let that devil-man alone.  Don't mess with him!"  He thought and then said, "Look, I'm going with you."  When Quentin protested, Dave interrupted him.  "Don't you be telling me what to do!  I can't do nothin here anymore no how.  I tell you what we'll do--we'll go back for our stuff.  I need my horn.  Maybe Smitty can set us up with another gig.  You could REALLY play the piano, some nice place in a nice resort, what do you say?"</div> <div>      "I don't know..."</div> <div>      "We got to get out of here, don't we?  There ain't nothin for me to do here is there?  People are mad at me, too, you know.  So why not go lie low some place nice for a change--no gangsters.  Maybe some nice resort town like Ocean City in New Jersey or Atlantic City or Philly. Come on, Franky..."</div> <div>      "I'll have to change my name..."</div> <div>      "Yeah, yeah, you do that.  Make it your last name, huh?  I don't know I could get used to calling you anything but Frank.  Come on.  Let me just go say my goodbyes."</div> <div>      "Ah, I'll wait for you here,"  Quentin said uncomfortably.</div> <div>      Dave understood.  "Okay, you get yourself something to eat here and I'll be back.  But don't skip out on me, Frank.  You need looking out for."</div> <div>      Quentin was touched again.  "Thank you, Dave.  Don't worry, I'll wait.  I'm not used to having people want to look out for me.  I guess maybe you're right."</div> <div>      "'Course I'm right!  And aren't we friends?  You stay right here, you hear?  You'll be safe.  Those bad men won't know to look round this neighborhood," Dave said reassuringly.  "I won't be long."</div> <div>      "Okay," Quentin agreed.  Dave left him sitting at a seat by the soda fountain.  Quentin thought he'd have an egg creme while he waited.  He hadn't had one in a long time, and it seemed he'd have the time to savor this one.</div> <bR> <div>      When Dave returned, he had a little more cash than he'd left with, thanks to his mother and Uncle Willy.  "First thing is, we gotta get our stuff.  I'll talk to Smitty.  Maybe he can hook me up with a band in Atlantic City.  Maybe Philly," he said.</div> <div>      "Atlantic City is nice," Quentin agreed immediately.</div> <div>      When they got back to the inn, they quickly threw their things together.  Smitty was in the bandroom, fooling around with the piano, and Dave went in to talk to him.  </div> <div>      Quentin hung around outside, waiting.  At that point, the Essex pulled up and Cholly exited it, accompanied by another young man.  Suddenly, Quentin was filled with rage.  "Hi, Frank, haven't seen you in a while," Cholly said pleasantly to him, as he and his companion walked past.  Quentin waited for them to pass him, then he leapt on Cholly's back and knocked him to the ground.  "Hey!  Hey!" Cholly yelled in surprise.  "What the hell you doin?"  Quentin had Cholly's head and began banging it on the floor of the porch, hard.   Quentin heard himself cursing and calling Cholly vile names. Cholly began to scream.</div> <div>      The other fellow grabbed Quentin and tried to pull him off.  Quentin rounded on him, punching out at him and snarling.  This fellow was not a courageous type, and he immediately backed off, calling, "Help!  Help!" </div> <div>      All the noise had attracted attention.  Most of the other band players and hotel guests stood watching, shocked.  Smitty and Dave came out to see what was going on.  Dave pushed his way through. "Frank!  Stop it!"  he shouted.  When Quentin ignored him, Dave threw himself at his friend, knocking him over on his side.  Dave pinned Quentin to the ground and shouted again, "Frank!  Stop it now!"  When he saw the uncontrollable rage start to clear from his friend's eyes, he demanded, "You gonna stop now so I can let you up?  Or should I keep sittin on you?"</div> <div>      "Let me go," Quentin rasped.  "I'm done."</div> <div>      Dave got up.  "What the hell is wrong with you?"  He turned away from Quentin and looked toward Cholly, who was being tended by Smitty and the other young man.</div> <div>      "Get a doctor," Smitty barked.  Cholly's face was covered with blood; his nose looked smashed.  Smitty looked over at Dave and Quentin.  "You two get the hell out of here!  What do you mean pullin your disappearin act and then comin back here like this?  And I was gonna do you a favor, Dave, unreliable as you are!  You can forget it, though!  You and that troublemaker can go and clear out of here, now-you got that?"</div> <div>      "Smitty-" Dave began.</div> <div>      "Get out!  I mean it!  I'm gonna call the cops!"  Smitty warned.  "Look at this kid's nose!  It's busted, I'm sure.  He mighta been kilt!"  He glared at Quentin.  "What are you, nuts?  What'd this kid do to you, anyway?  Now I got one less trumpet player and no trombone player!"  He stood up, facing Quentin.  "I'll give you to five and then I'm callin the cops, you hear me?"</div> <div>      Quentin turned and began walking.  He heard rapid footsteps behind him, and then Dave caught up with him, thrusting his bundle at him.  "Take this, fool!  I ain't totin your stuff, too!" Quentin took his bag sullenly and kept walking.  "Frank, you better talk to me about this," Dave said angrily, trying to keep up.  "What got into you?  I had Smitty all talked into recommending me for a gig in Atlantic City and then you jump Cholly. Now you walkin off without either of your cars!"</div> <div>      "Fuck the cars!"</div> <div>      " Are you crazy?"</div> <div>      "Yeah, well, maybe I am!"  Quentin shouted.  He was still in a rage and felt he might lose control of himself at any moment. "Cholly has a big mouth!  He was supposed to keep it shut about what happened!  No one was supposed to know!"</div> <div>      "Know about what, Frank?" Dave shouted back in angry confusion.  Quentin turned and started to answer, but then shut his mouth tightly and began to walk even faster.  Dave had never seen his friend look so wild.  Suddenly, he realized what Quentin was referring to and had to run to catch up with his friend.  "Frank, slow down!  We got to talk, but you need to calm yourself down!"</div> <div>      "No, I don't need to do anything like that!"  Quentin yelled.  Dave grabbed his arm, and Quentin rounded on him, in a boxer's stance, ready to strike.  Surprised, Dave let go and looked at his friend calmly.  "You really want to hit me, Frank?"</div> <div>      Quentin dropped his fists.  "I'm sorry.  Just let me alone.  You shouldn't even come with me.  Why don't you go back and tell Smitty it was all me?  He can still hook you up in Atlantic City."</div> <div>      "Naw,  I don't think so.  Look, you calm down some more and then we'll talk.  But listen, Frank, you oughta know it wasn't Cholly that talked to anybody."</div> <div>      "Oh, no?  Then how did Bartelli know about it?"</div> <div>      "Well, don't you remember Helga?  She's a whore, Frank.  You knew that, didn't you?"</div> <div>      "Yes.  So?"</div> <div>      "So whores talk.  You don't think Bartelli uses whores, too?" Quentin looked at Dave in consternation.  It hadn't occurred to him, obviously, but he was listening now.</div> <div> Dave went on, "You got to think clear about this, Franky.  What good would it do for Cholly to talk?  You know how people feel about his kind.  Why would he brag about that to anybody?"</div> <div>      Quentin slowly processed the information.  He felt sick to his stomach.  If what Dave was saying was true, he'd done a terrible injustice to Cholly.  "You don't think Cholly and Bartelli-" he began.</div> <div>      "Frank, Cholly's even scareder of that man than you are," Dave said.  "Most times, he sees that man comin and he disappears.  Don't you remember the night of the party?  Cholly left after the first set."</div> <div>      "He said he had a virus," Quentin remembered.</div> <div>      "He didn't have no virus, Franky.  He was just scared of that man.  That man hates homosexuals.  He'll cut them up."</div> <div>      "But, he-" Quentin began and then shut his mouth abruptly.</div> <div>      Dave looked at Quentin with mixed pity and compassion.  "It's like when a man goes with whores and then beats them up.  You remember Jack the Ripper?  People like that are touched in the head.  Like that man Bartelli.  That's why Cholly'd be scared of him.  No, he didn't tell no one, Frank."  Quentin groaned.  He kicked a stone.  "Look, it's over and done with.  We got to clear on out of here.  We'll go down to Atlantic City like we planned, hey?  I'll bet I could get hooked up with a band down there anyhow.  Or maybe we could go over to Philly."  Quentin nodded silently.  Dave wanted to ask more questions; he still didn't know what had happened to Quentin while he was with Bartelli. He had some suspicions, and they were becoming more like convictions now.  The expression on Quentin's face, however, told him he'd still better not ask.</div> <div>      They hitched a ride with a farmer headed into New Jersey. The farmer made it plain he didn't really approve of Dave.  He'd stopped because Quentin was white and because he'd seen the trumpet case. He agreed to take them as far as Hoboken.  After that, they'd have to make their own way. "You can ride in the back," the farmer told Dave.  Quentin said he would, too, and the farmer answered, "Suit yourself, sonny.  None too comfortable back there, but it's up to you."  Dave and Quentin climbed into the back of the truck.</div> <div>      The bumping ride wasn't especially comfortable, but Quentin was tired enough that he fell asleep.  Sleep would become an anethma to him-he had the first of many nightmares that would come to him over the next several months.  In his nightmare, he was experiencing the horror of having Bartelli put his hands on him again, whispering obscenely to him.  In this one, his grandmother watched approvingly as Bartelli violated Quentin again. He cried out for help.</div> <div>      He felt Dave shake him awake.  His first reaction was to flail out, but Dave effectively blocked the punch.  Quentin shivered, realizing that they were sitting on the floor in the back of the farmer's truck.  Quentin drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them, still shivering.  "Sorry," he mumbled.  "Had a dream."  He noticed that Dave gave him an odd look, one that seemed to be mixed with pity and contempt.  It angered him.  "What?" he snapped.  "Why are you staring at me like that?"</div> <div>      "You been like a crazy man since you climbed out that window," Dave remarked.  "What happened to you, Franky?"</div> <div>      Quentin looked away and set his jaw.  "Nothing.  I got away before anything happened."  He refused to look at Dave; he didn't want to see the look of disbelief he might find there.  He could sense that Dave was no longer staring at him, and he relaxed.</div> <div>      After a few moments, Dave asked, "Who's Barnabas?"</div> <div>      "Barnabas?"  Quentin repeated, surprised.</div> <div>      "You called for him, Franky.  Who is he?"</div> <div>      Quentin sighed.  "He's a friend.  A real friend, like you are-I hope.  If it hadn't been for Barnabas, I probably wouldn't have learned what friendship was all about."</div> <div>      "Aren't you friends anymore?  Where is he?"</div> <div>      "He's away.  I miss him a lot.  I guess that's why I was calling for him."</div> <div>      Dave looked at him doubtfully.  "You can't call him or anything?"</div> <div>      Quentin sighed again, more deeply.  "No, I can't call him."  He reflected that he really could use Barnabas' guidance now.  Barnabas had been such a good role model for him.  He'd learned a lot about loyalty and friendship and how to treat other people from his cousin. He began to feel himself becoming emotional again and hated himself for it.  Barnabas would know what to do in a situation like this.  Actually, Barnabas probably never would've made the mistakes that would get him into a mess like this anyway.</div> <div>      "You know, Frank, there's a lot going on here I don't understand," Dave commented, watching Quentin's expression change.  "There's lots of stuff I've been wanting to ask you but everything's been happening so fast."  Quentin looked at him with a slightly alarmed expression in his eyes.  "Like, how come your brother is so much older than you?  I mean, I know you said he was, but your brother is an OLD man and you young.  You look more like your nephew's younger brother than your brother's.  And you said you knew this Count Bartelli before.  Was his name Count Pay-toffee?"</div> <div>      Quentin started.  He wasn't ready to deal with all of this.  Just what had he said, anyway?  He swallowed.  Dave was looking at him expectantly.  He wondered how far he could trust Dave before his friend would think him mad or decide he'd had enough and move on alone?   "This is hard to talk about, Dave," he muttered finally, truthfully.  "A lot of it you wouldn't believe even if I told you."     </div> <div>      "Why?  You don't trust me, Frank?"</div> <div>      "No, it's just incredible.  I don't know if you trust me enough to believe everything I'd tell you."</div> <div>      "Well, I've trusted you up to now."</div> <div>      "Do you believe me when I say nothing happened there?"  Quentin suddenly demanded. </div> <div>      Dave looked away.  "I believe you're tellin me as much as you possibly can."</div> <div>      "Okay, well, then you have to believe this-Edward is my brother in spite of how old he looks and how young I look.  I did know Count Bartelli, and he was using his real name then.  It was Count Petofi.  He's an old enemy of mine.  That's all I really want to say about it right now, all right, Dave?"</div> <div>      "Okay, Franky.  You can tell me if you want to when you want to.  I won't ask you no more."  After a pause, Dave said, "I don't know if I'd have been able to fight that man myself.  I might've just gone and killed myself."  Quentin started and looked at Dave sharply.  Dave had a strange expression on his face.  He was struggling to be helpful.  "I'm just trying to say that I don't think I could take it.  I probably would kill myself."  Dave hesitated, then asked, "Franky IF something had happened to you, would you feel that way?"</div> <div>      Quentin was suspicious.  He wondered if there was an implied criticism in Dave's words.  He felt he should've fought Bartelli harder.  Maybe he would've been able to prevent what happened if he'd fought harder.  He wondered if Dave would think him less a man if he knew the truth.  Or would he think that it would be better to have jumped from the building after it  happened rather than to go on.  "Why are you asking me that?  Nothing happened!"</div> <div>      "I just meant IF," Dave insisted.  "I mean, IF-you wouldn't do something foolish and hurt yourself, would you?"</div> <div>      "No, now would you leave it, please?" Quentin said irritably.  "Nothing happened, so there's no point in talking about any of it except how to stay away from him until I can figure out how to get back at him."</div> <div>      "Bad idea," Dave said.</div> <div>      "No, good idea.  Look, Dave, that man has a vendetta against my family.  He's after me, sure, but I'm also afraid he'll go after my family.  So I'm going to have to figure out a way to stop him.  That would make anyone feel the way I do."  Quentin hoped that would satisfy Dave's questions about his strange behavior.</div> <div>      "What you think you want to do?"  Dave asked.</div> <div>      "I don't know.  I'm still thinking," Quentin answered.  They sat in silence the rest of the way.</div> <div>      At Hoboken, the farmer let them off.  It was past evening, well after dinner time, and the farmer had dropped them off in front of a diner.  Both men were hungry, but they needed to find a place that would serve them both.  "Why don't you go in here and use their phone to call your brother?"  Dave asked.  "Ask the man how to get to the colored section of town.  Then we can get something to eat."</div> <div>      Quentin agreed.  He went in and called Collinwood.  After several rings, he heard Walsh, the butler, answer the phone.  Yes, Mr. Edward Collins and party had arrived only within the last few minutes.  Quentin asked to speak to Edward, announcing he was Frank Scott.</div> <div>      "Are you all right?"  Edward asked cautiously.   His voice sounded weak and tired.</div> <div>      "Yes, I'm fine.  Are YOU all right?"</div> <div>      "Tired.  That's all.  This has all been a great shock.  All right, then, where are you?"</div> <div>      "Right now we're in Hoboken."  Quentin gave the name of the diner.  "I'm not quite sure where in Hoboken that is.  We're going to find another place to eat, but I wanted to call you first.  After that, I guess we'll go down to Atlantic City for a while."</div> <div>      "I have a better idea.  I was thinking, Quentin, do you remember the summer home in Cuddeback?"</div> <div>      He hadn't been there in years and years.  He remembered a main house and some cabins on the property.  It was out in the wild, and the Delaware River ran through it.  He remembered canoing there; Edward had taught him how.  "Yes," he began cautiously.</div> <div>      "Nora and her family have just left there to go back to Chicago," Edward was saying.  "I thought you and your friend could go there for awhile.  You'd be safe there.  You'd be safer there than in Atlantic City.  I believe there are gangsters there."</div> <div>      "They're everywhere, Edward," Quentin answered, thinking.  Cuddeback WAS isolated.  It was in Port Jervis, New York, and was located in the corner where New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey came together.</div> <div>      "But not likely to be in Port Jervis!" Edward snapped, misunderstanding.  He thought Quentin was arguing with him.</div> <div>      "Yes, you're right, of course," Quentin said immediately.  He heard Edward sigh with relief.  "Edward, I have to tell you…I left the car at the inn."</div> <div>      "You what?  Why did you do that?  Was it the gangsters?"</div> <div>      "Well-" Quentin began.  He didn't know how to explain his tantrum.</div> <div>      "Don't worry, brother.  I will have the car picked up. It's actually fortunate that you are in Hoboken then," Edward said.  "There's a train from Hoboken to Port Jervis, Quentin.  I want you to take it."</div> <div>      "All right, but what about Dave?"</div> <div>      "Well, he can stay in one of the cabins, of course."  There was a pause, and then Edward went on.  "I'll tell you what I will do.  I will call the Buck's Head Inn resort and speak to a friend of mine, one of the co-owners.  Perhaps your friend can play in the band there."</div> <div>      This was a pleasant surprise.  "Thank you, Edward," Quentin said gratefully.</div> <div>      "Listen to me carefully.  I will wire you at the Western Union in Hoboken. Under the name--what?"</div> <div>      "Let's say Frank Healey."</div> <div>      "Frank Healey, then.  You go there and pick up the funds.  Take the train to Port Jervis, and when you arrive safely at the house, call me."</div> <div>      "Can I eat first?"</div> <div>      "Really, Quentin!  I wish you wouldn't joke."</div> <div>      "I'm sorry.  I'm in a good mood, Edward.  It's nice to have you look out for me like this."</div> <div>      There was silence on the end of the line.  Then Edward said, "Of course I'm going to look out for you! I don't want to lose you again, not to this--this unfortunate circumstance.  Get something to eat, and then go to Western Union.  We are rather hungry ourselves, actually.  I will wait to hear from you later."</div> <div>      "All right, big brother, and thank you."</div> <div>      "No thanks are needed.  Call me later," his brother answered brusquely and hung up. </div> <div>      Quentin got directions to a diner in a part of town that would serve both he and his friend and to the Western Union office.  When he joined Dave, he was smiling for the first time since he'd  found out about his disastrous blunder into the mob's territory.  "Hey, we're going someplace really nice, thanks to my brother!"  Dave's eyes lit up.  "Let me tell you about it while we walk.  Let's go, I'm starving now!"</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id59.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="7: Disaster"><U>7:  Disaster</U></A>    <A HREF="id63.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="9: Cuddeback"><U>9:  Cuddeback</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U>Taking Wooden Nickels</U></A>    <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U>Cassie's Writing</U></A></div> <bR> <div>      </div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>