Free The Quirk by Gordon Merrick

agreed that they would try to arrange something the following week. He hung up satisfied that as long as he could put her off, she didn’t represent a threat to his working routine. The mystery of Patrice still nagged him.
    He went out and turned a few corners and was in the rue de Verneuil. He realized that he hadn’t bothered to look at the number of Patrice’s place, but he was sure that he could find it. He passed building after building with great impenetrable double doors. He was certain which side of the street it was on and knew it had to be right along here somewhere. It was only a few minutes from the hotel. He came to a wide cross street that he hadn’t seen yesterday and turned back. Forget it. He didn’t even know Patrice’s last name. He had been picked up by a kid who had failed to turn up for a lunch date. So what? Was he afraid he was losing his sex appeal? His instinct to avoid queers made sense. They were odd and undependable, not capable of normal friendship.
    He set off resolutely for the hotel and within minutes was back in his room. He went to work but remained fretful. When there was no longer enough daylight to gauge color accurately, he set out all the canvases around the room and studied them one by one for flaws. Were they really as good as Patrice had said? His not showing up seemed a slap at his work. That was what bothered him. If Patrice hadn’t made such a fuss about the pictures, he could write it off as faggot pique at Rod’s not being fun in bed.
    Eventually he joined his cronies for dinner in the rue de Buci. He was evasive with Jeannine when she tried to pin him down about his plans for the evening. After he had eaten–when the conversation around the table had reached a high pitch–he muttered something about going to the john and slipped away. He headed for the Pagode. There would be people he knew there, even if he didn’t find Patrice. He didn’t care as much about finding him as making sure that he was all right. His not showing up had spooked him.
    He crossed the boulevard when he neared St.-Germain-des-Prés but kept an eye on the busy sidewalk in front of the Deux Magots and the Flore. He had almost reached his destination when he caught sight of a trim cloaked figure swinging along toward him on the other side of the boulevard. He plunged into traffic and heard the squeal of brakes and saw headlights flash before he landed safely in front of Patrice. He didn’t know whether he was angry or relieved. Patrice, his face radiant with mischievous delight, looked as if they had been playing a game that had come to a satisfactory conclusion. Rod decided he was angry.
    “You’re here,” Patrice exclaimed.
    “I’m here. I was at the hotel all day. Where were you?”
    “You wanted me to come?”
    “What a stupid question. We had a lunch date.”
    “And are you angry with me?” Patrice asked, still delighted.
    “Angry? Why shouldn’t I be angry? It’s a fucking bore sitting around waiting for somebody for an hour.”
    “Then I was wrong, and I’m sorry. Come with me, and I will try to explain. It’s good if you are angry. I know you’ll forgive me.” He turned and started back toward the rue de Verneuil.
    Rod followed automatically. “It doesn’t matter whether I forgive you or not. The fact remains, you loused up my day.” He looked down at the comic face and the appealing mop of hair and was glad to have found him despite being angry.
    “I am truly sorry. I thought if you cared about lunch you might come by and look for me.”
    “I did. I tried to. I couldn’t find your house. I didn’t know the number.”
    Patrice stopped dead in his tracks. “You tried? You wanted to find me?
    “Of course. I was worried about you. I thought you might be sick.”
    Patrice’s smile faded. But in the uneven light of street lamps, Rod couldn’t read what else was taking place in his face. He set off again. Rod followed. “Yes, I see,” Patrice said almost to