boystown (6 page)

How was I going to work with these people if they knew I’d been bashed with my boyfriend?

And they would know. There was no way we could report this with them not knowing.

Everything would be over. I wouldn’t be able to be a cop anymore.

“We’re going to tell everyone you fell,” I repeated.

Daniel didn’t respond.

The cabbie pulled up in front of the emergency room entrance at Illinois Masonic. Daniel got out of the cab under his own steam, and I paid the driver. I walked into the waiting room, looked around, and found Daniel standing in a short line waiting to check in. I walked over and stood next to him.

He looked at me and dropped his hand from his left eye. His cheek was enormous, his eye swollen shut, oozing in a way that looked bad.

“Coward,” he whispered.

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“Daniel, I did everything I could. There were four of them. If I’d had my gun--”

“I’m not talking about that.”

The woman at the desk called him over, took one look at his eye, and pointed at the double doors he needed to go through.

“You want me to go with you?” I asked.

But he never answered. Instead he just walked through the double doors. Fifteen minutes later an officer walked in, talked to the woman at the desk, and then followed the same path Daniel had taken. I waited a moment, then left.

I never saw Daniel again. He reported what had happened. An Officer Reilly caught me one morning before my shift, and even though I refused to talk about it, the story got around. Things got bad. I resigned two weeks later. During my last shift, Daniel let himself into our apartment and took his stuff. Leaving holes I never bothered to fill.

I thought the harassment would stop when I quit the department. It didn’t. I get stopped two or three times a month. Driving too fast. Driving too slow. Failing to signal. I’ve gotten tickets for busted taillights that weren’t busted when I was stopped. I even got a ticket for driving with an open container, said container was thoughtfully provided by one Officer Jankowitz. If I go down to the courthouse to fight the tickets, the cops never show up, so I get off and I don’t have to pay.

But it’s a pain in my ass, and that’s the point.

Walt Paddington had shaken me up, and I wasn’t going to sit still for it. I had to do something, but I wasn’t sure what. I needed more information. I pulled out a file and looked up a phone number. Dialed.

“Hello, Juan, this is Nick Nowak. Is Allan there?”

An angry silence told me that he was.

“Can I talk to him?”

The phone was dropped on some kind of table, and there were some snappish voices in the background. Then Allan came onto the phone, “Nick! It’s
so
good to hear from you.” Allan was one of those politicians who couldn’t turn it off. The kind who, if he gave you a blowjob, would ask for your vote afterward. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you recommend me to a guy named Walt Paddington?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so? You either did or you didn’t?”

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“Hold on a second. I need to take this in the other room.”

The receiver went crash on the table again. A moment or two later, another line was picked up.

Then Allan and Juan yelled at each other until Juan reluctantly hung up the extension.

“I don’t know why he’s like this. I go to a bar and he freaks out. But it
is
really part of my job. I have to know who’s who and what the latest trends--”

“So, you recommended me to someone in a bar?”

He sighed heavily, already realizing he’d screwed up. “Yeah, this guy was asking if anyone knew a gay private eye in Chicago. I was doing you a
favor
.”

“By telling him my life story?”

He paused. “I’d had a few drinks. I’m sorry.”

“What did he look like?”

“Older. Balding. Little heavy around the middle, I guess. Really, he seemed like the most harmless guy.” He waited for me to agree. “Nick, what’s going on? Did I mess up?”

“Anything weird about him? Anything you remember.”

Allan thought for a moment. “He seemed out of place. Like he’d never been in a gay bar before and expected everyone to jump him.”

“Closet case?”

“That’s what I thought at first. But... I mean, now that you’re calling me, I don’t know. He left right after I gave him your info. Maybe he wasn’t gay.”

I thanked him and hung up. I took out a scratch pad and wrote down what I’d just learned. The guy who hired me lived in Springfield, or somewhere in that area. He probably wasn’t gay, so the story he'd implied about Brian was crap. I figured there was a ninety-nine point nine percent chance his name wasn’t really Walt Paddington. I made a note on my to-do list to check that out

-- though it wasn’t a high priority. If he didn’t want to give me his address, it seemed unlikely he’d given me his real name. The only two things I knew for sure were that he wanted Brian’s address and he didn’t want me to know who or where he was. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like it all.

Technically, I was finished with the job. I was supposed to respect my client’s privacy and stop investigating. I was supposed to move on and forget whatever I’d learned. After my call with Allan Grimley, there was no way I was doing that.

* * *

I took the El back up to my neighborhood and walked over to Newport. The Plymouth was buried so deep under the snow that you could barely tell it was blue. Using my hands, I pushed enough snow off the trunk so I could open it. I got out the brushes and the snow shovel I kept there. It wasn’t just the snow that had fallen on the car that was the problem. The plow had been by a few times and had packed a thick layer of snow along the driver’s side.

The call from Paddington, or whatever his name was, had the faint, crackling sound long distance calls sometimes have. Chicago is a couple hundred miles from Springfield. In the summer it would take three, three and a half hours to drive it. The roads were clear, but leftover snow and a patch or two of ice along the way would slow the drive down a bit. Whatever Paddington was planning would take preparation. Yeah, I knew he might not be at home in Springfield, but my gut said he wasn’t in Chicago. He’d be here soon, though. I had to move and move quickly

Thirty minutes later, I’d managed to get my car dug out of its spot. Thankfully, it started on the third try. I had to rock it back and forth a few times and finally resort to slipping an old piece of cardboard under the back tires. It tore up the cardboard, and I reminded myself to grab another old box sometime. In Chicago, you had to be prepared. I weaved through a couple of blocks until I worked my way to Broadway, then took Broadway north to Bryn Mawr.

When I got close to Kenmore, I prayed that there was a parking spot within sight of Brian’s building. I’d forgotten that Kenmore was one way, so I spun around the block and came at Brian’s place from the south. I found a parking place toward the end of the block. I couldn’t really see his building from there, so I’d have to keep my eyes open for a better spot. It was a little after five, and the sky was turning gray.

Surveillance in the winter is a bitch. My gas tank was three quarters full, so I’d be able to run the engine every so often to get a little heat. I got a blanket and pillow out of the trunk, kept for occasions just like this. Not that I did this kind of thing often. Whenever possible, I avoided it.

At six, I walked down to Bryn Mawr and looked around until I found Helios’ Gyros, a small, storefront Greek place that specialized in take out. It looked to be Helios himself working the grill and cutting lamb strips off a big hunk of compressed meat on a metal spit. Helios had curly black hair trying to escape his undershirt and looked to be covered with sweat. You sort of hoped he didn’t get too close to your food. I bought a gyros and a big Styrofoam cup of coffee to go.

Huddled in my car, I kept my eyes glued to the side mirror, which was really the only way I could see any of Brian’s building. The car stunk of lamb, even though I swallowed my dinner in six bites. About a half hour later I spotted a panel van leaving a parking spot closer to Brian’s place and managed to get around the block in time to snag the spot. That put me about three buildings south, on the east side of the street. I could easily see Brian’s front door without having to twist around or use any mirrors. It was exactly where I wanted to be.

For the next couple hours, I kept my eyes peeled for balding, middle-aged guys with spare tires.

Of course, the description didn’t make him sound exactly dangerous. But that’s one thing I learned back when I was on the job; dangerous people don’t always look that way. Hell,
Boystown - 34

sometimes the scariest person on your block is the gray-haired granny who can’t quite stand up straight.

Around nine o’clock, Brian came home. He was bundled up tight in his blue down jacket, but his pants were black and his shoes looked sensible. I figured he was wearing a white shirt underneath. Coming home from work. I doubted he’d be going back out. Monday wasn’t a big night for going out. It was the night you recovered from everything you did over the weekend and began storing up your energy for Thursday when the weekend began. If you lived in the city, you hit the popular places on Thursday night to avoid the suburbanites who came in on Friday and Saturday. Then on Friday and Saturday, you went to the places they hadn’t discovered yet.

The night was long and cold. Every once in a while I got out of the car and walked around.

Whenever I was sitting in the Plymouth, I tried to look like some guy down on his luck or at least someone not too threatening. Made me wish I did harmless a whole lot better. The last thing I needed was for one of the neighbors to call the cops. Given half a chance, they’d arrest me for loitering. Hell, they’d probably book me for solicitation just to get a good laugh.

On my walks, I picked up another couple cups of coffee at Helios’ and sucked them down. Still, I fell asleep around four and didn’t wake up until just before eight. I was glad no one was paying me for this; I’d have felt guilty. Of course, if Paddington had slipped into Brian’s building and done whatever it was he was planning, I might end up feeling guilty anyway.

Or maybe I was I just overreacting. Maybe there was a perfectly normal explanation and I wasn’t seeing it. And if there was, I was going to end up feeling damn stupid. Still, I’d rather be humiliated than know someone got hurt while I did nothing. I did know one thing; I couldn’t spend another night on the street. I had to come up with a better plan.

After an hour of debating, I went down to my new favorite restaurant and bought a couple cups of coffee and some baklava. I headed back to Brian’s building and let myself in through the busted security door. A couple minutes later, I was knocking on Brian’s door. The reception I got when he answered was about what I was expecting: “What do you want?”

He was wearing a towel, obviously fresh from the shower. I hadn’t seen much of his body before, and I have to be honest, I liked what I was seeing. His pectorals were like smooth slabs on his chest, and he tapered nicely into a tight little waist. A little tuft of hair began above his navel and ran into the towel. All in all, it was nice to see him again. I didn’t even mind the nasty look he was giving me. It was the look you give a trick when he shows up uninvited. I’d given that look a few times myself.

“I brought you coffee and some baklava,” I said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’ve got something important to tell you.”

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Curiosity wrinkled his forehead. He didn’t like the seriousness in my voice. I could almost read his thoughts. We’d only had sex two days ago. There hadn’t been enough time for me to discover I’d given him some annoying venereal disease I’d come to apologize for.

“I’m a private investigator. I was hired to find you.”

He looked at me for a moment. “What exactly is baklava?”

“Pastry. Soaked in honey and sprinkled with nuts.”

He stepped to one side and let me in the apartment. It was warm, stuffy even. After my night in the car, it was a relief, though at that point I would have enjoyed the Sahara at high noon. The apartment looked freshly cleaned -- now I knew what Brian did on his Monday nights. I glanced at the spot we’d christened on the wall. A lot of scrubbing had gone on, but hadn’t helped much.

I handed Brian a sticky piece of baklava and a coffee. The tiny dinette table in front of his kitchen window was from the fifties, all chrome and bright yellow vinyl. He sat in one chair, I took the other.

“I was hired to find you. The guy called me on the phone, said he was from a particular city downstate, but he’s not.” I wasn’t supposed to divulge client information, and technically I hadn’t. My client hadn't given me this information. “A guy I know in Springfield recommended me to a middle-aged, balding gentleman, thick around the waist.”

Brian picked at his baklava, but didn’t eat it.

“This sound like anyone you know?”

“I appreciate your coming by, but I’ve got to get ready for work...”

“In other words, you do know him.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I grew up in Springfield. My mother still lives there. With her husband.” He got up and walked into the main room. He dropped the towel onto the bed and walked naked into the large closet.

I noted that he’d said ‘her husband,’ meaning his mother was not married to his father. He came out of the closet still naked but carrying his waiter’s uniform. “Where’s your father live?” I asked.

“He doesn’t. He died when I was five.” He slipped on the black slacks.

“So, you think it’s your stepfather who’s looking for you?”

“Look, this is a family thing. He probably wanted my address so my mom could write me a letter. It’s not a big deal. You didn’t have to come by.”

Boystown - 36

“What’s your stepfather’s name?”

“I think you know that.”

“Actually, I think I don’t.”

“Donnie Carr.”

“That’s not the name he gave me.”