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inches shorter than I am, with shorter legs; I had to be careful not to gain on him.
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    As we waited on the platform for the train, I hung back out of his line of sight. He smoked a cigarette and cruised a guy on the opposite platform. When the train arrived, I considered getting in the next car in case he recognized me from the bar, but I was afraid I’d lose him. When the doors opened, we both got in; he went one way, I went the other.
    We headed north, zipping by Sheridan, Wilson, Lawrence; I began to wonder how far north we’d be going. Finally, he got off at Bryn Mawr. I had to wait until he was well off the train and barely got off without the doors slamming shut on me. Brian wasn’t on the platform. Obviously he’d already made it down the stairs.
    The area was called Edgewater. It had been nice forty years ago, but now it was seedy and cheap.
    As evidenced by the train station, which desperately needed renovation. I headed down the stairs.
    No sign of Brian. He must already be on the street. I picked up my pace to make sure I caught sight of him before he went and turned some corner.
    When I spun through the turnstile that put me out onto Bryn Mawr, I was surprised to find Brian standing there, smoking another cigarette. I averted my eyes quickly and turned as though I had a particular destination in mind. My stomach sank when I heard his steps crunching in the snow behind me. He’d figured out I was following him, and now he was returning the favor. I was struggling to figure a way to save the situation when I heard him say, “I know why you’ve been following me.”
    I stopped. “Right now you seem to be following me.” My mind raced. Had he figured the whole thing out? Did he know Walt was trying to find him? If he knew Walt was looking for him--
    “You were at the bar,” he said. Then he looked me up and down. It was a look that should have melted the snow around us in a five-foot radius. I smiled. Obviously, he figured I thought he was cute and that’s why I was following him home. I decided not to correct him.
    He stepped passed me, and I quickly fell into step with him. “Have you lived in this neighborhood long?” I asked.
    “Less than a year.”
    “You like it?”
    “Not really. There’s a lot of weirdos on the street.” He laughed after he said it. Just to let me know he meant me. “Do you have a name?” he asked.
    “Nick Nowak.”
    “I’m Brian Peerson.”
    I nodded like it was the first time I’d heard the name. We walked a few blocks without saying much, then we turned south on Kenmore. Halfway down the block we stopped in front of a Boystown - 23

    building done up in a Tudor style, like it could have been sitting someplace in Merry Olde England. It was three stories tall, the kind of building that was all studio apartments. I noted the address: 5518.
    Brian pushed the security door open. It was broken and no longer required a key. We walked half the length of the building to a small, rickety elevator. After we squeezed in, he pulled the gate shut, and, with a jolt, we began to rise. He seemed nervous. Or maybe I was just projecting. I was nervous, that’s for sure. I shouldn’t be doing what I was about to do. It violated all sorts of ethical codes, I was sure.
    As soon as we got to his apartment door, I’d know his exact address. I should make some excuse and just leave. After all, my client made it seem like he was this kid’s boyfriend, and it might even be true. Either way, I knew he wouldn’t be too happy about me fucking Brian. Of course, Brian had made it pretty clear he’d be real happy about me fucking him. So it would be hard not to.
    When we got into his apartment, number 321, we began to peel off our outer gear. The place was small, about the size of my living room, but cute. Maybe too cute. The walls in the living room were baby blue, and the kitchen was lemon yellow. I couldn’t see the bathroom, but I was betting it was pink. There was a