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the radio. In fact, they said the opposite. The state was snow-free for the first time in a week.
    “Okay, yeah, I just took a peek and it’s coming down pretty bad. There’s a good four inches on the ground. Did you find Brian?”
    “Yes. I did.”
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    “Excellent work. Let me get a pen, then you can give me his address.” The phone went silent. I wanted to find a way out of giving him the address. It was really just a hunch, but it was a strong one. Paddington came back on the line, “Okay, I’m ready.”
    “Why don’t you give me your address first?” I suggested.
    “What for?”
    “Well, I didn’t use the entire retainer,” I cursed myself for saying it. It meant I’d have to return my boom box. “I should send a final invoice and a check for the difference.”
    “You did this pretty fast. I appreciate that. Why don’t you keep the rest as a bonus?”
    “You don’t want to give me your address. Why not?”
    The line went silent. “If I don’t give you my address, you’re not giving Brian’s. Is that the deal?”
    “Maybe.” And maybe it was. I hadn’t thought this out.
    “I paid for that address. If you don’t give it to me, it’s a kind of theft.” He paused, and then hit me with, “Maybe I’ll call the cops. Tell them you stole from me. You don’t like it when people call the cops, do you?”
    The cops wouldn’t bother with something like this. But they would bother with me, and he seemed to know that. He seemed to know a lot.
    “What do you know?” I whispered.
    “I know that you’re going to give me Brian’s address like a good boy.”
    I was quiet for a long time. Then I gave him Brian’s address. Not because he knew stuff about me, not because he was messing with me, but because he was right. He’d paid for the information. It was his. If I wasn’t willing to give clients the information they’d paid for, well, then I’d have to find a different way to make a living.
    He repeated the address back to me and then, without saying goodbye, hung up.
    I sat there holding the receiver numbly in my hand and slipped into my past. I didn’t want to think about it, I come from people who say ‘what’s done is done’ and move on. But when some asshole who shouldn’t know a thing about you starts hinting that he knows all your secrets...
    Well, what else are you going to think about?
    We’d been together almost three years, Daniel Laverty and I. He was small, blond, and tightly muscled. I guess if I have a type, it’s because of Daniel. His eyes were the blue of a summer sky that clouded over whenever I made him unhappy. He had a way of laughing at me when I was mad that made everything I did or said seem silly. And he had a hundred ways of saying my Boystown - 28

    name; ways that meant he loved me, that he expected more from me, that I was perfect, or awful, or just too ridiculous to take seriously. It was the best almost-three years of my life.
    Daniel had a friend who did a drag show at a bar on Sheffield. The bar closed a year or so ago.
    People called it Mary’s, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the actual name of the place. It might have been the name two or three owners ago, but it definitely wasn’t the night we went.
    I don’t remember the friend’s real name, but his drag name was Candy Caine. I also remember I didn’t want to go. Not only is drag not exactly my thing, but as a police officer the last place I wanted to be seen was in a gay bar. I was afraid someone might spot me going in, or catch me going out. I was afraid I might even see someone I knew from the job in the bar. Sure, if I ran into another cop in a gay bar we were in the same boat. But paranoia is paranoia. It’s not exactly rational.
    Daniel wanted to go, though, and was willing to fight with me most of the day to make it happen.
    It was summer. Hot. Muggy. And he finally wore me down. When I got to the bar, I hit the booze pretty hard to keep my discomfort in check. Did a