Boystown: Three Nick Nowak Mysteries

Like most guys, I’m a sucker for easy sex and a fast buck. Unlike most guys, I should know better.

The call came in a few minutes after three on a Tuesday afternoon. I rent a small office in a soon-to-be-demolished granite and marble building located at the south end of the Loop. There’s just room enough for a desk, a metal file cabinet, a chair for a client, and a dead corn plant I keep meaning to throw out. That particular day there wasn’t anything on the radio except reporters droning on about the inauguration. It seemed a little odd that none of them complained that our country was now going to be run by a guy who once co-starred with a chimp. Not that I had anything against the Gipper, I just wasn’t convinced I wanted his finger on the button. I turned the radio down and picked up the phone.

“Is this Nick Nowak?” the voice on the other end asked. It was some guy, trying not to sound as nervous as he obviously was.

“Sure is,” I replied. I reached into my desk to pull out my cigarettes. Then I remembered I’d quit at New Year’s. A decision I’d regretted every day since.

“The private investigator?” the guy asked.

“Yeah, the private investigator.” I wondered how many other varieties of Nick Nowak he thought were out there. “What can I do for you?”

The line crackled for a beat. Then, he said, “I need you to find someone for me.”

I looked out my eighth story window, watched as a couple flakes of snow drifted down to LaSalle Street, and waited for the guy to tell me who it was he wanted me to find. He didn’t. Great. This was gonna be like pulling teeth.

“Let’s start with you,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Walt... Paddington. Walt Paddington.”

“Well, Walt, why don’t you come down to my office and we’ll talk about this person you want me to find.”

“I can’t do that.”

“What? You’re the shy type?”

“I’m downstate. Carbondale.” At least it was a logical excuse. Carbondale is at one end of the state, Chicago at the other. It’s quite a hike.

“Who do you want me to find?”

“My... my friend.”

I waited. I was beginning to feel like the dentist who kept an office down the hall. “Come on, Walt, you’re gonna need to be a little more specific.”

“His name is Brian Peerson. He’s just twenty-one. Very sweet. He’s been gone almost a year.”

“And you just now decided to look for him?”

“I thought I’d stop missing him but I didn’t.” There was real shame in his voice, though for what I couldn’t be sure. “I just need to find him. The sooner the better.”

The situation was getting clearer. Walt sounded older, maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, but he sounded it. And it made sense; an older, small-town guy wants to find his twinkie boyfriend who’s run off to the big city. Willing to pay private investigator to do it. Yeah, I got the picture. There was just one problem.

“Why me?” I asked.

“What?” I could almost hear him jump.

“I said ‘why me.’ How’d you come to find me?”

“Yellow pages.”

“I don’t think so.” I had an ad in the yellow pages, all right. It said “Nick Nowak, Private Investigator.” It gave my license number and listed a couple of things I specialize in. Background checks. Security. Skip trace. What it didn’t say was, “Big Old Fag ready to find your missing boyfriend.” It was no coincidence Paddington had called me.
I waited. Finally he said, “You were recommended.”

“By?”

“I’d rather not say.”

I didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. Part of me wanted to give him the brush off, but business had been slow since the holidays. I told him to send some pictures of the kid, a written physical description, former addresses, social security number if he had it, an explanation of why he thought the kid was in Chicago, anything else he thought might help, and exactly double my normal retainer.

I figured I’d never hear from the guy again.