A/N: To make life easier, I'm going to start using years (until now, there's really only been the past –1987 and the present—2001, but I'm going to start showing scenes from other years). 1987 is the time when 'Taylor' and Brian take their cross-country trip. 2001 is the 'present' where Brian and Justin are trying to find out what happened to the hustlers, Mary, Dennis, and Stephen, as well as helping Billy and Hubie.

2001
Chicago, Illinois
Sam
Most would never believe it, but Mr. Rotto's office is in Boystown, above a gay bar called the Cell Block. It's actually in the front part of the building that once housed Mary's Restaurant, the place I once called home. This might be less surprising if everyday people were better acquainted with Chicago mob history. The mob started moving in on gay nightlife not only in Chicago but in large metropolitan cities around the country in the 1970s and 1980s, especially the 1980s. Few cared what went on in Boystown, or any other gay community for that matter, so it wasn't a bad place to hide in plain sight. And gay men, then and now, love their designer drugs. But the true impetus behind the move into Boystown was prostitution, and not just prostitution but blackmail.

See, after the sexual revolution, heterosexual prostitution just wasn't as threatening to public officials. Sure, if you catch the head of the Family Values Coalition with his pants down, his dick buried in some 'aspiring actress', he'd pay, and pay good, to keep that a secret. But your run-of-the-mill state's attorney, chief of police, or senator … maybe not. Now, if you catch ANYONE pants down with their dick in a dude's ass, especially if that guy is underage, and almost all hustlers are, well, now that man would SERIOUSLY pay. Fucking a chick outside of marriage makes you manly, strong, a player, a predator. Fucking a dude in any circumstance makes you feminine, weak, a pansy. Especially if you happen to prefer the dick in YOUR ass or YOUR mouth. Accepted mores are changing, and the mob is changing with them.

Apparently, the mob had been moving into Boystown slowly starting a couple years before most of us (Mary's Lost Boys) started hustling. And apparently, the mob had tried to 'recruit' Gabe (translation, forcibly enlist him in its service), which is why Raf wanted so badly to get out of Chicago for a while when Brian and Taylor showed up. But I didn't know that then. Only Raf and Gabe did. We (the rest of the Lost Boys and Mary, Dennis, and Stephen) didn't really KNOW about the change in the 'marketplace' until a few months after Brian and Taylor disappeared. THAT was when the shit really started to hit the fan. A year after that, everyone in my former surrogate family had moved on: they had been forced to. Clearly, I chose a much different path.

I walk into Mr. Rotto's office, stand dead center in front of his desk, and wait. He is on the phone. I look around. Little has changed since I'd been here last time. Mahogany desk, end tables, and built-in book shelves, which oddly hold not a single book. Mr. Rotto has placed various signs of his prosperity on them: humidors with Cuban cigars, weapons from the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and even World War I. Shit like that.

Mr. Rotto, a short obese man sweating in his Brooks Brothers suit, slams the phone down, pulling me out of my head. You might wonder why I am so nervous about standing in a room with him. I'd been an enforcer for a decade. I have killed or roughed up more than a hundred people by now. I could have killed him in a matter of seconds and with my bare hands. It isn't him I worry about. It is his men. He is a made man, which means hell on earth coming down on anyone who touches a hair on his head, or just pisses him off. And the Chicago mob has a lot of hell on earth it can dispense. Being part of it, I know all too well. Worse yet, what Mr. Rotto lacks in physical strength and prowess, he more than makes up for in his mental faculties. People call him the human lie detector. In my years of training, first with my 'mentor' and then on my own, I've managed to learn how to control my body in nearly every way: my breathing, my heart rate, my sweat, my facial expression, and body language. To everyone, except possibly Mr. Rotto and my former mentor, I am a blank slate, stone. I don't know whether Mr. Rotto would be able to sniff out all the lies I've told over the last 12 years, but I don't want to put it to the test.

Mr. Rotto sits up straight and places his hands, folded, on his desk. Then he narrows his black beady eyes and scans me, head to foot. Unaccountably, he leans back, throws his feet up on the desk, and laughs. I know better than to relax. When he seems to be open, THAT'S when he is at his most dangerous. He says, "Sam, Sam, Sam. What am I going to do with you?"

I don't move an inch or a muscle. The moment I entered the room, I started cataloguing, and I haven't stopped. What the hell am I talking about, you might wonder? This is one of the techniques I learned from my mentor. If you want to appear blank, you need to be blank. One way to achieve that is to engage in microbservation, observing every little detail of a room, an object, or a person. I am currently counting the leaves on the tree outside the window. I appear to be looking at Mr. Rotto, and I am, but I am also looking at the tree.

When I say nothing, he continues, "You told me a very long time ago that you had taken care of a certain 'rogue element'."

I nod. I did tell him that. Very important to choose your words carefully with a human lie detector. You have to get them to understand one thing from something else. For example, I said I 'took care of' the hustlers, Mary, Dennis, and Stephen. And I did. I never said how. He just assumed 'took care of' meant I'd killed them. That's the beauty of the mob. We use euphemisms so often (just in case we have a 'rat' among us) that lying is much easier.

"If that's true, why were there two people at The Abbott inquiring about its former owners? Why were those two people then seen in the company of one of our 'hospitality workers' and a client we've been trying to find?"

"I don't know." Complete truth. I have NO idea how Brian and Taylor hooked up with Billy and his boyfriend.

Mr. Rotto's voice is no longer friendly, but clipped. He moves his feet back to the floor and narrows his eyes. Then he hisses, "I want you in St. Louis today. Take care of this. I am putting this on you. Fail and I'll be … disappointed. And you know what happens to people who disappoint me?"

I do. Hours of torture. Then, only when you started begging for it, death.

He adds, "Anything else comes my way about this former 'rogue element', it's your ass. So … if you left any loose threads, you'd better cut them off and hope I never hear about it."

"Yes, Mr. Rotto."

"Get out. Time for my massage."

I do an about face. Only when I am back on Halstead do I allow myself the luxury of a smile. His scheduled 'massage' is of the prostate variety. Then I jump back into my car and race to O'Hare. Mr. Rotto has given me not so subtle instructions. I have to get ahold of Billy and his boyfriend and kill Brian and Taylor and all without the goons he's already sent knowing about it. I might actually have to 'disappear' them. Fortunately, none of those would be made men. If they vanished, half the Chicago mob wouldn't be looking for them.

St. Louis, Missouri
2001, later that night
Brian

Everything happens so fast, at first. I perceive everything in flashes. One of the figures moving toward us starts shooting. The bullet whizzes past my head. I can actually feel the attendant rush of air. For about three seconds, I am paralyzed. In the cabin, we are sitting ducks. But the woods are dark, and we don't know how many other mob guys (as I assume they are) are out there or where they are. I turn to look at the other side of the forest. After a moment's hesitation, I say, my voice low but carrying an urgent tone, "Back in the cabin."

Three more shots ring out. I turn back and reach for Justin, who is closer to the lake than the rest of us, but he is on the ground. Groaning and panting. He murmurs, "Brian." I run to him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His left leg is covered in blood. Billy and Hubie pause, but I bellow, "Go," and they set off running. I quickly remove my shirt, chew a small hole in it (thank goodness I have some sharp, pointy teeth), and rip a strip off the bottom. Then I tie it around the wound.

I've just gotten Justin's arm around me and am about to start pulling him up to his feet, when two of the men are on us. They are fucking huge. They look like body builders. One rips Justin away, and the other holds a gun on me.

Goon one asks, "How do we know if this is the kid we're supposed to kill?"

Goon two replies, "The one we don't kill is named Billy."

Goon one starts searching Justin's pockets for a wallet. Goon two is stupid enough to watch. That's when I jump on him, knocking the gun from his hand. At the exact same moment, Justin recovers some of his strength. He wriggles free and starts hobbling away toward a copse of trees. Goon one gives chase while I try to grab the gun, which has hurtled a few feet away. My hand is so close, mere inches from it, when suddenly, goon two puts me in a head lock and drags me back. Fuck he's strong. I am struggling to take even one breath. I fight and hard, but I'm fading fast.

Then a miracle happens. Thirty seconds later, just when I am about to lose consciousness (the world is going black), goon two lets go. I fall forward on the ground on my hands and knees and start coughing and wheezing.

Then I remember Justin. I don't look to see who or what my savior is. I immediately take off running in the direction Justin headed. I narrow my eyes, trying to make out shapes in the darkness. I see goon one, but not Justin. In horror, I realize why. Goon one has his hands in the lake. He's holding Justin under. I can see Justin kicking his non-wounded leg in the air. Once, twice, and then nothing. FUCK. I speed up and tackle goon one, knocking him into the water. Then I grab Justin and start pulling him out and onto the shore by his collar. When I get him all the way out, I lean down, placing my ear next to his mouth and nose. I cry, "No, no, no." He isn't breathing. FUCK. He isn't breathing.

That's when goon one reaches me. I feel his ginormous hands on my shoulders. I think, this is it. Justin and I are both done. But then he grunts and falls sideways onto the ground next to me. I don't look anywhere but at Justin. I pick him up, cradling him in my arms, and run into the cabin. I place him on the center of the floor and then start doing mouth to mouth and chest compressions.

I can see nothing but Justin's motionless body and blue lips. I place my hands in the center of his chest between his nipples and start pushing and counting. 1, 2, 3, … all the way to 30. Then I place one hand on Justin's forehead and lift his chin with the other. After 5 seconds of no response, I pinch his nose and place my mouth over his, breathing in his mouth once and then twice. Then I return to the chest compressions. At this point, I'm openly crying and whispering, "No, no, no. Sunshine, come back to me. Come back to me. Come back to me." Like a mantra or a prayer. On compression 30, I breathe into his mouth again. Once. Twice. I'm about to start compressions again, when Justin turns his head, spitting out water that was apparently in his lungs. I grab him, causing him to grunt loudly, and hold him tightly, so tightly. I never want to let go.

And I wouldn't have. Except that Justin says two words. "Raf? Gabe?"

I turn and look up then, with Justin still in my arms. Raf and Gabe are standing right behind me. They must have been our saviors. They were apparently watching as I performed CPR. They are a little taller and had leaner facial features, but they look much the same. Raf smiles brightly and lilts, "Fancy meeting you here." We don't have a chance to introduce them to Billy and Hubie or to respond because immediately after he stops speaking, two shots ring out. Raf whispers, "We gotta go." I've just gathered Justin into my arms and Raf has flung the door open, when who should appear in the doorway, but

dun

dun

dun

Sam.

Raf, Gabe, and Justin utter a collective gasp.

FUCK.