Date: Sun, 29 Mar 2009 12:36:25 +0000 (GMT)
From: Nexis Pas <nexispas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The E Train Doesn't Stop at Kenmore

The E Train Doesn't Stop at Kenmore

Nexis Pas

Copyright 2009 by the author.

Nexis Pas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this
piece. 

To Lenny's gratification, someone spotted the resemblance almost
immediately. He had entered the hall devoted to British paintings in the
Museum of Fine Arts in Boston twenty minutes earlier and was wandering
slowly around the room, pausing before each work and gazing at it for a few
minutes before moving on to the next one. He tried to look like a
thoughtful connoisseur of art. He had paid several exploratory visits to
museums in New York City and observed how people behaved. There were some
who hurried through the rooms, stopping only briefly before one of the more
famous paintings or sculptures. Those Lenny had dismissed as boors unworthy
of emulation. He had finally settled on one well-dressed,
distinguished-looking middle-aged man, who moved slowly about the
rooms. The man positioned himself in front of each painting and regarded it
attentively if impassively. Occasionally he would raise an eyebrow in
amusement. A few paintings merited a quiet smile and nod of approval. When
Lenny had returned to his apartment, he had practiced the look of rapt
attention and the nod of satisfaction before his mirror.

For the trip to Boston, Lenny had chosen clothes to match the colors of
those in the painting. He couldn't copy the dark fur robes and the white
lace collar of the figure in the painting—that would have been
ridiculous and in any case beyond his means—but he wore a black
crew-neck sweater over a white shirt. After he had bought a ticket and
entered the MFA, he had stopped in a bathroom to check his reflection in
the mirror. A few quick tugs had brought the edge of the shirt collar
neatly above the neck of the sweater. The sweater emphasized his trim
build. His trousers draped perfectly over his hips and buttocks and down
his legs, and the cuffs broke just slightly over his polished shoes. Lenny
knew that he looked good in the outfit. Elegant. That was his
goal. Elegance. Not ostentatiously elegant, just nonchalantly and
comfortably elegant. A gentleman who had found himself in Boston and had
decided to spend a few hours strolling through the Museum, engaged in the
leisurely appreciation of art.

It was a long way from Cove Point. But that why's Lenny had moved to New
York City. To get away from Cove Point and into a world where people made
time for things like the leisurely appreciation of art. He had taken care
to create his new, urban self slowly. He didn't rush into things, he didn't
risk mistakes. The last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself. He
watched and studied and listened. Once he had selected the type of person
he wanted to be, he watched how such people dressed. He studied how they
moved. He listened to how they spoke and what they said. Only when he was
sure that he understood how people behaved and how things worked for them
did he begin to mimic them. And he was always careful to review his
behavior and others' reaction to it later. Had there been a moment's
hesitation in responding to him when he acted in a certain way? Were people
laughing with him or at him? Did they and others accept him as one of them?

Lenny spotted the portrait as soon as he entered the hall. It hung about a
third of the way down the left-hand wall. He intentionally began his
circuit of the room on the right side to delay his arrival before the
painting as long as possible. He was examining the third painting to the
right of his target when the couple entered the room through the same
entrance he had and began walking toward him along the left-hand wall,
devoting a minute or two to each painting. Both of them appeared to be
vigorous senior citizens--the types who kept active and still played golf
or went on long walks along the shore. They were more casually dressed than
Lenny. Both wore tennis shoes, and the man had on a pair of Dockers. They
did, however, look alert and intelligent. And that was all that Lenny
required. He could forgive their sartorial failings as long as they turned
out to be appreciative of fine art.

Lenny timed his perusal of the paintings so that he stood before the
painting next to his portrait when they moved in front of it. The man bent
forward slightly at the waist and read the contents of the card beside the
painting. "Charles Leland Roberts, 1794-1859. Portrait of John Lawrence
Sommerville, 1801-1852, Fifth Marquis of Creeslough. Oils on canvas. 1826."
The man and woman contemplated the picture briefly and then turned toward
Lenny to move on. Lenny stepped back and smiled vaguely in their direction,
allowing them to pass in front of him.

The man gasped and then looked back and forth between Roberts's portrait of
Sommerville and Lenny. As Lenny stopped before his portrait, the man
whispered into his wife's ear. She turned casually in Lenny's direction,
letting him drift into her field of vision, and then nodded at her
husband. The two of them smiled at each other. As Lenny stood before his
portrait, he knew they were comparing him to the image in the painting.

The resemblance was remarkable. Lenny might have sat for the portrait only
a short time before. The facial features, the general shape of the body,
even the hair color matched. Luckily Sommerville had favored a simple hair
style that still more or less acceptable, and Lenny's barber had been able
to come close to it after Lenny had described it to him.

The art student had brought the resemblance to Lenny's attention. He had
told Lenny his name but Lenny hadn't bothered to remember it. He knew that
he would not be seeing the guy again. When they had met in the bar, the
student had told Lenny that he looked familiar. "I can't quite place you,
but I know I've seen you before." Lenny tried to remember if he had had sex
with the guy before. He didn't think so. Perhaps, he thought, it was just a
come-on--the guy's way of pretending to a familiarity that didn't
exist. After another drink, they had left the bar together and gone to the
other man's apartment. It was small and crowded with books. The student had
hung several of his paintings on the walls. As soon as they walked in the
door and switched on the lights, he made sure that Lenny knew that he had
painted them. It was practically the first thing he said. "I painted all of
these."

Lenny didn't think they were any good but shrugged off his lack of interest
to his ignorance of painting. To be polite, he made a show of looking at
them. "Nice," he said. "I like that one. It's very colorful." He pointed at
the brightest of the paintings.

The art student ignored his comments. "I know I know you from somewhere."
He had repeated that thought about a dozen times. Lenny was beginning to
get tired of hearing it. The bar had been ill-lit, and the streets had been
dark. It was only when the student switched on the overhead light in his
living room that he could look closely at Lenny. He stood there examining
Lenny, tapping an index finger against his lips. Finally, he said, "Yes, of
course" in a satisfied voice. "I know."

He turned to a book shelf and ran his hand slowly across the spines of the
books before stopping at one and pulling it out. It was obvious to Lenny
that he had known from the beginning which book he wanted. He was simply
making a show of searching for it. Lenny began to wonder how long he had to
wait before he could suggest that they undress and get started on the main
business. The student flipped slowly through the pages. Finally he stopped
and held the book up so that Lenny could see the picture. "I knew I had
seen you before. I never forget a face."

The student kept talking but Lenny didn't bother to listen. His face stared
out at him from the pages of the book. Without consciously thinking about
his actions, Lenny reached out and took the book from the other man and sat
down, concentrating on the descriptions of the painting and the artist and
sitter. The student had had to pull the book out of his hands and begin
kissing him before he remembered why they were there. Lenny had bumbled his
way through the next hour without interest, his body participating in the
sex but not his mind. When they finished, the art student said a few polite
things about how great it had been and then rolled over and went to
sleep. Lenny waited until the other man was breathing regularly and then
eased himself out of the bed. He picked his clothes off the back of the
chair where he had hung them and his shoes from the floor. He carried them
into the small living room and dressed as quietly as he could. He pulled
the door to the bedroom closed and then turned on the small light next to
the guy's computer. Lenny found the book on the shelf and paged through it
until he found his picture. He carefully tore the page out and then put the
book back on the shelf. When he got back to his apartment, he had turned on
his computer and searched the Internet for information about
Sommerville. He quickly forgot the student.

He began his preparations for the trip to Boston the next day, looking up
plane schedules and investigating possible places to stay. His visits to
museums began the following weekend. Barely a month after he had learned of
his portrait's existence, he was standing before it. The similarity really
was astounding. Lenny wished that he could touch the painting. He wanted to
feel the rough surface of the paint and affirm its reality. He knew from
his reading that the painting was seven feet tall. The museum had hung it
well above eye level, forcing the viewer to gaze upward at Sommerville. The
figure in the painting sat in a chair. His body was shown in three-quarters
view, but his head was turned to look directly out from the plane of the
picture. His gaze was focused high above the head of any possible
spectator. His right hand held a half-opened book. He appeared to have been
disturbed in his reading, and his attention drawn to something in the
center of the room. Both his indifference and his disdain were palpable.

Lenny regarded the painting with excitement. He would have been dismayed if
he had seen his open-mouthed stare. When he had envisioned the
confrontation, he had imagined admiring throngs gaping at him as he stood
coolly before the portrait for a brief moment before drifting to the next
painting. They were nudging one another and whispering among themselves,
speculating about the relationship of the handsome young man and the
distinguished-looking Fifth Marquis of Creeslough. But when he came face to
face with the painting, all thought of the impression he might be making
evaporated from his mind. He was lifted up and became the man sitting in
the chair and looking out at the world he owned. The world he was seeing as
he regarded his marble hall was magnificent, and Lenny was one of the
glorious immortals at home in it.

"Another one."

Lenny turned toward the speaker. "What?" A young man stood beside him,
beaming at him with evident pleasure and expectation.

"Another match. I'm St. Sebastian. In the Italian Room. You have to come
see me. I'm almost a match. But you're much closer. The best one is the
Japanese guy in the Buddhist temple. He looks just like one of the statues
there. It's too bad it's Thursday. He only comes in on the weekends. Or you
could meet him too. And then there's the guy in the Spanish Room who claims
he's a match for one of the Goya paintings, but he's not. The guard told me
that there was a new match in here, and I had to come see."

The young man spoke rapidly and his words gushed out in a confused welter
of sound. Lenny couldn't make any sense of them.  "I'm sorry. I'm not
following you. What are you talking about?" Lenny drew back. In his own
mind, he was still Sommerville, and he unconsciously spoke in what he
imagined to be Sommerville's manner. The interruption was cheating him of
his glory. He wanted to shove the other man away and return to his
painting. The guy was handsome, but he hadn't come to the Museum to pick
someone up.

"We're matches. Every museum has them. Someone who looks like a person in
one of the paintings. Or sometimes a statue. Someone told me there's a man
in Chicago who looks just like one of carvings of a pharaoh there." The
young man put a hand on Lenny's forearm and then pointed to the painting of
Sommerville. "Like you and this guy. It could be you."

"There are others?" It hadn't occurred to Lenny that there might be others
like him. Living artworks. Somehow better than ordinary people, more
refined, chosen and then distilled to an essence and preserved in art,
there to be contemplated and appreciated. The thought that there were
others, that he wasn't alone, heartened Lenny. He wasn't just a fluke, an
oddity. If there were others, then the resemblances had to mean
something. It wasn't just an accident. There were others who had had a
similar experience and could help him understand what it meant.

"Yes, there are lots of us. Though there are lots of fakes. You have to be
careful."

"Where are you?" Suddenly Lenny had to see evidence that the young man was
indeed real.

"In the Italian room. It's three halls down. Come on. I'll show you. I'm
Antony by the way."

"Len." The two shook hands. Antony held onto Lenny's hand a bit longer than
necessary. Before letting it go, he ran his index finger up and down
Lenny's palm.

St. Sebastian's flesh glowed white. His hands were bound above his head to
a post, and his muscular body twisted away from the arrows piercing his
flesh. The athletic youth looked upward ecstatically toward an approaching
angel carrying a crown of martyrdom to place on his head.

"You do look like him."

"I used to look more like him, a couple of years ago when I was
younger. I'm growing old. In a few years I won't be able to claim that he
looks like me at all."

"But you look like him now. You are so beautiful."  Lenny wasn't looking at
Antony. He spoke to the body in the painting. He wanted to touch that
flesh, to experience its wounds. He half lifted a hand and caressed
St. Sebastian's thigh in his imagination. The air felt solid beneath his
fingers. The purity of Sebastian's suffering was so sensual as he offered
his body to the arrows piercing it. His flesh remained bloodless and
passionate even as it closed around the wounds. Looking at it, Lenny began
to understand why some people were so enthusiastic about art. It made him
want to be part of that world. One of the people who felt things like art,
to whom such things mattered, who was ardent about it.

"Oh, he's more muscular than I am. I've tried to recreate his muscles, but
I can't train mine into the same shape."

Lenny looked away from the painting and took a slow inventory of Antony's
body. "You must look almost like him."

"A lot of people think so. Especially when they see me undressed, like
him." Antony nodded toward St. Sebastian in invitation. "People like to
possess him. I don't have the arrows stuck in me of course. I'm not willing
to go that far."

"Do people want that?"

"Sometimes they want to reproduce the pose. Tie my hands over my head, that
sort of thing."

"Do you let them?" Lenny licked his lips. He could see Antony/Sebastian
bound.

"Never have. Too risky. Some `art lover' might decide to stick me full of
arrows."

"There has to be some way of having the arrows without actually sticking
them in your flesh."

Antony shrugged. "I never gone to bed with one of the other matches. It
will be a first. We can see if we can figure something out."

It wasn't until that point that Lenny knew that he and Antony were going to
bed together. "Where do you live? I'm just here for a couple of days. I'm
from New York. I'm staying in a motel near the airport tonight."

"On Beacon Street in Brookline. It's not far. We can take the subway. We'll
have to take the E line and then transfer to the C line to go out
Beacon. Did you buy a day pass? If you did, we can change at
Copley. Otherwise we'll have to go to Arlington."

A train was approaching the stop near the museum and they had to run to
catch it, but they were at Copley within a few minutes. Antony led the way
up the inbound steps and then across the street to the stairs leading down
to the outbound platform. They moved away from the crowd of people and
stood a bit apart. Antony faced down the tunnel staring at an approaching
train.

"Is this safe? It looks like it's falling apart." Lenny pointed toward the
peeling and cracked plaster pillars holding the ceiling of the underground
platform up.

Antony shrugged. "The Green lines are the oldest ones. The tunnels must be
safe, or they wouldn't use them, would they? Oh, damn, it's a B
train. There should be a C in a moment." He stepped away from the
approaching train and leaned back against the wall of the platform.

There was a small sign affixed to wall next to Antony. Lenny read it and
then pointed to it.

"Why do they tell you that? They made the same announcement on the E train
when I took it to the museum."

Antony turned to the sign and read it as if it were the first time he had
seen it. " `For Kenmore, take a B, C, or D train. The E Train does not stop
at Kenmore.' Oh, Copley's the last stop on this track for the E trains. All
the Green lines come through here, but after this the E line branches
off. The rest of them go on to Kenmore and then they branch off too."

"But what's so special about Kenmore?"

"It's where Fenway Park is."

When Lenny looked confused, Antony continued. "It's where the Red Sox
play. I suppose the sign's for people going to baseball games there so they
don't take the E train. Oh, here's a C train. It will only be another
fifteen minutes or so."

Beyond Kenmore, the C train climbed a slight grade and the tunnel grew
lighter.  After a pause, the train emerged into the open and ran down the
middle of a broad street lined with brick apartment buildings. Both sides
of the road were heavily traveled. Some of the ground floors housed small
shops and restaurants. The train climbed another hill and then passed
through a larger shopping district. The sidewalks were crowded with people,
and most of the riders on the train got off at that stop. A residential
section began within a couple of blocks. Large trees arched over the
roadway and the tram line.

Antony guided him off the train and to an old apartment building with the
word "Empire" chiseled in the stone over the door. Two twisted wires, the
metal long since corroded black, protruded from the top of a pillar that
had apparently once held a lamp. The floor of the entrance was covered in
cracked tiles, and the walls were painted a dark brown. Antony led him down
the first floor hallway. It was so dark that he had to feel with his
fingers and scrape the key against the lock to find the slot.

The apartment had high ceilings, far higher than any modern apartment would
have. Directly in front of the door was the kitchen, with an old stove and
a refrigerator that was humming loudly and making ticking noises. A
wastebasket overflowed with food cartons and packages. A short hallway led
to a large living room, with a bay window looking out over the back yard of
the building next door. A fireplace centered between two bookcases occupied
the opposite wall. A vase of dried flowers in the grate and the lack of
soot betrayed that the fireplace was fake. Over the mantel hung a
reproduction of the St. Sebastian painting. Sections of several days' worth
of newspapers littered the floor and the cushions of the sofa. The room may
once have been attractive, but the walls were cracked and in need of
painting. Another door led to the bedroom. A trail on the carpet marked
years of footsteps from the front entrance to the bedroom. The apartment
smelled of old dust.

Antony led him through to the bedroom. A double bed, a dresser, and two
wooden chairs were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Clothes were
draped haphazardly over one of the chairs. The back yard next door was
dimly visible through a small, grimy window. Through a second window only
the tarred wall of the building behind the apartment could be seen. Only a
foot or so separated the two buildings. The room was quite dark even though
it was early afternoon. Antony pulled off his clothes and tossed them
toward the chair with his other discarded clothes. One of his socks caught
on the seat of the chair and then slowly slid to the floor. "If you need to
use the toilet before we get started, it's through there."

Lenny shook his head. "I'm fine. Thanks. Do you need to pull the shades?"

"What for?" Antony snorted. "No one can see in here. Even if they could,
they'd probably enjoy it. I don't mind if they watch." He raised his arms
over his head, and crossed them at the wrists. He leaned back against the
wall and twisted his body in an approximation of St. Sebastian's pose in
the picture. His body was darker than that in the picture, except around
his groin. There a white triangle highlighted his cock and balls.

"Great tan."

"Just got back from a vacation in Puerto Rico last week." His cock and
balls swayed from side to side as he shifted his weight from one leg to the
other. He pivoted his body around an imaginary rope fastening his body to a
post. The tan lines on his ass revealed that he had been wearing a thong on
his vacation.

His body was a close match for that of St. Sebastian in the painting. Both
were lightly muscled and hairless even around the groin. Lenny began
stroking Antony's body. He didn't know why, but he had expected Sebastian's
flesh to be cool and smooth. Antony's was hot and slightly moist and oily
as if he had been sweating. His fingers tugged at Antony's body instead of
gliding over it.

"I need to get another Brazilian wax. The stubble is beginning to
show. That's where I don't resemble the painting. I have a lot of body
hair. It's a constant fight to keep it off. But people want me to be like
the painting. You won't have that problem. All you have to do is comb your
hair like that guy in the painting and people will think you're Lord
What's-his-name. No one knows what his body looks like. Speaking of which,
Len, why don't you get undressed and let me see what you look like."

Lenny turned away and undressed slowly. He took his time. He sat on the
chair that wasn't piled with clothing while he unlaced his shoes. He pulled
the sweater over his head and then folded it carefully before placing it on
the seat of the chair. He knew that he looked good. Let Antony enjoy the
visuals before they moved in closer. He turned his back to Antony and undid
his belt and trousers. As he was preparing to drape his trousers over the
back of the chair, he felt Antony's hands on his ass.

Antony pulled him closer and shoved his hands up under Lenny's shirt and
T-shirt and began stroking his nipples. "Nice. I thought you would have a
nice body. From the way that you look."

Lenny unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his arms out of the sleeves. Antony
had waited long enough. He impatiently pulled Lenny's T-shirt over his head
and tossed it on the floor. He grabbed Lenny and spun him around so that
they were facing. He placed his hands on either side of Lenny's face and
then kissed him, forcing his tongue between Lenny's lips and into his
mouth. His breath was stale, and he tasted of garlic. Lenny tried to pull
back, but Antony held him tightly. He aggressively ran his hands up and
down Lenny's body and then grabbed his cock and balls and squeezed
them. His hand pumped Lenny's cock until it grew hard.

He pulled Lenny over to the bed and then lay down, sprawling across the
width of the bed and opening his legs. "Suck me until I get hard." He
pointed toward his cock and then laced his hands behind his neck with his
arms spread out and resting flat on the bed. Lenny bent over and took
Antony's cock in his mouth. "That's it. Suck it. Make me hard." Antony
pumped his cock into Lenny's mouth a couple of times, but it was still
flaccid. Lenny sucked on it as hard as he could. It tasted sour to him, and
the foreskin was loose and slid up and down. He closed his lips around it
and ran his tongue back and forth, trying to make it hard. He suddenly
wanted the whole episode to be over as quickly as possible, to make Antony
cum and then leave.

Antony grabbed the back of Lenny's head and began fucking his face. His
cock jabbed the back of Lenny's throat, and Lenny began gagging. He
thrashed about trying to get free, but that just excited Antony
more. Anthony sat up on his knees and began forcing his cock even further
down Lenny's throat. Lenny felt as if he could hardly breathe. He labored
to fill his lungs between Antony's thrusts.

"Oh, yeah, bitch, suck on it. Harder. Come on. Take it all. You know you
want it." Antony never stopped talking. "Come on, your lordship. You've
always wanted to suck a saint. Now's your chance." He extended an arm down
Lenny's back and pressed a finger into his anus. It was soon joined by a
second finger. Antony's nails tore at his flesh. "Oh, nice and
tight. That's going to feeeeeeeel so gooood when I fuck you."

Lenny shook his head no and tried to speak, but Antony just shoved his cock
in again. It got harder and harder to breathe as Antony got more excited
and his cock swelled. Finally he withdrew and hopped off the bed. Lenny
bent forward at the waist and lay his face against the cover. It was rough
against his skin but he didn't care. He was just relieved to be able to
breathe normally again. His face was hot and flushed, and there were beads
of sweat on his forehead. Behind him he heard Antony moving about. He hoped
that he was through. He didn't think Antony had cum but some guys didn't
have much, especially if they had had sex recently.

Antony suddenly grabbed a handful of Lenny's hair and shoved a lubed finger
deep into Lenny's ass and plunged it in and out rapidly.

"NO, don't. I don't want to be fucked." Lenny tried to pull away.

Antony pushed his face into the bed and then slapped his ass. "You're going
to take it, your lordship. I ain't no saint." Then he pulled his finger out
and thrust his cock into Lenny.

Lenny screamed in surprise. "Oh that's what I want to hear, bitch."  Antony
started laughing.

Lenny's hands clawed at the bedcovers and closed into fists. He pounded the
bed to keep from shouting out from the pain. He bit down on the covers,
taking a wad of cloth into his mouth. His head arched backwards, lifting
the sheets off the bed. His eyes were tightly closed, and his face was
contorted. Antony rode him for almost fifteen minutes before he came.

Lenny struggled for the first few minutes, and then he just gave up. The
pounding continued. There wasn't any pleasure in it for him. Occasionally
Antony would slap Lenny's ass to make him contract his muscles tighter
around his cock. As Antony approached orgasm, his cock grew larger. Finally
he came with a great shout and then collapsed on Lenny, still inside him.

Antony wrapped his arms around Lenny and squeezed him tightly. He kissed
Lenny on the back of the neck, growling with pleasure. "That was a good
fuck, your lordship. With a little training, you would make a first-class
cocksucker. You're already a great fuck."

Antony pulled out and jumped up. Lenny could hear him pissing into the
toilet and then the shower began running. Lenny pushed himself off the
bed. He grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and
began cleaning himself up. His ass felt about three times normal size, and
it was slimy with fluids. When Antony finished showering and came out,
Lenny rushed into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He turned on
the shower as hot as he could and scrubbed himself. He stood there for ten
minutes letting the water wash Antony off. He found a towel on a shelf and
used that. It smelled faintly of mildew and left him feeling in need of
another shower. He would take another one when he got back to the motel.

Lenny stood behind the bathroom door for a minute and tried to hear if
Antony was in the bedroom. He couldn't tell. He eased the door open and
peeked out, relieved to find that Antony was nowhere in sight. He quickly
dressed and felt in his pockets to make sure that he still had his wallet
and keys. When he was ready, he dashed into the living room, intending to
make a quick exit.

Antony was sitting on a chair before the fireplace, with his legs crossed,
wearing just a pair of shorts and flip-flops. Above him, the figure of
St. Sebastian still looked upward toward the angel. Antony smiled when he
saw Lenny. "There's a Irish bar up the street. It's pretty good. At least
this time of day. Later at night, they have all these Irish bands in
singing about the Old Sod. And then all the drunks start crying about how
much they miss Ireland. We can go there until dinner time and then go
somewhere and have something to eat and then come back here and fuck
again."

"I'm meeting some friends for dinner—in Cambridge."  It was the first
lie that Lenny could think of. He didn't know anyone in Boston, and he
wasn't even quite sure where Cambridge was.

"Oh, that's too bad. I was hoping . . . well, never mind. It doesn't
matter. What time will you be at the Museum tomorrow? I'll meet you there."

"I'm going back to New York early tomorrow. I won't have time to go to the
Museum again." Another quickly improvised lie. Lenny had planned to spend
most of the day at the Museum. "How do I get to Cambridge? I take the C
line out front and then I have to change somewhere, don't I?"

"Yeah, C line to Downtown Crossing. Go downstairs to the Red Line outbound
and take any train. There are several stops in Cambridge. Which one are you
supposed to go to? Harvard? Central Square?"

Harvard sounded like the obvious place to go in Cambridge, and so Lenny
said that.

"It's the third or fourth stop after Downtown Crossing. I don't remember."
Antony waved a vague hand toward his front door. "You know how to find your
way out and to the train?"

"Yes, thanks. See you." Lenny was relieved to get away so easily and so
quickly. He sprinted toward the door before Antony could change his mind
and decide to accompany him.

"Yeah, see you."

A taxi was passing as Lenny stepped out the front door, and he flagged it
down. He had the driver take him back to his motel. Maybe, he thought, he
could get a flight back tonight on one of the shuttles. He didn't want to
stay in Boston any longer.