Chapter 4
The Swedish restaurant, Ann Sather, had been a Chicago institution for decades. The original location on Belmont had been opened, Sean thought, back in the 1930s by Ann herself and had later on been bought by a Chicago man, who moved it to its current place a few doors west in a converted funeral home.
Sean had chosen the place because it was noisy, bustling, had great food (and the best cinnamon rolls this side of paradise), and invariably at least half the diners (and waitstaff) were gay. It was the kind of place where, if he wanted, Sean could play footsie and make goo-goo eyes at Arliss over Swedish meatballs all night and no one would raise an eyebrow.
Plus it was cheap. Sean had to watch his pennies. His catalog copywriter gig didn’t pay that much, and most of the net fr
