Harlan's Race

being race security —just in case LEV. was watching.
    The first day that Chino ran with us, Vince, as race director, went over the logistics with him.
    “It’ll start here at 7:30 a.m----and finish here,” the race
    director said between breaths, pointing. “Timers and officials here... the platform there on the lawn, for the awards... portable toilets over there... picnic tables over there... we’ll feed people a light breakfast afterward...”
    “Do me a detailed map,” said Chino. “I may want to change some locations.”
    ‘Yessir.”
    ‘You aiming for a win? Break everybody else’s hearts?” I asked Vince.
    “Naw,” he panted. “I wouldn’t do that. There’s going to be divisions... age groups... sex... ability... handicapped. So lots of people can win something. No vulgar bowling trophies either. I’ve got somebody donating nice medals. Billy’s profile on them.”
    “The city give you hassles about a permit?” Chino asked. “They did at first. But everything’s all set.”
    “It’s an open race?” I asked.
    “We don’t have AAU sanction, so I can have anybody enter. I want joggers ... vets in wheelchairs .. . old ladies ... little kids. Anybody who cares about freedom.”
    Chino frowned.
    “Security nightmare,” he panted. “But... okay. Harlan, those walkies from the beach house..
    ‘Yeah.”
    “Get them to me. We’ll finally use the fucking things. What about the L.A. police?”
    “The LAPD is not thrilled about babysitting a gay-sponsored event. Especially because Harlan and I are involved. But they’ve got to give us the legal minimum.” “Not a fucking word to them. All the LAPD needs to know is... you and Harlan will have your licensed personal security at the race. Like any celebrity in town would do. If anything happens, our official story is that we handled it in the moment. Understand?”
    ‘Yessir, boss.”
    “Let’s get our Fire Island cops in on this. They offered some help. If we need to get the LAPD’s full attention, they can do that better than us. Harlan, you contact them. Tell them as little as possible till they get here.”
    “Got it.”
    “What about publicity?” Chino asked Vince.
    “Lots,” Vince said. ‘Valhalla is donating 30- and 60-second TV spots. We’ll target sports publications and gay media. Cities with big gay populations... the Southland especially. So we get a good entry. I’d love to get a thousand runners.”
    “The more publicity, the more LEV. will want to shoot and loot,” Chino grinned.
    Finally neither Chino nor I could hold Vince’s pace.
    “Whatsa matter with you old farts?” Vince ragged us.
    He accelerated to a 4:30 mile, and left us in his dust, with that electrifying burst of speed that he still had.
    Suddenly the cormorant and I were jogging alone on the narrow drive. Wild young eucalyptus trees crowded on either side, hissing and rustling ominously in the santa ana wind. It gave an eerie feeling, as if we were in some tropical war a thousand miles from anywhere, deep in the maze of green, and LEV. was watching us from his hide. He likes you, Chino’s voice said in my memory. Was it really possible that LEV. was Denny? Denny had liked me. Why would a grudge last so long? It didn’t make sense.
    Chino caught my spooky feeling.
    “Yeah ... I feel him around too,” he panted. ‘Tuck a duck, man — that joto boy of yours can run.”
    ‘You’re doing all right,” I said.
    Our eyes met briefly, and I could sense him feeling the flash of tender nostalgia, the same as I did. But “therapy” had to be in the past. Our present was the mission.
    He flashed one of his rare white-teeth grins. It wasn’t a sexy grin —just eager for action.
    “The Memorial is gonna be a no-shitter,” he said. “I better be ready to run like a rabbit myself.”
    March 1981
    The fierce drive made me want to pull my family closer around me.
    Chino did a little investigative legwork, and located Betsy. She was living quietly in Costa Mesa, just two hours south of L.A., teaching athletics at Orange Shore College. Falcon was in kindergarten there. I wondered what had possessed her to move to Orange County. We did not intrude on her wish to be left alone. But I wrote her a letter, care of Ricelands College, hoping she’d get it. Never give up, I wanted to tell her. Take care of yourself. You’re all that the boy has. If there’s anything you need, get in touch. You know I’d move heaven and earth for the two of you.
    I was