Harlan's Race

much.
    Chino was so shell-shocked on health that it was hard to get him really worried about this. But because it was Marian, he went grumpily to a West Hollywood doctor. His T-cell count was around 600 — the low side of normal.
    If I had the thing, did I get it from Vince? Or did it go back farther in time? Already some conservative gays were talking about “hustler’s disease”. It was all the fault of those loose men in the community, they said. Maybe I had it already, and gave something to Billy. If I did, Betsy might have been infected. And if she was, what about Falcon?
    My 46th birthday was that month, and Chino gave me a strange gift. It was a votive candle, in a glass holder with the Virgin of Guadalupe painted on it. Protestant ghosts in my brain started yelling protests at the sight of it.
    ‘What the hell is this?” I tried to say in a ragging tone. “You trying to make a Catholic out of me?”
    “La Virgencita isn’t Catholic. She’s the sea ... Life. That’s what my granny always told me.”
    “So you’re trying to make a pagan out of me.”
    “Notice how her hands are open?” he said. “Open for everybody, man. Even queers.”
    I put the candle on the new dresser in my new bedroom — all new furniture, the first I’d owned since I was married. Vince had his altar. Mine had always been in the front of somebody else’s church, with some minister of God between it and me. I could have my own altar, goddam it. Next thing I knew, I was lighting the candle now and then. Only to humor my best friend, mind you. And the Virgencita helped me feel closer to Betsy, wherever she was, poor lonely soul... and Falcon. Beside it, went the pair of old Tiger shoes. Now and then, a flower or two. If I could give roses to Vince, I could damn well court myself a little bit too.
    Most of all, I prayed like a bastard that none of us would die in the Memorial.
    Mid-August
    There were burning questions about how we would actually get LEV. in custody. One Saturday in the park, Chino and I were jogging along quietly, alone, while Vince busted through his workout up ahead. Jess was happily galloping along with us, tongue hanging out.
    I asked Chino, “When will LEV. move into the hide? The night before?”
    “That’d be the obvious thing to do. I’m going to spend that night in the area, just in case. Or he might ease in next morning, with the spectators.”
    “Let’s say we spot him ... we’re in hot pursuit. I assume he’ll be carrying a hand gun for self-defense?”
    “A small gun, that he can reach quick. But he might not use it unless his back’s to the wall. A shot brings every cop in L.A.”
    “Think he’ll have a getaway car?”
    “If he can do it without police pursuit. Movie stuff. Too risky. My guess is — being he’s a genius at fading away — he’ll evade and escape on foot. Lose himself in the crowd. Or head north through the park, where he’s got 60 square miles to lose himself in. Trees, brush, canyons, isolated streets. If he gets to the north side, to Forest Lawn or the L.A. Zoo, he might have a car in a parking lot. So we have to grab him in the first few minutes.”
    “But if we are actually chasing him on foot, how is he going to move?”
    “That’s a good question. There’s a whole art of escape and evade in the woods, if you’re a sniper being pursued.”
    We crossed the road into the woods that formed the northern perimeter of the course.
    About an eighth of a mile in, we crashed out of thick brush into bright sun, and found ourselves on the edge of another steep drop-off. It was a deep winding ravine with gravelly unstable sides. In the bottom, 50 feet below, was a dry rocky wash with soda-pop cans glimmering and a couple of half-dead sycamores. A raven flew across it, stirring desolate echoes with its call.
    “Jeez,” I said. ‘What a hairy place.”
    “Yeah,” Chino said. “I played down there as a chavalito.” “He’ll have to get across this. How far does it run?” “About one K in our direction, two K in the other.” “Hard to get into, hard to get out of.”
    I was walking along the edge when suddenly the unstable soil crumbled under my feet. Chino grabbed my arm just in time, before I slid over the edge. A few little rocks rained spookily down, down to the bottom.
    “Oops,” said Chino.
    “No shit,” I said. “Thanks.”
    Later, at brunch in the Silver Lake restaurant, Chino drew escape diagrams on a paper napkin.
    “Running straight away