Harlan's Race

and a good crowd was expected. Right-wingers declared they’d picket our race. Grudgingly, the LAPD assigned a few extra cops.
    John Sive flew into town. He was still shaky from his operation, and trying to get enthusiastic about fighting the AAU over Vince’s card. John was getting seriously burned out after his long years of fighting. He still didn’t know about our plan, and I dreaded having to tell him if things went wrong.
    September 7
    Vince and I were physically ready. But emotionally, mentally, spiritually, we felt the race looming—just two days away now.
    That morning, local ABC news got wind of Michael Brown’s presence in the race. They asked to do a joint interview with Michael and me. Chino and Harry okayed it. In the afternoon, during workouts at the park, the ABC van showed up, and my stomach churned as I went before the cameras for the first time since the trial. It was just the chance that we’d wanted — to be blatant.
    Then the interviewer turned to Michael.
    “Why are you running?” he asked.
    Michael drew himself up.
    “I’m running in Billy’s memory too. I never knew him, but I know he was a helluva guy ... and I think he was an incredible example to sport. If anybody ever won against all odds, Billy did. And I’m also running as a gesture of love and support for my dad.”
    That night at home, we watched Michael’s face on the TV screen, as he spoke. I felt a little uneasy at seeing him out in the open like that. His mother was surely watching it on her TV in the Beverly Hilton, and she was surely furious. If she was behind LEV., and she needed one last spur, this would surely be it.
    In the morning, our two bonniker cops showed up. They had their off-duty .38s, and were ready to rock and roll. They checked in with LAPD and let them know that two Suffolk County police officers were in town for a little vacation, possibly a few of those wonderful California girls. Then they checked into a motel on Sunset. We had a feeling that the two of them were more interested in California boys, and would slip discreetly over to the Santa Monica strip, maybe just walk the street and breathe the air freely for the first time. We hoped they’d stay out of trouble.
    That evening, we all ate at Paul’s and Darryl’s — they made a spread for us, so we didn’t have to cook. Weather report for tomorrow: early-morning fog for the race, clearing to hot by noon. Runner’s weather.
    At around 7 p.m., Harry, Chino, Vince and I had a final update. We stood in the dark alley behind the duplex, where we wouldn’t be overheard. The air was warm and still, and fragrance of night-blooming jasmine hung on the air. No santa anas this time of year — no blowing winds to move a speeding .22 round a hair off its course.
    “Here’s Russell’s latest on our suspects,” Harry said. “Denny Falks is on police business in Fresno. Mary Ellen is still at the Hilton — Russell’s guy overheard her in the bar, telling someone she was in town to see her son.”
    Fresno was uncomfortably close. The Beverly Hilton was closer yet.
    “Well, this is it,” Chino said. “Tomorrow we hop and pop.”
    “Get some sleep,” Harry said. “Harlan and Vince, meet me at your door at 0600.”
    Then Chino left to go across town for his night watch in Griffith Park. He was wearing colors that would blend in the dark — jeans, black-dyed Adidas and a dark gray windbreaker. When Griffith closed at 10 p.m., and all visitors were supposedly gone, Chino would already be a shadow in the maze of green, waiting and watching to see if a shooter would move into position. He was willing to be charged with the misdemeanor of trespassing in the park, if he could jump LEV. that way.
    “God, wouldn’t it be great,” Vince said as we walked home, “if we could wake up tomorrow and find out that Chino collared him?”
    That night, without even discussing it, Vince and I weren’t going to make love. We both felt superstitious, remembering last embraces in Montreal before the 5000-meter run. So Vince gave me a kiss, and fell into the new bed in my duplex.
    Still awake in the dark room, I found myself jittery — getting up and lighting the candle. The pair of shoes cast a long fitful shadow. Vince had picked a rose in the back garden, and put it there, in a water glass. At the sight of it, tears almost came. Looking up in the mirror, I saw a graying burnished man with a combat stare and a lion tattooed on his shoulder.
    “Come to