Harlan's Race

portable toilets were doing brisk business. Farther still, the lawn rolled uphill to the maze of green and a rocky crest.
    My eye lingered on the crest. A good sniper hide.
    As cold fog drifted across the tree tops, people wore heavy sweats, held steaming cups close. The dank chill would cut our crowd a little, keep some thin-blooded spectators away. But the morning was a delight for Southland runners, who often have to perform in the heat.
    An eerie quiet filled me.
    6:50 a.m.
    The VW van nosed through the crowd, and parked behind the Front Runner tent, among the race crew’s cars. We got out with Harry right in front of us.
    Chino met us there, armed as casually as Harry. He was carrying his little old .38 revolver that he’d used as a side arm in Vietnam. From his eyes, we knew right away that the night’s wait had been a nada. He noticed our mood but said nothing.
    Chino pulled the three of us aside for a quick update.
    “The night was so quiet, I could hear the bats fucking. Only nine of our Watchers showed. One’s sick. They’re out there with their walkies. Johnny Pufescu is watching Hide A — he was the sharpest this morning. Our two cops are hanging out in the center woods — best place to help with an arrest.”
    As he spoke, he and Harry were scanning everything around us, noticing every movement.
    Chino went on, “Mary Ellen is here. And guess what . .. Denny Falks is here. He drove in and parked, like he’s just another spectator. Russell’s guys are on the radio, tracking them both.”
    Harry kept a blank face as Chino discreetly pointed the two people out.
    My stomach tightened at the sight of a white limo in the parking area, with a shadowy woman’s shape inside, wearing a hat — my estranged wife. She was always big on hats. This was the first time I’d seen her in over 20 years.
    On the other side of the lawn, a stocky fit-looking guy in a baseball cap was sipping a coffee alone, looking around with hard cop eyes — that ex-half-miler of my Penn track team. If our suspect was Mary Ellen, she’d have her shooter on the grounds somewhere. If it was Denny, he was probably carrying an off-duty gun, and might plan to walk up and fire point-blank like Dan White did at Harvey Milk.
    If neither two was our elusive quarry, it meant they were both drawn here by old pain and compulsive curiosity. And it meant we were left looking at that spookiest possibility of all — a sniper who was completely unknown to us.
    Suddenly my fists clenched with rage.
    Marian arrived and hugged us. “Joe says ‘smoke ‘em, babies’. He wishes he could be here.”
    “Band-Aids,” I barked at Vince.
    “Don’t yell at me,” he barked back.
    My lover yanked up his psychedelic print pullover and Kevlar singlet, being careful not to display it, and I taped Band-Aids over his nipples — they were tender and bled easy with the sweat and rubbing. He looked disco-flashy, in the new style lycra running-tights. His Saucony racing flats were custom-made, with a new kind of insole that ensured minimum stress on his knees.
    I looked more old-style, in a plain pullover and shorts, and my own choice of Sauconys.
    Now, as entries closed and Rick, the assistant race director, came up to Vince with the entry sheets, Vince brusquely handed me my number 8 and two safety pins. Vince was 9.
    Vince looked at the entry sheets. His eyes widened a little.
    “What?” I said.
    “I got my thousand runners. We pulled 1126 entries.”
    “How does the field look?” I asked Rick.
    “Not too loaded,” Rick said. “A few hot collegiates and opens. Joe Park is here. Marta Breagy’s here.”
    Joe Park, a Korean immigrant boy, and Marta Breagy, a Berkeley student, were hot new faces in West Coast distance running, and the experts were watching them.
    “The rest?” Vince asked.
    “Lots and lots of open runners,” said Rick. “Joggers. Gay, straight, young, old. Fifteen wheelchairs. One hundred and forty people over 65. And about three hundred people who want to run with their dogs on a leash.”
    “Make sure the wheelchairs feel welcome,” Vince said tensely. “Let the paramedics know we’ve got beaucoup seniors.”
    Feeling my anger isolate me, I stood and looked over that heaving, exuberant crowd. Runners warming up, runners stretching, laughing and talking and trading tips on training. Everywhere I saw the young eager faces, the older eager faces, hair bright in the sun, a glow of health and striving. They hadn’t