Harlan's Race

of Vince, struggling to hold himself together.
    I didn’t want Michael anywhere near us, so I snapped, “Mikey ... pick up ... take second.”
    He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, respond.
    “Damn you, Mikey! Blitz!”
    My voice galvanized him, and he pulled ahead.
    Ahead, Park was going out of sight around the final turn. He threw a paranoid glance over his shoulder, wondering where the famous Matti kick was. Vince and I were just sitting in, with the men’s pack trailing broken behind us. Park knew he had it. So he bolted the last stretch, wanting to come in looking good.
    With every second remaining, the possibility of a hit soared.
    Mile three. Our time was 13:59.
    We rounded that last curve, and the banner loomed into view. I saw it blearily, through sweat in my eyes. One sixth mile to go. Down to the finish between two walls of clamoring, yelling people. Here and there, an LAPD cop. Ahead, Park was hitting the tape.
    At the last moment, a black man from the men’s pack pulled up to Vince’s shoulder, to challenge us for third place. But we surged, and the black guy faded. Michael crossed the line second. I slowed a little to let the electric timer see Vince as third.
    Applauding spectators flooded around us. A sweaty Park was being hugged by Asian buddies and girlfriends.
    Vince walked around, panting, to warm down slowly. Harry stayed with him, in case our shooter might walk up and try that point-blank shot. Vince’s fancy tights were deep-hued with sweat. My lover looked hardly tired. Me, I bent over and gagged — maybe from the tension and anger.
    Michael hugged me. He was shaking all over with exhaustion.
    “Next time, move your ass when I tell you,” I panted.
    “Right. Sorry, Dad.”
    “You went out too fast, but that’s how we learn.”
    But Chino’s and Harry’s eyes said we weren’t out of the woods yet.
    “This makes the awards a primo target now,” Chino said to me quietly.
    “I know,” I said. “That’s why I want to get up to the mike first, and say a few words. That okay with you, boss?”
    “So you’re finally going to do it. Why?”
    “Because they’ve come here to see a living example,” I said savagely. “Not a dead one.”
    Runners kept streaming across the line. At 15:29, 19-year-old Marta Breagy crossed to be the fastest woman overall. Third was Astarte, looking happy as hell, to take the women’s 20-30 age-group with a 16:06.
    The sound van cranked up volume, and the whole area started thumping like the Ice Palace on a Saturday night. Gay and lesbian couples danced exuberant freestyle on the lawn. Religious picketers lowered their eyes, or pantomimed a barf to one another, and left hurriedly. As the fog lifted, tired runners straggled to the latrines and picnic tables. Hands grabbed oranges, granola bars, cups of juice.
    Vince and I did our warm-down. Feeling a slight twitching in my thigh muscles, I ate two bananas for potassium. The media, disappointed at no Matti fireworks, flocked around Joe Park. Meanwhile, people kept crossing the finish line. The first sweaty senior — a blue-haired lesbian. The first wheelchair. The first old geezer with his collie on a leash.
    Finally, as our group sat at one picnic table, Harry went off to check on Maiy Ellen and Denny, and Vince drank a big cup of Gatorade. He and I kept on our Kevlar shirts. Gay male runners came by to schmooze and slap our backs, but Chino was planted in front of us, his eyes cold. Any of those guys could be LEV.
    “Maiy Ellen’s limo left,” Harry reported. “Denny is over there shooting the breeze with LAPD.”
    Chino’s walkie crackled, as one of the Watchers radioed. “Chino? Johnny here. You read me? Over.”
    “Loud and clear,” said Chino.
    “That hippie cyclist is headed your way.”
    ‘We’ll watch for him. Do your Phase 2 now.”
    ‘That’s a ten-four, boss.”
    Chino leaned and spoke in my ear.
    “Johnny is at Hide A. He spotted a cyclist with a backpack. After the race, the guy wandered out of the brush at Hide A. Johnny’s freaked — he didn’t see the guy go in there. I’m having some Watchers make a cordon along the tree line, for the awards.”
    Our eyes met. With so many people crowding around, and so many places to shoot from — the crowd, vehicles, toilets, the tree line above — a bullet could come from almost anywhere.
    Half an hour later, all finishers were in.
    Now I could see a Watcher or two loitering along the tree line. Pretending to relax, I watched the