Harlan's Race

breaking sounded like trains going by. Was the house being watched by unfriendly eyes?
    Then the boardwalk vibrated with approaching footsteps. My hand hovered by the .45. But it was Steve, Marian and Angel trampling in, looking disgusted. Steve
    saw the gun first, and raised his hands in mock surrender.
    “The taxi went in some quicksand,” said Marian. “The police finally came and pulled us out.”
    “It happened because you didn’t go,” Steve teased me. “Okay ... okay.” I raised my own hands in surrender. “Tomorrow night for sure.”
PART TWO
NINE
PART THREE
SIXTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY-TWO
About This Book

PART TWO
    Summer Things
    FIVE
    These days, some straight and bi Fire Islanders liked to dare the nine miles down the shore to gay turf. Some went to gawk, to shoulder us aside on our own beaches. Others went to drink up the liberated sexual energies. Gays and lesbians hated the tourism, but couldn’t lock it out. If you had a boat, you tied up at the Pines or Grove docks. If you were afoot, you rode one of the few vehicles on Fire Island — the beach taxi. Tonight the rusting sedan was piloted by a new driver, Rowdy, who had a joint hanging between his lips. In the back seat, Steve lounged in one corner, with Angel sitting stiffly beside him.
    In the other corner, Marian had on pedal pushers, blazer and sunglasses — her one concession to disguise. She looked worried. Reaching my hand back to her, I gave her a brotherly wink.
    “Worried about your first close-up on the Life?” I asked.
    She gave my fingers an uncertain sisterly squeeze.
    “No. It’s Joe .. . the future,” she answered.
    The window by me was rolled down, so I wouldn’t get high on Rowdy’s smoke. My clothing was clammer chic — frayed jeans, boots and scuffed bomber jacket. The sheepskin collar was turned up against the blast of salt wind. My limbs were vibrating with expectation like a tuning-fork. Now and then, our tires hit the wash, and a wing of spray flew beside us in the moonlight.
    Then the first thunderheads hid the moon.
    Thoughts of the second sniper intruded on my thoughts of Vince. Who was out there in the dark dunes, watching us drive away?
    At The Pines, Steve gave Rowdy a tip big enough for an ounce of weed.
    It had been several years since police stopped harassing us here. The boardwalk led toward flourishing shops and nightspots in the marina. Tea Dance was over, and houses blazed with light — not many piss-elegant gays forewent the electricity that back-to-the-land straights did without in Davis Park. Singles and pairs — mostly butch men, here in The Pines — crisscrossed everywhere in the dark. They walked hand in hand, shared kisses, wore what they liked — mostly jeans and Frye boots — said what they felt, lived the Life.
    At the Pines marina, crowded ferries were still coming
    in.
    We sat at an outdoor table. Steve, Marian and Angel ate seafood fresh from the bay. My stomach was so full of butterflies that I could only manage half a dozen oysters. Marian was too well brought-up to stare, but she looked thoughtful. Here was the sexual reality that her college had defended. Was my sister having second thoughts?
    The dance floor of the Sandpiper Club was packed with Beautiful People. Same-sex couples had won the legal right to dance together. Everybody was moving like a Broadway chorus line, in a dance called the Hustle. I gazed impassively at the scene, remembering my own clubbing days in ’60s New York. Cold-steel sex in parks and movie theaters. Relentless drinking and drugs. Vice raids on the hustlers’ bars and dance bars. Bruises from beatings. Our new freedom was so fragile — if a Richard Mech burst into the Sandpiper tonight with a submachine gun, he could fell a whole field of homosexuals like ripe corn.
    Vince wasn’t here. The well-heeled Pines was not his taste. More likely he was partying in Cherry Grove, where the crowd was younger.
    My wild hair and beard got some frowns — the well-barbered look was “in”. Nobody recognized me except activist George Rayburn — the very guy who’d said, “We shouldn’t have to protect ourselves.” He did a double take, as I pulled him aside. George was an old friend of Billy’s father.
    “Well, well,” he said. “I do declare. Nobody’s guarding your precious body tonight. Does this mean I get my chance?”
    I ignored his barb.
    “Yeah,” I said casually. “Off security for good.”
    George wouldn’t leave it alone. “Sweetie,