Harlan's Race

love fish in Asia, swore he’d never eat another clam.
    Saturday night on Labor Day weekend was the great orgasm of the summer’s partying.
    Harry, Steve and Angel stayed at the Hotel — they were feeling a little under the weather. But Marian and Chino headed for the Casino because they wanted to slow-dance. The rest of us — Bark, Vince and I — rode the beach taxi to The Grove. Vince was content not to dance, just to amble the boardwalks with my arm around him.
    When we came home at 2 a.m., Marian and Chino were still gone, and didn’t come back till dawn. Their eyes were somber and they had an air of having sat in the dimes, talking, maybe making out a little. The rest of us were at the dining table, deep in a heavy rap about the growing truculence of the religious extremists, and growing violence against gays and lesbians. The room was blue with cigarette smoke. As Marian quietly made herself some tea in the kitchen, Chino sat down at the table, and joined our talk without a beat.
    “You wanted us for the summer — the summer’s over,” he said to me. “Now what?”
    “Yeah,” said Harry. “We ought to get back to California for a while, and pick up on other business.”
    A feeling of anticlimax came over me. Almost disappointment that LEV. hadn’t showed.
    “Well,” I said, “I’ll carry on alone for a while, and we’ll see what happens.”
    Later that morning, the two vets and I went for a walk along the bay, so we could have a last private talk. We felt sad to be leaving Fire Island — she was glowing in sunshine. Beach plums were ripening, monarch butterflies already landing in the warm dunes. Harry was a contrast
    — still dangling a tag-end of flu, off color, out of sorts. He and Chino had little to say about LEV. The fact was — if LEV. had been the second guy in Montreal, so far he had not felt moved to shoot again. He didn’t even make threatening phone calls.
    What would squeeze his trigger finger?
    “We don’t know,” Harry shrugged.
    “Does Vince suspect that we’re trying to turn him?” I asked.
    “If he does,” said Chino, “he’s staying cool.”
    “But we’re getting a point across,” said Harry. “He’s seeing why amateurs don’t make it as terrorists. Why the Weathermen aren’t around any more. Demons of darkness like us ... the ones who get paid by the government ... are gonna rain on his pinko parade.”
    Gulls wheeled, feeding on butterflies with tattered wings that fell to the water.
    “So,” Harry added, “he’s gotta be a demon of darkness too.”
    “And,” Chino added, “we’re saying to him, Hey, man, don’t be an amateur or they’ll grease you. Get into the paramilitary ... get trained.”
    I was shocked at this new twist. My hope had been that they’d simply talk Vince out of his anger. Now they were talking about the organizations and institutions where a private citizen can put together some quasi-militaiy skills. Ranger schools. NRA firearms classes. Academies for pro bodyguards. Mountaineering schools. Sky-divers, scuba* divers. And, as they’d already mentioned, combat vets who tutor civilians for a fat fee.
    “And those circles tend to be real conservative,” said Harry. “So he’d have to hack the right-wing shit. Get a new identity -— pass as a redneck.”
    “If he went that route, how long would it take to get trained?” I asked.
    “If he works hard, three years ... maybe,” Harry mused.
    “He’ll need lots of green,” Chino said. “Training isn’t cheap. Weapons, gear —”
    ‘Vince doesn’t have a nickel,” I said.
    “Julius,” said Harry, “has nickels. And he owes me one.
    I saved his life once. I’ve asked him if he’d take Vince on. Of course, Vince won’t know we have a deal with him. Julius will just happen to cross paths with Vince. And I guarantee our kiddo will jump at Julius’ offer. Julius can protect Vince. See that he gets into the right drills.”
    “Is Julius gay?” I asked.
    “Gay as a goose.”
    Probably Vince would sleep with this guy, as part of the deal. Instantly jealousy showed its Medusa face, with its drag-queen wig of writhing snakes. No wonder Chino and Harry wanted to keep me at arm’s length.
    “Good plan,” I said, choking down my bile. “Except one thing.”
    “What?”
    ‘You’re helping him become a terrorist.”
    “This way,” said Chino, “we have some control over where he is ... what he learns. If we turn him, we can use that training