Harlan's Race

intel networks in Nam, as part of our jobs, and Harry is a good desk jockey, which I’m not. But basically we’re a couple of jungle-bunnies. Julius is the real investigator, and he wants to get serious. This is one of your needle-in-a-haystack things. Dig into Richard Mech’s associations, going way back. Cross-check them with police and military records. It might take years, man. Julius has the patience and the connections to do things that Harry and I can’t. But we need your okay.”
    “Jeez ... I don’t have that kind of money.”
    “If you can keep H-C in bullets and beans, we’ll hold up the security end. Julius will cover his end, which will be very expensive.” He grinned. “Shiiiit, man, I keep hearing about gay money ... let’s have it working for us.”
    “What’s my part in this?”
    He stared into my eyes. "Go on being your own bodyguard, if you fucking have to. Stay tight with us. And write books.”
    “Why does Julius care so much?”
    “Millions of people saw Billy go down,” said Chino quietly. “He was one. He told Harry nobody in this country can kill a good kid like Billy and get away with it.”
    He carefully put the cold cigar-stub in his pocket instead of flipping it away — an old habit of leaving no traces on his trail. As we headed back to the administration buildings, I looked over my shoulder at the forest. The man who helped kill Billy had just been hiding there.
    The maze of green. The tiniest move in its shadows. My scalp prickled again.
    “So I’ll send this casing to Julius,” Chino was saying. “Maybe there are fingerprints.”
    He coughed again. “Hear anything from Vince?”
    “Not a thing. You smoke too much, my friend.”
    “Yeah. When I lick the booze, I’m going to quit. My health is not so good. I picked up malaria and other shit in Asia.”
    “George Rayburn tells me Vince has drifted through New York a couple of times. I figure he and Julius don’t want to worry his old movement friends by Vince’s dropping out of sight completely. But Vince hasn’t been in touch with me.”
    “Well, Joe and Marian must be freaked out.”
    “They are. They want to meet with us at noon.”
    Joe Prescott was sitting behind his big mahogany desk
    — unusually formal in dark suit and tie. Marian was adjusting his oxygen tank.
    Uneasily, I sat down on the visitor side of the desk. Chino prowled the room.
    Looking at the sick old man, I remembered a staunch fist-waving liberal who had hauled me out of New York and given me a shot at coaching again. The memory came back, of the snowy morning in December 1974, when he’d come to my office to tell me about three gay boys who’d been kicked off the Oregon State team. Now, this time, Joe called me onto his own turf. I could feel the ax-blade coming.
    We went through the ritual. Joe’s secretary brought Chino some coffee, and a cup of tea for me. Marian’s eyes met Chino’s eyes for a split second.
    “Harlan,” Joe said, “the police want to think it was a hunter. They don’t want to think that homosexuals were shot at, because it means they have to protect homosexuals. But just between us, we all know that this is connected to Montreal.”
    I nodded wearily.
    “Marian and I have our responsibility to the students
    — to parents,” said Joe softly. His voice quavered. ‘We don’t want to cater to the moralizing, you understand. But people shooting into the campus is a problem. You’re too hot for us right now. Maybe someday, if civil rights get farther ahead, we can start over.”
    I nodded again.
    Now Marian spoke. ‘You’ll give us a letter of resignation today, saying that you want to pursue personal goals as a writer. You can stay on staff till mid-term ... two months. We’ll pay you full salary and a $100,000 parachute. Meanwhile, you can be Mike’s consultant. He’s taking over, and he values your input. But please keep a very low profile. Whoever is doing this, doesn’t like you being so public. Our decision is final. Please don’t have John Sive talk to us about it. We’re ... sorry.”
    I stared at my sister, across the gulf opening between us. Tears were standing in her eyes.
    For a moment, I felt like throwing their offer in their faces, and quitting. But Marian was right. Why be public, and give LEV. the satisfaction?
    “I suppose you have the letter typed already,” I said.
    They did.
    I signed it.
    Betsy and the baby were clearly in more danger now. Late that afternoon, as I went