Harlan's Race

didn’t have any heirs.”
    “Thought he had a kid.”
    “His kid died.”
    Lance grunted thoughtfully.
    “Are you here on police business?” I asked.
    Lance met my eyes. “We’re just... curious.”
    Both men were South Shore natives. Lance was around 30, out of the old-time bay families known as bonnikers. Six foot three, with a baby face gone hard, Lance had a glow of boozy girlfriends. As a kid, it was said, Lance pirated at night, ghosting his clam-boat into creeks along the South Shore. Illegal clams grew thick there, in the sewage-laden water. He was never caught. Bob was 29, built like a wrestler — married, with one kid. He had inquisitive eyes, and a plaintive voice that was strangely un-cop-like.
    The two operated out of the Davis Park marina. Their station was the size of a toll-booth. During summer, between pot busts and Casino brawls, they got to look at pretty girls. In winter, they helped the National Seashore rangers trap stray dogs and cats that vacationers had abandoned. In short, they kept a light hand. After all, the party animals benefited the local economy. Lance and Bob were “cool”. “But not too cool,” Lance liked to say.
    Now Lance’s baby-blue eyes bored into mine.
    “So,” said Lance, “you’re Harlan Brown. The Harlan Brown.”
    Wanting to wring their necks, I stared out the window at the cherry groves, now summer green.
    “We’ve been doing a little checking. You’ve got quite a history of attracting violence, right?” Bob added.
    “Look,” I said. “The past is the past. I try to keep a low profile. I’m not a druggie. I don’t throw wild parties. Other people’s attitudes are their problem.”
    The two cops’ eyes rested on Michael, as if wondering how a notorious gay man could be a father like any other.
    “When attitudes go public, they’re our problem,” said Lance.
    How could I keep the police from harassing us?
    Then I got an idea. Maybe the light hand would help.
    ‘Tell you what,” I said. “Make this your coffee stop and place to get warm. You can get to know us.”
    Lance hesitated. He’d take a ragging from the bay-men if it got out that he was visiting a queer house. But I could see that somehow my words had touched the outlaw part of him. My two kids being there would make it okay for them. All of a sudden, with that intuition that I’d honed over years of cruising men, horsing around with men, teaching men, breaking men’s hearts, I had a feeling that there was more to these two cops than met the eye. They could be valuable allies. They might even turn out to be likable.
    Lance was looking questioningly at his sidekick.
    “I’d take this guy’s coffee over that poison from Patchogue,” Bob shrugged.
    “Okay,” said Lance. “But we keep this very low-key,
    right?”
    August 1979

    t Steve’s condominium, everything stayed the way it
    was. I even wore some of Steve’s better clothes —
    jackets, sweaters, his tuxedo. Missing him was not something I wanted to slough off. I was determined to have a new life, and wanted desperately to make my living as a writer. Living off interest income felt too much like being on welfare. But the gay press didn’t pay much. And the straight media had softened on gay issues a little bit. Ernie Glover told me, “To get in the money, you have to write a major book. You’re so notorious, I could probably sell something off an outline. You do that, we’ll be in Fat City.”    ,
    Now and then, the old idea of writing about Billy crossed
    my mind. But it was a phantom racing ahead of me.
    The old Bible got more crammed with red lines.
    Michael, struggling with expenses, had to swallow his pride. “Dad, can I move in with you?”
    Having Michael around all the time was wonderful.
    “You’re soft as a doughnut,” I said. ‘You should run.”
    The two of us loped across Washington Square, passing the old geezers playing checkers in the sun, taking a different route each time. Michael had natural form — easy and light, the way a gull flies, almost without moving wings. Sometimes Astarte joined us. It was fun to have two kids to train.
    The next letter from LEV. was:
    FEAR THE WORD OF GOD. KEEP YOUR KID AWAY FROM QUEERS.
    Now and then, at the hour of cheapest rates, Chino called. About himself, he said little. He’d stayed sober for a year, so now he was trying to quit smoking.
    Then, one time, Harry called.
    “Chino isn’t doing well,” he said sadly. “He’s ashamed to tell you,