Harlan's Race

Conservative clothes were now his thing — slacks and a blazer that looked like something I’d buy. The only concession to a former sultry image was the half-unbuttoned shirt. His hair was shorn, almost white-walled, but had the same hot luster as before. The clearness in his eyes told me he’d stayed off drugs. Vince did have will — enormous will, like a volcano does.
    Yet his rage, his restlessness, made the antique chair creak ominously under him. Last year, Chino and Harry had guessed that he’d be ready in three years. Was he getting impatient? Hungry to spray bullets?
    “Still drinking whiskey these days?” I asked.
    “No ... back to wine.”
    As I leaned to pour his wine into one of Steve’s crystal goblets, I drew a deep breath of that after-shave or cologne he was wearing. I couldn’t stand most of the stuff that gay men splashed on themselves. The smell of sweat was always best. But Vince’s was subtle, like a fragrant wood-essence.
    “Chateau Yquem,” he mused, looking at the wine label. “You never used to know the difference between Coke and 7-Up.”
    His way of talking had changed, too, from post-hippie stream of consciousness, with all the “cools” and “likes”, to actual complete sentences. I felt a deep tearing sadness, wondering about the disease status of Julius. But I wasn’t supposed to know about Julius.
    As if reading my mind, Vince asked, “So — who’re you boning these days?”
    “You’ve been gone a year. You’ve got no grounds to ask me.”
    “Just curious,” he shrugged.
    Had he seen action yet? Pulled the trigger? He had to know if he could kill people, again and again — do it on orders, do it on his own judgment if necessary. Even I, a peacetime ex-leathemeck who had never killed anybody, knew that. But my training and my feelings were there. If they ever connected, I would pull the trigger. If I’d had the chance to wax Richard Mech as he sighted on Billy, I’d have splattered him, and taken my chances in court.
    “Well,” I said, sitting down and pouring myself some Perrier, “whoever your new daddy is, he’s taking good care of you.”
    “He’s 65.” Vince looked up from his plate, into my eyes, from under his long jet-black eyelashes. “And he doesn’t fuck me.
    “I know. You fuck everybody else.”
    ‘You always underestimate me.” He sounded bored.
    “Maybe I need more convincing than most guys.”
    He stretched and yawned.
    “Oh, I’m not into sex like I was,” he said. “At first, being liberated was fun. You know. Meet a cool guy ... lots of courting, lots of foreplay ... spend the whole night ... breakfast in bed.” He let his head fall back, and stared at the ceiling. “Now it’s ice-cold. The minute you shut the door, the clothes are off and you’re in him. Then fisting isn’t enough, and you want to tear his heart out..
    That sting-ray poison was coursing in my veins.
    Striper jumped to my lap, hoping for a taste of beef, and I pushed her back on the floor.
    “Rayburn and your old brothers always ask about you,” I said.
    “Things are good,” he said. “Going into a new phase.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    He shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t agree, and we’d fight.”
    ‘You’re still sponging, huh? What about a career?”
    “Why do you always pick some point?” he said in a low voice. “Can’t you just be with me, Harlan?”
    His eyes held such an appeal that I pulled back.
    We spent the rest of the meal in chit-chat — what news of Falcon and Betsy, etc. I hoped he wouldn’t get drunk, and he didn’t — stopped at his second glass. Finally it was 10 p.m. We had coffee and cleared the table. He still hadn’t made a move. I wasn’t going to beg him for a one-nighter
    — after all, he was the one who left. I wanted to have him forever, or not see him again.
    “I’ll call a cab for you,” I said, with a lump in the throat.
    At the open door, he brushed a kiss on my cheek. As he turned to go out, Betsy’s voice spoke in my memory. He really loves you.
    “Vince,” I said.
    He looked at me over his broad shoulder, where the tailored cloth and padding rode so easily. His eyes were wet.
    The door closed with him still standing there. Our embrace was like a vise, arms crushing each other, thighs locked. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in his fragrance as if I’d been fighting for air underwater. His hand was already sliding down the back of my belt. My hand was already up his jacket, caressing