Harlan's Race

were about to blow up a planeload of people, I’d kill you to stop you.”
    At those words, Vince’s eyes went wild.
    Suddenly he whipped the knife at me, the way I’d seen him do on the beach-house deck years ago. Only now he was an expert. The knife-point slammed into the wooden fireplace mantel, just one inch from my shoulder. The weapon vibrated like a plucked harpstring. I was shocked at how close he’d come. A wave of adrenaline went over me.
    “So turn me in to the FBI,” Vince smiled.
    He put up his hands in surrender.
    Angrily, I yanked the knife out of the wood.
    “Go ahead,” he urged. “There’s the phone. Be the homo hero and save everybody.”
    I tossed the knife scornfully on the bed between us, with the handle toward him.
    “Kid,” I said, “here’s the benefit of the doubt.”
    Lowering his arms, Vince gave a cold little laugh. He thrust the knife back in its scabbard.
    “You don’t have the guts to turn me in,” he said.
    “And you don’t have the heart to blow away innocent people,” I said, taking the last shot that I could. “I know you.”
    In the morning, with a casual “Happy New Year, everybody, see you soon,” he went down in the elevator. From the window, I watched him walk away down the street, carrying the travel bag. A light rain was falling, and his reflection followed him on the sidewalk.
    My young bird was heading out on the long migration route. He was running the gauntlet of hunters’ guns and power-lines.
    When I told Harry about the confrontation, he whistled and said, “Risky move.”
    “I know. I blew off your recommendation. But a guy’s
    gotta do what’s in his heart. I had to try something.” “Well, you gave him something to think about, for sure.”
    New Year’s 1979-80
    After John Sive left, and Michael buried himself in finals, I did year-end tax stuff, and brooded about the future. I was 44 now, still fit and not exactly hard on the eyes. I had good years ahead yet. The movie with Vince was over. Was I going to kick the habit of passion for men, and get passionate about my work? Was it time to think about dating someone new? To push my search for Chris?
    As if Life answered my prayer, a man called me up.
    I had met Russell Houghton at Marvin Jakes’ party. New York society knew Russell and his wife Cici as art collectors and patrons of the National Horse Show. Russell was an amateur rider, who liked to show his own horses. Cici had died, and now Russell was making widower’s moves. He was the kind of gay man that some activists hate
    — Republican and deep-closet.
    Russell had asked me out several times. But I’d put him off. Now he invited me to spend New Year’s at his country home, Bel Gard. He said he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. Russell was nearly 20 years older than me. I’d always been the older guy. Maybe it was time to be the young guy.
    So I decided what the hell, and packed Steve’s shawl-collar tux.
    Russell sent his black Cadillac, and I took the two-hour ride north through falling snow, into rural Westchester County. When the car stopped in front of his pillar-fronted home, my Irish poverty was agog at the white sweep of lawns, stables and indoor ring. Russell and his two terriers made three sets of tracks across the snow.
    “Welcome to Bel Gard,” he said.
    The handshake was warm — a hand surprisingly calloused for a gentleman of leisure.
    Russell was six foot one, in his mid-60s, with owlish piercing eyes. His florid Anglo face and twice-broken nose suggested a British boxing champion. His walk was stiff: dislocations, sprains, fractures, from falls with horses. When he grinned, he flashed a gold tooth, replacing one knocked out by a polo mallet. That day he was bareheaded, snow melting on his silver curls. Tight riding pants displayed powerful thighs that drove his horses relentlessly. A different sport than mine, but... sport was sport.
    I asked myself: Would I like driving this guy? Would he demand to drive me?
    Russell walked me through the stable, and introduced me to his hunters and jumpers. “Jaeger... Tomcat... Ranger ..Haltered heads poked out of stall doors. Flaring nostrils blasted me with warm curious breaths.
    While caterers set up for the party that night, I was suddenly tired, and napped in the comfortable guest room. That feeling of doors open to new things should have been exciting. But it wasn’t. I jumped at every sound in the house.
    That night, about 75 of Russell’s horsey