Harlan's Race

the half-mile past rows of dark beach houses to the marina pay phone. The only lights in Davis Park were a house boat in the marina, and the tiny police station.
    Chino answered right away, and I said, “Look... I just got another letter. We’ve got to make a breakthrough on LEV.”
    ‘You vibed me, man. I was about to call you and say that.”
    ‘You don’t sound good, buddy.”
    “I’m not,” he said bluntly. “My malaria flared up. And my morale is down to FUBAR. Read me the letter.”
    I did.
    “Well,” he said, “it makes sense if Vince got the same letter. And Vince got it after he announced that he’s going to compete seriously again.”
    This was an ominous development. LEV. had never written to anyone but me.
    ‘You need to come talk to me,” I said.
    “I know. And I’ve got a new theory about LEV. Don’t meet the plane. I’ll jump down your chimney the night of the 17th.”
    EIGHTEEN
    December 17-19, 1980
    On the morning of the 17th, a winter storm moved across the South Shore. I cooked some good food that could be re-heated, and watched the winds picking up, the bay getting choppier. How the hell was Chino going to come onto the Beach? My emotions were running like high tides as I got ready. The cops came by for coffee, and I casually mentioned a visit by James Cabrera, ex-SEAL, now a private investigator on the harassment case. In case they happened to see Chino arriving, they needed to know he was on our side.
    The cops had their own ability to read vibes, and they smiled craftily.
    “So you finally got a boyfriend, right?” Bob demanded.
    “We’re the cool Fire Island cops,” said Lance. ‘You can tell us.”
    “Strictly business,” I said.
    Late that night, during a lull, as I sat nervously by the downstairs stove with a book, some tin cans in the perimeter booby trap clanked insistently. It must be him — using the cans as a doorbell, to make sure I didn’t shoot him. Hackles bristling, Jess barked. When I opened the door, his wet figure loomed out of the dark in a blowing poncho. He had a backpack over his shoulder, wrapped in a plastic garbage bag to keep it dry. “Jess, it’s okay,” I said.
    My dog’s hackles lay down. Smelling of rain and willows, Chino gave me a tense abrazo.
    When he started to rove the house to check security, I said, “Don’t. Not this time.”
    He nodded curtly — he could see I’d kept a tight ship. While I warmed some food, he stripped by the stove and yanked dry clothes out of the backpack. He looked gray and drawn-down, overtrained, with hard new lines in his face. The old combat stare had turned in on itself. This was his last shot. He’d tried everything else.
    “Throw your gear up in the Tower Room,” I said.
    When he sat down to the steaming plate, Jess dozed off across his foot.
    “At some point, the two cops might check on us,” I said.
    “They brothers?” He was putting lots of super-hot salsa on his food.
    “Maybe. It might be a good move to invite them to dinner tomorrow.”
    “As long as they don’t mess with us.”
    “How’d you get here?”
    “I rode a chartered ferry over to The Grove yesterday.” He was starved, enjoying the good meat and salad, talking with his mouth full. “There’s a holiday social thing going on. After dark, I sneaked out a service entrance, and hiked up the Burma Road. Have you heard anything from our two lesbian lovebirds?”
    “No. They must be away. But they mailed me the pic for the year,” I said, reaching a manila envelope from the counter.
    Chino studied the color photo. Falcon looked ready to burst his little T-shirt. His black hair sprang up in a willful cowlick.
    “Quite a kid, man.”
    His eyes lingered briefly on the picture. Then, going to the sink, he swallowed his quinine pills.
    “Before we talk about LEV.,” he said softly with his back still turned, “I did some thinking on Venice Beach one night, with my .38 up my mouth. Maybe there’s a way to unfuck my situation. ¿tu dices a eso? What do you think?”
    It was now 1 a.m. The storm was really hitting — gusts slamming the house. Up in the Tower Room, we lit a kerosene lamp and piled more wood into the open Franklin stove. The thick drapes were already drawn, so the room would hold heat. Jess flopped down on the rug. Chino sat slumped on the edge of my bed, elbows on knees, staring into the fire. Trying to ease his neck, he turned his head from side to side. When he shrugged his tense shoulders to loosen