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Harlan's Race

Titel: Harlan's Race Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Patricia Nell Warren
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curiously at red deletions. “Not much left,” he said.
    “Whatever I wind up with,” I said, “it’ll be mine. Not somebody else’s.”
    That afternoon, at 2 sharp, when the police boat roared into the cove, the clam-boat was already loaded, and Chino and I were just tearing up the last trip-wires. We gave the cops a gift box we’d packed. It was full of good coffee beans, and all my oldie tapes from the boat. The card read, ‘To FIPD with love and kisses from two queers.”
    Lance checked the coffee. “Woo-ee,” he said. “Colombian that ain’t pot.”
    He hugged me — a drinking-buddy hug, slamming me on the back. We had closet-type, he-man hugs all around. “Stay cool,” Chino said.
    “Right,” said Lance.
    “But not too cool.” added Bob.
    “If you ... uh ...” Lance cleared his throat. “... If you run into your bad guy out there, and you need a couple of off-duty shooters, let us know.”
    Engine thrumming, the clam-boat moved away from the dock. Chino leaned beside me. I felt a lump in my throat. Outside the cove, I opened the throttle and the 150-horsepower engine lunged forward. The bay was still choppy — cold spray dashed over us. Jess put her front paws up on the prow, and barked excitedly, ears flapping in the breeze.
    For a moment, I thought of the gold wedding band in my pocket. It could be slipped overboard into our bow wave, given
    back to the sea. But this didn’t feel like the right thing to do.
    If we failed in our coming mission, the strangers would take what they didn’t already have.
    Behind us, Fire Island drew away. Soon there was only a misty line on the horizon — the longest sandbar in America.
    In Patchogue, just before offices closed, I placed the house with a real-estate agent, while Chino sold the boat. My boxes went in the back of the truck, under a tarp. When we left town, my friend insisted on taking the wheel. As I looked at the darkening countryside — harvested potato fields patched with snow — I felt close to tears, holding my dog, remembering that miserable Christmas last year. Chino suddenly said, “You’ve earned meeting Julius.” “It’s about time. Does the old weirdo live around here?” ‘You can ask him all your burning questions about Vince. And he can help us with the Memorial planning.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “But you can’t know the route. So blindfold yourself, mate.”
    Feeling uneasy, I pulled my wool cap down over my eyes.

NINETEEN
    Holidays 1980
    My old truck slowed onto a gravel drive, then stopped. Jess burst into wild barking, half-standing in my lap. My scalp prickled. “You can look now,” said Chino.
    We were parked in front of Russell’s house at Bel Gard. What Jess wanted to kill was Russell’s two terriers. Russell and Harry leaned against the driver’s door. The screaming eagle had scuttled his wild West Hollywood look—hair cut short now, earring put away. First Chino chuckled. Then Russell guffawed, and slammed Harry’s shoulder.
    I was open-mouthed at the way I’d been taken in.
    “Julius?” I asked Russell, just to make sure.
    “The very same — at your service.”
    ‘You devious snake-eater,” I said to Chino.
    “Oh God.” Chino was bent over the wheel, laughing like a boy. “Harlan was so good ... he didn’t peek once.”
    Later that day, the four of us were in Russell’s Jaguar, heading for a holiday dinner at our host’s favorite restaurant in South Salem. I was practically out of clothes again, and had to borrow a spare tux from Russell. Harry was driving, with Russell in the passenger seat. Both men had divined that Chino and I were sleeping together. My best friend and I were sitting in the back, and I couldn’t
    help noticing that Russell had his hand on Harry’s thigh.
    “Well, Mr. Harlan, I guess you want to know how I met Mr. Harry and Mr. Chino here,” Russell said.
    “No shit, Mr. Russell,” I said.
    Harry explained:
    “Russell was one of the old Asia hands who got sent into Nam early, as an advisor. I was a young pup, and Russell housebroke me. But after I came out of the jungle, I didn’t want to be in touch with anybody for fuckin’ years, so I lost track of him.”
    ‘Years later,” Russell added, “winter of ’76 it was ... Harry looked me up. Told me about your problem, Harlan.”
    “And about Vince,” I said.
    “Delicate subject for you?” asked Russell.
    I shrugged. “If I’d put my jealous energy into writing books, I’d have a whole shelf in

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