Harlan's Race

print. And I’d probably still have Vince.”
    Russell chuckled. “Mr. Harry painted an irresistible picture of your young man,” he said.
    Harry’s eyes calmly met mine in the rear-view mirror, reminding me of my long-ago promise to keep my temper.
    “He did?” I said, as casually as possible.
    “Said Vince was a gorgeous animal... hot as a pistol ... no money, but lots of potential,” Russell went on. “Said he’d left you. Well, I thought it was a damn good idea for a gay activist to get mud on his boots. And it sounded like this one needed a daddy.”
    “Then ... by fall of ’78, Vince was already here with you?” I asked.
    “Oh, he was in and out, doing his homework. He never lived here. Cici was in the hospital by then. My old life was coming to an end. I was looking for somebody. But —”
    Russell sighed, and rubbed Harry’s thigh.
    “— I didn’t appeal to Mr. Pistol,” he added. “He told me he was sick of trading on his looks. He wanted me to respect him. I told him he’d have to earn my respect by working like a fatherfucker. So he did. And I never got him to bed either.”
    Russell’s remark about young studs came back to me. Vince, my Vince, always full of surprises, ambushing me with unsuspected maturity. I had to feel a surge of pride.
    Inside The Arch, the maitre d’ led us through a genteel glow of candlelight and hum of voices to a table in a comer
    — two walls at our back, a nearby window that we could crash through, and a good view of everybody else in the restaurant. There we were, four gay mustangs in black tie and tux, surrounded by Westchester society ladies wearing big hats, and members of the South Salem fox-hunt, and holiday decorations straight out of Dickens’ Christmas Carol. A few people stared at Chino’s ponytail.
    “So you fell for Vince,” I said to Russell.
    “Like Rome fell.”
    He threw down the wine menu. “Fuck the piss-elegance. Let’s have some strong drink. Harry?”
    “Wild Turkey on the rocks.”
    “Harlan?”
    “Perrier straight up.”
    “Make that two,” Chino said.
    Russell ordered a Bombay gin for himself, and said, “My own kids turned out so common and stuffy. Gawd. Vince burrowed under my skin like one of those goddam little tropical insects. Harlan, what happened to the two of you, anyway? If you don’t mind my asking?”
    I shrugged. “We both had some ... I believe they call it attitude problems now.”
    The drinks came, and Russell gave me a reproachful look. “I listened to him talk about you, and finally wondered if I should be bird-dogging you.”
    “We all love a Vincent once,” I said. “Somehow we survive.”
    Russell raised his glass.
    ‘To the Vinces,” he said.
    In due course, Russell had to go to the head. When we were alone, Chino didn’t look at me, just stared down into his glass of Perrier. But Harry was studying me, his smooth blond hair looking silvery under the restaurant lights.
    Harry was 40 now, and looked every bit a mature Andover preppie — except for that hard sultry stare in his hazel eyes. I stared back.
    “Hot as a pistol, huh?” I said.
    “Smoke and mirrors,” he smiled.
    When Chino went to the bathroom, Harry asked me, “He’s a changed man. What’d you do to him?”
    “Smoke and mirrors,” I said.
    After turkey with oyster stuffing, and deciding we’d pass on the chocolate mousse, we wound up at some roadhouse on the Connecticut line, with a pro football game blasting on the TV. We sat in a corner booth, and Harry and Russell had more drinks while we told more Boomerang stories.
    “Brucie Wucie almos’ screwed things f r us,” Harry said.
    “Bruce Cayton? How?”
    “Brucito was hot on the trail of those pansy Panthers,” Chino said. “Even after that interview, he still thought Vince was hiding something. He thought the trail would lead to the Nelly Cell. Instead, the trail was about to lead to Russell’s boudoir. Russell got pretty scared.”
    “How did you guys take care of Bruce?”
    Harry grinned. “You don’ wanna know. But later on, Russie Wussie greased Bruce a li’l bit by using his media pull and getting Bruce th’ talk show.”
    “Boomerang was slippery, all right,” I said. “We could have failed.”
    ‘You’ve seen too many movies, Harlan. Spook work is always slippery,” said Chino.
    “Harln,” mumbled Russell, “y’ know, I nevr un-nerstood th’ additude that homosekshuals r ’ntelli-gence risks. We’re bedder at deep cover’n