Harlan's Race by Patricia Nell Warren

Author:Patricia Nell Warren
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gay, romance, novel
Published: 2013-10-02T16:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

Spring 1980

At Los Angeles airport, Vince was waiting in the boarding area — a dark, quiet figure in the crisscross of passengers.

His eyes met mine, with the accusations still alive in them. Ever the shape-shifter, 28 now, he looked like a serious film-industry professional. Tote briefcase slung over his shoulder, heavy with scripts, reels, people’s head shots and what-not. He wore sunglasses, running shoes and slacks, and a designer T-shirt. His dark hair was yuppie short. And he looked very fit.

As we left the terminal, there was edgy small-talk.

“You look good,” I said. “Been running?”

‘Yeah. I’ve missed it.”

“Run for fun?”

“I belong to the gay track club. You know ... the L.A. Front Runners. The ones who’ve been asking for your help for years.”

I ignored his dig.

“Some people in the community are disgusted with you because you don’t take the podium,” Vince persisted. ‘You don’t lead. You don’t even help.”

“I’m no good on the podium if I don’t have anything to say.”

As we crossed the street, Vince frowned at my own fashion look. “Coach chic” was now “bay-man casual”. Steve’s old Abercrombie & Fitch jacket. Spit-polished cowboy boots. The beaded belt of Steve’s that I loved. My hair and beard were trimmed, but pirate-length.

“Your sugar daddy is fucking you over,” Vince ragged me. “He isn’t buying you a new wardrobe.”

“Russell’s just a friend.”

“Tell me another one, honey.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“You look like a beach bum.”

“I am a beach bum.”

“Stop wearing Steve’s clothes. It’s unhealthy.”

As Vince’s Jeep raced along the freeway into West Hollywood, I sat behind my dark glasses, feeling empty and flat. Our hair blew wildly in the warm morning air. All those palm trees and tile roofs felt alien. I knew L.A. only from track meets in the distant past, and had never been in a mood to explore its pleasures. Vince yelled some local history over the wind. West Hollywood had been a retreat of “bohemians” from the earliest movie days. Gay life centered around the “strip” on Santa Monica Boulevard. And yes, there were rumors about sick men out here, too.

‘You’ll like the West Coast,” Vince insisted. “Gays and lesbians are swinging a little political power here — the kind we don’t have in New York.”

Just then, an LAPD police cruiser pulled us over. We had to submit to a registration check.

“Pig-fuckers,” Vince said when they left. ‘We still don’t swing the police. They like to pull over gay guys in Jeeps.”

First, we went to the Santa Monica strip to find Harry and Chino. In the balmy spring morning, not much was happening. Boulevard boys and panhandlers had called it a night. Studio One and the Blue Parrot and other bars and discos were closed. At cafes, people drank coffee and read papers. Shoppers milled the sidewalks, past flower stalls, where vendors arranged roses and birds-of-paradise. At the Hamburger Haven, Harry was brooding over coffee alone. He looked L.A. butch, with blond hair in a little ponytail, and a gold earring on the side that said top. “Where’s Chino?” I asked.

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