Harlan's Race by Patricia Nell Warren Page B

under to the terror. It was time to force respect from the pig-fuckers. Etc., etc.
    ‘What are you going to do?” Vince demanded of Steve. ‘Your house was violated.”
    “It’s Harry’s decision,” Steve said.
    “Bullshit,” Vince barked. “Harlan, if you have any guts, give Steve some.”
    ‘You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I said. ‘You’re a guest in his house.”
    Steve said nothing, just retreated up to the Tower Room. Both of us knew in our hearts that Vince was half right. But if we resisted in the ways that Vince had in mind, straight America would drive Sherman tanks over the top of us.
    “They’ll break our windows every day if we push it that far,” I told Vince.
    “Then Steve should move to The Grove!”
    “And live in the goddam ghetto forever?”
    “Billy was your lover. Why am I at the barricades?” Vince shouted, jabbing his fingers at his own chest. “Why are you hiding here at a goddam typewriter, letting you and me be shot at? Why aren’t you in New York with me? Helping the activists... doing something?”
    “Look,” I shouted back. ‘You’re talking revenge. I’m talking self-defense. Revenge won’t bring Billy back. And it won’t change people’s attitudes... just make them worse.” “I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” Vince said. “And you know what the worst is? Like — the absolute worst?”
    I didn’t care to ask.
    “I don’t know how to fight!” he burst out. “I gotta say it
    — you were right when you tossed me in the water. I can’t even protect myself!” His eyes blazed. “But, Harlan... you, like, know how to fight! You were a fucking Marine, man. And you don’t do jack-shit except hire a couple of gay goons to watch our asses!”
    His voice broke, almost in a sob. Brusquely, he went into the North Room, and threw clothes in his travel bag. I glimpsed Billy’s track shoe — he always carried it with him. ‘You’re leaving?” I asked him. “After all the I love you’s?” Vince pressed his hands against his temples, as if he were trying to stop an atom bomb from going off in his brain. His eye was still watering, oily, with the antibiotic ointment in it.
    “I don’t know!” he cried out, in a strange tone that wrung my heart. “Eveiy time something like this happens, I feel like I’m holding Billy’s body again! I refuse to be this helpless queen! I will have justice!”
    “Wait till Chino and Harry get here. Let’s talk this out.” I tried to take his arm, but he pulled away.
    “No! Talking won’t fix this!” His voice was strangled. “If I’d been a real fighter like Chino or Harry, maybe I could have kept Billy alive!”
    Shoving on his sunglasses, Vince brushed past me, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and headed down the boardwalk toward the marina. His strides were purposeful, measured. I hoped he had enough cash to get to New York. At least he had a car.
    Loving Billy had hurt sometimes — but never like this. For a while, I sat silent in the front room, listening to Steve’s typewriter upstairs. While all the uproar had gone on, Angel was hiding up there with his new cat — a female tabby from the Patchogue animal shelter. Now he was silently helping his lover keep pages in order.
    “Hang in there,” Steve called down the spiral stairway. “He’ll be back.”
    EIGHT
    July 1978
    The next day, while Steve kept watch at the house, I drove my rattle-trap truck to Kennedy International Airport. The new look was working — I walked right past a news crew waiting for some celebrity at the terminal, and nobody recognized me.
    Harry Saidak and Chino Cabrera came striding up the jetway together, travel bags slung over shoulders. Despite their different personalities, their eyes held that same hard stare. Their caution, as they looked around the crowded boarding area, identified them as combat vets. As they gave me quiet hugs, I was damn glad to feel their strength and expertise in my arms. Especially Chino.
    Driving