The Losers (20 page)

“I’m sorry, Darrel. I’ll have a talk with him about it.”

“I’d appreciate it, Rafe.” The clerk suited to return to the milk case, but stopped and turned back suddenly. “Hey, you live over there on the same street with Tobe and Sam, don’t you?”

“Yeah, right across the street. Why?”

“Have you seen them lately?”

“I haven’t really paid that much attention.”

“They’re usually in here two or three times a day to buy wine, but I haven’t seen them all week.”

“Maybe I’d better stop by and see if they’re okay.”

“Might not hurt. They’re a couple of likable old bastards. They don’t
smell
too good sometimes, but they’re good-natured old farts. I’d hate to see anything happen to them.”

“I’ll look in on them,” Raphael promised, starting off down one of the aisles. “Later, Darrel.”

“I’ll be here,” the clerk said wryly, “unless I can figure out a way to get fired.”

Raphael laughed perfunctorily and finished his shopping.

It was curious, he thought, sitting in his car at the stoplight on Boone Avenue. This store was a long way from Peaceful Valley. The only reason Flood would be over here would be to visit him, but he hadn’t seen him that morning. “What the hell is he up to?” Raphael was puzzled.

The light turned green, and he drove on home. Several weeks before, he had picked up a canvas bag of the type used by newspaper boys. It provided an excellent means for carrying groceries up to his apartment since it left both of his hands free for the business of locomotion. At the moment, however, it was neatly rolled and tucked in the cupboard under the sink.

“Damn,” he swore, and got out of the car.

He was halfway across the sidewalk when, on an impulse, he turned and went back, crossed the street, and climbed up onto the sagging porch of Tobe and Sam’s house.

He knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked again and listened. There was no sound from inside.

“Hey, Tobe?” he called, his face close to the door.

There was still no sound.

He tried the door. It was unlocked, and he opened it an inch or two. Their yellow dog started to bark.

“Tobe?” he called again. “Sam? Are you guys okay?”

The dog kept on barking, and the sour stink of the house exhaled out through the partially open door.

“Tobe? It’s Rafe. You guys all right in there?” He did not want to go into their house uninvited.

“Hi, buddy,” Sam’s wheezy little voice said weakly from inside. “Come on in an’ have a drink.”

The dog kept on barking.

Raphael steeled himself and shoved the door open.

The yellow dog stood and barked at him, his tail wagging.

“Shut up, Rudy,” Raphael told the dog.

The dog barked a couple more times dispiritedly, came over to sniff Raphael’s leg, and then padded on into the dining room, his nails clicking on the linoleum.

Sam sat at the table, a half-full bottle of wine in front of him. He looked up, smiling blearily. “Hi, buddy,” he said in his wispy voice.

Tobe lay on the floor, his wiry little body twisted grotesquely. His mouth was agape, and his eyes, half-open, were glazed. A piece of grayish lint was stuck to one of his eyeballs, and he did not move. He had fouled himself, and a filthy brown puddle had oozed through his pants and dried on the floor under his scrawny haunches. The stink was overpowering.

“All right, Sam,” Raphael said disgustedly. “What happened?”

“Hi, buddy,” Sam said happily.

“Never mind the ‘hi, buddy’ crap. What’s the matter with Tobe?”

Sam slowly moved his head to look at the man lying on the floor. He took a long drink.

“Come on, Sam,” Raphael insisted. “What happened to Tobe?”

“Poor old Tobe,” Sam said, shaking his head. “He had the fits. You wanna drink, buddy?” He offered the bottle.

“No, I don’t want a goddamned drink. How long has he been like this?”

“Two—maybe three days. I dunno. I forget.”

“Jesus Christ! You said he had fits. What kind of fits?”

“He took to jerkin’ an’ twitchin’. Then he fell down an’ started bangin’ his head on the floor. Then he kinda stiffened up a little, an’ then he went all limp, kinda. That’s when he shit his pants like that. You sure you don’t want a drink, buddy?” He held up the bottle and squinted at it. “I could get you a glass, if you like.”

Raphael took a deep breath. “No thanks, Sam,” he said in a gender tone. “Not right now.” He braced himself, reached out, and touched Tobe gently with the tip of his crutch. The body seemed soft, yielding.

He pushed a little harder, and Tobe moved loosely on the floor. The yellow dog growled at him from under the table. “Have you got a telephone, Sam?” Raphael asked. “Why would we want a phone, buddy? Ain’t nobody gonna call us.”

“Just sit tight,” Raphael said, and then realized how stupid a thing that was to say. He turned and crutched on out.

Flood’s car was parked behind his own, and Flood was coming back down the outside stairway, his face puzzled.

“Damon,” Raphael called, “I need some help.”

“What’s up?” Flood came quickly across to the shabby little house.

“I think there’s a dead man in here.”

“No shit? Who is he?” Hood’s eyes narrowed, and his face grew wary.

“Tobe Benson,” Raphael told him. “He lives here.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t get involved.”

“Flood, this isn’t a dead dog we’re talking about.”

Flood looked at him. “All right, Raphael,” he said finally. “It’s going to be a pain in the ass, but if it’s that damned important, let’s see what we can do.” He came on into the house. “Jesus! What the hell is that stink?”

“They drink. Old men who drink don’t smell very good.” Raphael stumped on into the dining room, and the yellow dog started to bark again.

“Rudy,” Raphael snapped, “will you shut your goddamn mouth and lay down?”

The dog glowered at him and slunk back under the table.

“Hi, buddy,” Sam said.

Flood looked quickly at Raphael.

“He’s bombed,” Raphael explained. “Ignore him.” He pointed at Tobe with his crutch. “What do you think? Is he dead?” “Christ, how the hell should I know?”

“See if he’s breathing. I couldn’t get down there to find out.”

Flood’s face was a pale green. “I wouldn’t do this for just anybody.” He knelt beside Tobe and put a hesitant hand on the little man’s chest. “He’s still warm, and I think I’m getting a beat. It looks like he’s still alive—if you want to call it that. What the hell zonked him out like this?”

“Booze. They drink a lot.”

“Hi, buddy,” Sam said to Flood. “You wanna drink?”

“How long’s he been down like this?” Flood asked.

“Two or three days, I guess. It’s a little hard to get specifics out of Sam there. He doesn’t know Tuesday from Saturday.”

“Really,” Flood agreed. “What do you think?”

“Here’s my keys.” Raphael dug them out of his pocket. “They don’t have a phone. Why don’t you go over to my place and get hold of the police?”

“Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?”

“Let the police handle that. It’ll save time in the long run.” “I’ll be right back.”

Five minutes later the house was filled with the official stomping of two policemen. “What made you think there might be a problem here, Mr. Taylor?” the one who had come to Mousy Mary’s house the day before asked Raphael.

“I was at the grocery store over on Boone,” Raphael replied. “One of the clerks there—Darrel—said that he hadn’t seen them in several days. I came by to see if they were okay.”

“Not many people would have taken the trouble.”

“Mr. Taylor has a unique concern for his fellow man,” Flood said dryly from the rickety chair across from Sam. “Will the old man live?”

The policeman shrugged. “Hard to say. He’s not in very good shape—neither one of them is, really. We’re going to send them both to the hospital and then out to the detoxification center—see if they can’t dry them out a little.”

“You don’t sound very optimistic.”

“They’re both in their sixties, Mr. Hood, and they’ve been drunk for ten or fifteen years now. Their brains are pickled, and their livers are shot. I don’t see too much to hope for, do you? Is there somebody who can take care of the dog?”

“The backyard’s fenced,” Raphael told him. “Put him out there. I’ll see to it that he gets fed.”

“I don’t think there’s any need for you gentlemen to hang around,” the officer decided. “We know these two. We know what has to be done.”

“It’s happened before?” Flood asked.

“They haven’t been any problem since we took the gun away from them.”

“The gun?” Raphael was startled.

The policeman laughed shortly. “They got all boozed up one night here four, maybe five years back. The fat one there shot the little one in the belly with a twenty-two.”

“Sam?”
Raphael exclaimed. “Sam wouldn’t hurt anybody—least of all Tobe. He loves the little old guy.”

“He had a pretty good head of steam that night.”

“What happened?”

“The little one wouldn’t press charges. Claimed it was an accident. All we could do was take the gun away.” He looked at Raphael. “I’m glad you came by when you did, Mr. Taylor. It’s messy if somebody dies in a situation like this. There are always questions and not too many answers. Thanks.”

Later, on the roof, as they watched the ambulance carry off the two old men, Flood started laughing.

“What’s so funny now?” Raphael demanded.

“It just goes to prove what I said last night, Gabriel. Your two old drunks had a big shoot-out. God only knows what else is happening on this block.”

As always when Flood made that strange slip, Raphael felt a peculiar chill in the pit of his stomach. He knew that Flood was not even aware of the fact that he had used that name. He also knew that the name had a much deeper significance. He somehow felt that if he could only find out exactly who this mysterious Gabriel was, he would have the key to Flood’s entire personality.

“Reality, Angel, reality,” Flood went on. “Reality is infinitely more interesting than fantasy. Look at the real world. Look at the real people. Come down from Zion. Fold your wings and walk among us. I’ll show you a world your wildest imaginings could never approach.” And he threw back his head and laughed. But the laugh sounded hollow somehow and savagely mocking.

i

Toward the end of May the weather broke, and there were five or six days of sunshine. Raphael moved outside to luxuriate in the warmth, coming in off his rooftop only to eat and sleep or to go to work.

Quite early one morning he saw Crazy Charlie coming furtively out of the house next door. Charlie always tried to attend to those things that required him to leave the safety of his apartment early in the day when there were few people on the streets and in the stores. He avoided contact with people as much as possible, even crossing the street when he saw someone coming up the sidewalk toward him in order to make chance meetings or the possibility of conversation impossible.

This morning, however, Flood was waiting for him. The small red car came down the street a moment or so after Charlie emerged, pulled into its usual parking place behind Raphael’s car, and Flood bounded out. Without any preliminary word, he came around the back of his car and placed himself on the sidewalk directly in front of Crazy Charlie. “ ‘Morning, friend,” he said with a breezy cheerfulness.

Charlie mumbled something, his head down, and tried to cringe back off the sidewalk onto the grass.

“I wonder if you could give me some information,” Floodpressed. “I seem to be lost. Could you tell me how to get back to Interstate 90?”

Charlie pointed south mutely.

“I go
that
way?” Flood assumed an expression of enormous perplexity. “Man, I’m completely turned around. I could have sworn that I had to go
that
way.” He pointed north.

Charlie shook his head and gave more specific directions in a nasal, almost trembling voice.

“Man,” Flood said with an ingenuousness so obviously faked that Raphael, watching from his rooftop, cringed. “I sure do want to thank you.” Without warning, he reached out, grabbed Charlie’s hand, and shook it vigorously.

Charlie looked as if he were ready to faint. Having someone talk to him was bad enough, but to have someone actually
touch
him—

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Flood went on in the same breezy tone, releasing Charlie’s hand.

Charlie looked around, confused. In all probability he had not paid any attention to the weather for several years now. “Yes,” he said in the same hesitant voice, “it seems pretty … nice.”

“All that rain was starting to destroy me.”

Charlie had begun sidling away, moving up the sidewalk away from Flood’s car, but Flood kept talking, walking along beside him.

Raphael watched the two of them move slowly up toward the end of the block, Flood talking animatedly and Charlie appearing to grow less apprehensive as they went. By the time they reached the corner they were talking and laughing together like old friends.

They stood on the comer for almost ten minutes in the slanting, golden light of the early-morning sun, and when they parted, they shook hands again. Charlie seemed almost wistful as he looked at Flood’s retreating back, then his shoulders slumped again into their usual slouch, and he crossed the street to pursue his early-morning errand.

Flood was buoyant when he came up the stairs and onto the roof. “How ‘bout that?” he crowed. “Were you watching?” “Of course. Wasn’t I supposed to be?”

Flood ignored that. “I’ve been laying for that silly bastard for four days now. I knew he’d have to come out sooner or later.” “Why don’t you just leave him alone?”

“Don’t be ungrateful. Look at all the sleep I’ve missed for your benefit.” “Mine?”

“Of course.
You’re
the one who’s so damned interested in him. His name’s Henry, not Charlie, and he gets a disability pension because he’s nervous—that’s the way he put it—I get nervous.’ He’s supposed to be in therapy of some kind, but he doesn’t go. He has seven cats—he told me their names, but I forget what they are—and he used to have a little dog named Rags, but Rags ran away. Sometimes, late at night when everybody’s asleep, he goes out and looks for Rags. He calls him—very softly so that he won’t wake anybody up—but Rags never comes. Henry misses him terribly. He didn’t tell me the name of the dragon who sleeps on the floor in front of that cupboard—as a matter of fact, we didn’t get into the question of the dragon at all.”