The Losers (22 page)

“I ain’t got no money.”

“Here.” Flood took out his wallet and pulled out a bill. “Why don’t you pick up a case?”

“Hey, Darla,” Marvin yelled at the house, “bring out a couple beers, huh?”

Jimmy went to the curb and climbed into Marvin’s car. Flood and Marvin went up on the porch and sat down as he pulled away. One of the girls, a blonde with stringy hair, brought out some beer, and they sat around on the porch, talking.

On the roof Raphael watched. He wished that Flood would get away from them. He felt strangely angered by the easy way Flood had insinuated himself into the rowdy, clannish group up the street. He was startled to suddenly realize that he was actually jealous. In disgust he pushed his chair away from that side of the house, rolled himself across the roof, and sat staring moodily into the alley at the back of the house.

He could still hear their voices, however, laughing and talking. Then they turned the radio on again, and some bawling half-wit began to sing at the top of his lungs about true love in a voice quavering with technically augmented emotion.

Raphael got up and stumped into his apartment. In part it was anger with Flood, but it was more than that, really. Raphael had never been particularly attracted to rock music. In the first place it was normally played at a volume about two decibels below the pain level, and in the second place he found the lyrics and the actual musical quality of the stuff absurdly juvenile—even simpleminded. He was quite convinced that most adolescents listened to it not so much out of preference, but rather so that other adolescents could
see
them listening to it. It was a kind of badge, a signal to other members of the tribe. There was something beyond that, however. Since his accident Raphael had rather carefully kept himself in an emotional vacuum. The extent of his injury had made that necessary. There were thoughts and feelings that he simply could not permit if he were to retain his sanity.

Even inside, however, the blaring music penetrated, and Raphael grew angrier. “The hell with that.” He crutched to the bookcase and ran a finger across the backs of his tape cassettes. It was childish, but he was too irritated to care. “Let’s see how they like
this.”
He pulled out a cassette and clicked it into the player. Then he turned the volume up and opened the doors and windows.

The tape he played was a pyrotechnic work by Orff, an obscure German composer of the early twentieth century. It was quite satisfyingly loud, and the choral lyrics, in Low German and corrupt Latin, were suitably cynical and of course quite beyond the comprehension of the cretins up the street.

Raphael waited in the maze of naked sound.

After several minutes the phone rang.

“Yes?” he answered it.

“Don’t you think that’s a little loud?” Flood asked acidly.

“Not particularly. Sounds just about right to me. It pretty well covers certain undesirable noises in the community.”

“Don’t get shitty. Other people don’t want to listen to that crap.”

“What’s the matter, baby? All your taste in your mouth?” “Grow up. Tum the goddamn thing down.” “Just as soon as you persuade your new friends down there to turn down that garbage they’re listening to.” “We aren’t hurting anybody.” “Neither am I.” “Just turn it down.”

“Stuff it.” Raphael hung up.

The tape played through, and Raphael turned it off and went back outside.

Flood and Marvin were leaning under the hood of the car while Jimmy hovered anxiously behind them. The speakers were gone, and the neighborhood was silent.

“I think that’s got it,” Flood announced, straightening. “Give it a try.”

Jimmy got into the car and started it. “Hey, wow!” he exulted. “Listen to that baby purr!”

There was a racking snarl up the street, and two of the motorcycles came down to the house, bumped up over the curb, and stopped on the lawn. Big Heintz and the skinny one Raphael had named Little Hider dismounted and swaggered over to the car.

“You still fuckin’ around with that pig?” Heintz demanded.

“Hey, Heintz,” Jimmy said proudly, “listen to her now.” He revved his engine.

Heintz cocked one ear toward the car. “Not bad,” he admitted. “What was wrong with it?”

“Timing,” Marvin told him. “Jake here spotted it right off.”

“Jake?” Heintz looked suspiciously at Flood as if the inclusion of someone new into the group without his express permission was a violation of some obscure ethic.

“This is Jake,” Marvin introduced him. “We got Leon’s timing light, and he fixed the bitch in no time at all.”

Jimmy backed his car into the street and roared off, tires squealing.

“You a mechanic?” Heintz asked Flood. “I tinker a little now and then.” Flood shrugged, wiping his scarcely dirty hands on a rag.

“Know anything about bikes?”

Flood shook his head. “I’m not into bikes.”

“Where you from?”

“Detroit.”

“Never been there.”

“I wouldn’t make a special trip just to see it.”

“Let’s have a beer,” Heintz suggested, his manner relaxing a bit.

“You bet, Heintz,” Marvin said quickly. “We got a whole case. Jake bought it.” He hurried up onto the porch and yelled into the house. “Hey, Darla, bring out some beer, huh?”

Heintz draped a meaty arm over Flood’s shoulders as they went up onto the porch. “What brings you way out here, Jake?” he asked in a friendlier tone.

“I’m on the run.” Flood laughed shortly.

Heintz gave him a startled look.

“I don’t get along with my family,” Flood explained. “We all decided it’d be better if I kept about a thousand miles distance between us.”

Heintz laughed harshly. “I
know
that feeling.”

They gathered on the porch, and the women came out of the house. The sun was just going down, and they all sat around talking and drinking beer.

Jimmy roared up and down the street several times, showing off, then parked at the curb in front of the house.

The talk grew louder, more boisterous, and more people arrived or came out of the house. Raphael had never been able to determine exactly how many people actually lived in the big house, since the population seemed to fluctuate from week to week. Their relationships were casual, and it was difficult to determine at any one time just who was sleeping with whom. Sourly he sat on his rooftop and watched Flood insinuate himself into the clan. By the time it had grown dark, he had been totally accepted, and his voice was as rowdy and boisterous as any.

The party continued, growing louder and more raucous, until about eleven-thirty when two police cars arrived and the officers got out to break it up.

Flood came down the street, got into his car, and drove away. He did not even glance up at the rooftop where Raphael sat watching.

ii

The first of June fell on a Wednesday, and Raphael went in to work early. Normally he waited until about ten in order to avoid the rush of traffic, but the first of the month was different.

Heavy traffic still made him jumpy, and he was in a bad humor when he reached the store. Denise was inside, and she unlocked the door to let him in. “You’re early.”

“Mother’s Day,” Raphael replied shortly, crutching into the barnlike building. “I have to get home early to guard the mailbox.”

“I don’t follow that.” She locked the door again.

“The welfare checks come today. It’s also the day when I get a check from my bank in Port Angeles. The kids over there in Welfare City find unwatched mailboxes enormously fascinating on Mother’s Day.”

“Why don’t you move out of that place?” He shrugged. “It’s not that big a thing. You just have to be careful is all.”

“You want some coffee?” “I thought you’d never ask.”

They went back through the dimly lighted store to the cluttered workroom in the rear. It was very quiet in the big building, and shadows filled the comers and crouched behind the endless racks of secondhand clothes that reeked of mothballs and disinfectant.

“Is your friend still in town?” Denise asked as she poured coffee.

“Flood?” Raphael lowered himself into a chair. “Oh yes. The pride of Grosse Pointe still lurks in Fun City.”

“Now that’s exactly what I mean,” she said angrily, bending slightly to bang down his coffee cup with her dwarfed arm.

“That’s what you mean about what? Come on, Denise, it’s too early in the morning to be cryptic. I’m not even awake yet.”

“All those cute little remarks. You never used to talk that way before he came. When is he going to go away and leave us alone?” “Us?”

“You know what I mean.”

Raphael smiled briefly. “Sorry. I’m grumpy today. It’s always a hassle on the day when the checks come. I’m not-looking forward to it, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you just have your bank in Port Angeles transfer the money directly to your bank here?” she asked him, sitting on the edge of the table. “That way you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

Raphael looked up, startled. “I never thought of that.”

“I think you need a keeper, Rafe. You’re a hopeless incompetent when it comes to anything practical. What’s he up to now?”

“Who? Oh, Flood? I’m not sure. He’s playing games. He’s going around introducing himself to all my neighbors. It’s all very obscure and not particularly attractive. He says he’s doing it to ‘bring me out of my shell,’ but I’m sure there’s something ehe behind it as well. Jake Flood is a very devious young man.”

“I hate him.” She said it flatly.

“You’ve never met him.”

“I never met Hider, either—or Attila the Hun.” “You’re a very opinionated person, Denise.” He smiled at her. “He’s going to hurt you, Rafe. I can see it coming, and I hate him for it.”

“No. He’s not going to hurt me. Flood likes to manipulate people, that’s all. I know him, and I know what he’s up to. I can take care of myself.”

“Sure
you can.”

“Little mother of the world,” Raphael said fondly, reaching out and taking her misshapen little hand, “you’re going to rub raw spots on your soul if you don’t stop worrying about all of us.”

“Well, I
care,
dammit!” She did not pull her hand away.

“You’re cold,” he noted, feeling the tiny, gnarled bones in the dwarfed hand.

“It’s always cold. The other one’s fine, see?” She reached out to put her other hand briefly on his wrist.

“Well.” Raphael released her and reached for his crutches. “I guess I’d better get to work.”

She sighed. “Me too, I suppose.”

Raphael rose and crutched smoothly through the dim light to his bench and the pile of battered and broken shoes that awaited him.

He went home about eleven, and Flood was waiting for him. The top was down on the little red sports car, and Flood half lay in the front seat, his feet propped up on the opposite door.

“Loitering, Damon?” Raphael asked, coming up beside the car.

“Just watching your people. They’re all out today, aren’t they?”

“Mother’s Day. They’re waiting for the mailman.”

“Mother’s Day?”

“The day the welfare checks arrive. Big party night tonight. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Right.” Flood climbed out of the car. “Is that why all the kids are out of school?”

“Sure. It’s sort of like Christmas—very exciting. Lots of money and goodies and stuff.”

“Nigger rich,” Flood said as they climbed the stairs.

“That’s one way to put it.”

Later they sat by the railing, watching the street.

“Who’s that kid belong to?” Flood asked, pointing at a longhaired fourteen-year-old with a permanent sneer on his face lounging against the light pole on the corner. “I don’t think I’ve seen him before.”

“He’s a thief. He’s probably looking for the chance to steal somebody’s welfare check.” “You’ve seen him before?” “I sure have. He stole my groceries once.” “He did
what?”
Flood was outraged.

Raphael told him about the incident with the cabdriver and the two bags of groceries.

“Slimy little bastard,” Flood growled. “That he is.”

“Can I use your phone for a minute?” Flood asked, his eyes narrowing.

“You know where it is.”

Flood went inside and then came back in a few minutes, a malicious smile on his dark face. He sat down again and watched the street.

“What are you up to now?” Raphael asked him.

“That’d spoil it. Just keep your eyes open.”

Up the street at the house of Heck’s Angels, Jimmy and Marvin came out and began tossing a Frisbee back and forth, casually walking down toward the corner where the kid stood.

Raphael suddenly had a horrid suspicion. “Look out, kid!” he shouted.

But it was too late. Jimmy and Marvin pounced on the kid and held him, laughingly avoiding his desperate kicks.

“What do you guys want?” the kid yelled at them. “Lemme go.”

Marvin held the kid’s skinny arms, and Jimmy squared off in front of him.

“Help!” the kid screamed. “Somebody help me!” Jimmy hit him in the mouth. “Help!” the kid cried. Jimmy hit him again.

They pounded him for several minutes, and after he fell to the sidewalk, they kicked him in the stomach and face for a while. Then they sauntered across the street and glanced up at the rooftop.

“Good job!” Flood called down to them. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Jake,” Marvin called back up, grinning. They went on back up the street, talking and laughing.

On the corner the kid pulled himself up, using the light pole. His mouth and nose streamed blood, and his eyes were swollen nearly shut. “Dirty bastards!” he sobbed at the backs of the two who had just beaten him.

They turned and started back, and the kid ran, half crouched over, holding his stomach with both hands.

“Quite satisfying, wasn’t it?” Flood said to Raphael, his eyes burning.

“It was disgusting. Sickening.”

“Of course it was, but satisfying all the same. Right? I liked that little touch—the warning you gave him—-just a moment too late. Nicely done, Raphael. Perfect timing. You get all the satisfaction out of watching the little bastard get the shit stomped out of him with no guilt attached to it at all, because you
did
try to warn him.”