The Losers

  “Tobe.”

  “You think you could come over to the place for a minute, Rafe?” Tobe asked, his tone almost pleading. “Old Sam’s took sick, an’ I’m awful worried about him. I don’t know what the hell to do.”

  “How do you mean sick?” Raphael asked, getting out of his car.

  “He’s just layin’ on that couch in the dinin’ room there,” Tobe said. “He can’t get up, an’ he talks funny—like he can’t quite get the words put together right.”

  “Let’s go.” Raphael started across the street.

  “I don’t think it’s nothin’ very serious,” Tobe said hopefully. “Old Sam’s as strong as a horse. He just needs some medicine or somethin’ to get him back on his feet.”

  “You guys drinking again?” Raphael asked, carefully going up the steps onto the porch.

  “Not like before. We cut way back. We don’t even really get drunk no more.”

  The little house was almost as filthy as it had been the first time Raphael had seen it. The yellow dog stood in the center of the living room and barked as Raphael entered.

  “Shut up, Rudy,” Raphael said.

  “Go lay down,” Tobe ordered the dog.

  Rudy gave one last disinterested bark and went back into the dining room.

  Sam lay on the rumpled daybed in the dining room partially covered by a filthy quilt. He recognized Raphael and tried to smile. “Hi, buddy,” he said weakly in his wheezy voice. His left eye was half-closed, and the left corner of his mouth hung down slackly.

  “Hi there, Sam.” Raphael steeled himself against the smell and went to the side of the bed. “How you feeling?”

  “Funny, kinda.” Sam’s words were slurred.

  Raphael reached down and took hold of the old man’s left hand. “Squeeze my hand, Sam.”

  “Sure, buddy.”

  The hand in Raphael’s grasp did not move or even tremble. “How’s that?” Sam asked.

  “That’s fine, Sam.” Raphael gently laid the hand back down.

  “All right?” Sam slurred. “ ‘M I gonna be all right?”

  “Sure, Sam.” Raphael turned and crutched toward the living room, motioning with his head for Tobe to follow.

  “You come back—real soon now, buddy,” Sam said haltingly, and his head fell back on the pillow.

  “Can you figure what’s wrong with ‘im?” Tobe asked anxiously in a low voice.

  “We’d better call an ambulance.”

  “No!” Tobe shook his head. “He don’t want no more hospitals. He told me that when we come outta that detox place after I got sick that time.”

  “This is different.”

  “No,” Tobe said stubbornly. “He said no more hospitals.”

  “Tobe, I think he’s had a stroke. He could die in there if we don’t get him to a hospital. His whole left side’s paralyzed.”

  Tobe stared at him for a moment. “Oh God,” he said. “I was afraid that’s what it was. Poor old Sam. What are we gonna do, Rafe?”

  “We’re going to call an ambulance. Sam’s got to see a doctor right away.”

  “All right, Rafe.” Tobe’s narrow shoulders slumped. “Anything you say. You think he’s gonna die?”

  “I don’t know, Tobe. I’m not a doctor. I’ll go call an ambulance.”

  “Okay, Rafe.” Tobe’s voice was broken. Tears had begun to fill his eyes and spilled over, plowing dirty furrows down his cheeks.

  Raphael went out quickly and crutched across the street to call the ambulance.

  V

  It was early, very early, even before the first faint hint of dawn. Raphael had endured the heat until about two in the morning when the breeze had finally turned cool, and then he had gone to bed. It seemed that he had only slept for a few minutes when he heard the faint, muffled banging on the locked door at the top of the stairs. Groggily, almost sick with the heat and the lack of sleep, he fumbled his way into his pants and reached for his crutches. The leather cuffs that fit around his forearms seemed cold, even clammy, and he shivered slightly at their touch.

  “Who’s there?” he asked when he reached the locked door.

  “It’s me.” Flood’s voice came from the other side. “Unlock the goddamn door.” His words seemed mushy, thick.

  “Damn!” Raphael muttered, slipping the latch. “Come on,

  Damon,” he said, opening the door, “I’m tired, and I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  Flood was bent slightly, and his hands were pressed against his ribs. Raphael could not see his face in the dark stairwell. “Let me in, dammit.” He moved into the light, and Raphael could see the blood on his face.

  “What happened, Damon?”

  “I got hit with a chain,” Flood said thickly, “and kicked in the ribs for good measure. Can I sit down?”

  “Come on in.” Raphael stepped back awkwardly. “Let me have a look at that cut.”

  Flood lurched across the roof to the apartment, went in, and sank carefully on the couch. There was a long, bruised cut on one side of his forehead, just above the eye, and his lip was cut and swollen. The blood had run down the side of his face and dried there. His olive skin was greenish, and little beads of perspiration stood out on his face. His breathing was shallow, and he kept his hands pressed to his ribs on the right side.

  “Let me get some things and clean you up,” Raphael said. He turned and went into the bathroom. He got a washcloth and a small bottle of antiseptic. He juggled them around until he could hold them between his fingers and then crutched back out to the kitchen. “What happened?” he asked from the sink where he ran cold water on the cloth.

  “We went out to visit scenic Hillyard—a very unfriendly part of town. We found the Dragons, and Big Heintz got his last and final war. Jimmy and Marvin are in the hospital, and Heintzie’s bleeding out of his ears. A most unsavory group, the Dragons.” He laughed slightly and winced. “I think I’ve got a couple of cracked ribs.”

  “Why are you running with that bunch anyway?” Raphael demanded, going to the couch and beginning to carefully wash away the caked blood on Flood’s face.

  “For laughs-All that bully-boy bravado is sort of amusing.” Flood’s voice was muted and quavered with shock.

  “How much fun are you having right now?”

  “Not much.” Flood winced and stifled a groan.

  “This is going to hurt.” Raphael carefully started to clean the cut.

  “You’re right.” Flood said it through his clenched teeth.

  “That’s going to need some stitches,” Raphael said, looking at the cut. “You want me to take you to the hospital?”

  “You’re going to have to, Raphael,” Flood said shakily. “I damn near passed out a couple times on my way down here. I dropped Heintzie off up the street, and this was as far as I could make it. The big clown bled all over my front seat. They got him down and kicked him in the head a time or twelve. Jesus!” Flood doubled over, holding his side. “That hurts like hell.”

  “Don’t move around too much. If those ribs are broken, you could puncture a lung.”

  “You’re a little bundle of good news, aren’t you?”

  “Let me throw on a shirt and a shoe.” Raphael went into the bedroom.

  “I need a gun,” Flood said through the door. “The bastards wouldn’t have gotten me if I’d had a gun.”

  “That’s a real sensible approach you’ve got there.” Raphael was lacing up his shoe. “You shoot somebody, and they’ll lock you up forever. Why don’t you just stay away from those half-wits instead?”

  “Nobody’s going to run Jake Flood off. I’ll go where I damn well please and with whoever I damn well please, and the next time some greasy punk comes at me with a chain, I’ll make him eat the damned thing.”

  “You’re getting as bad as they are.” Raphael came out into the living room again.

  “Nobody’s going to run me off. I’ll get a gun and then I’ll make it my personal business to obliterate every one of those bastards.” br />
  “Damon,” Raphael said firmly, “knock off this bullshit about guns. You don’t know anything about them in the first place—and do you actually think you could deliberately pull the trigger on a man? I had to shoot a sick cat once, and I couldn’t even do that.”

  “You’re different from me, Raphael.”

  “Not that different. It takes a special kind of sickness to shoot a fellow human being, and you’re not that sick.”

  Flood coughed and then he groaned slightly. “I’m pretty sick right now.” He was holding his ribs tightly. “All I’ll need is a little practice—a bit of plinking.”

  “Plinking beer cans and shooting people are altogether different, Damon.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of beer cans.” Flood’s eyes were flat.

  It was useless to talk with him. Raphael could see that. Maybe later, when he had calmed down, there might be some hope of getting through to him, but right now he was too angry, too hurt, too affronted and outraged by the beating even to be rational.

  “Can you make it downstairs?” Raphael asked. “There’s no way I can help you.”

  “I’ll make it.” Flood got up from the couch carefully and went back out, still half bent over.

  Raphael followed him. “Get into my car,” he said when they reached the street. “You aren’t going to do those ribs any good trying to fold yourself into that sports car, and I can’t work the clutch anyway.”

  “All right.” Flood slowly got into Raphael’s car. Raphael went around to the other side, got in, and started the motor.

  Flood was still holding his ribs, and he had his head laid back on the seat. “I’ve got to get a gun,” he said.

  vi

  After work on Thursday, Raphael gave Denise a lift home as he usually did when he worked late. Things had been a bit strained between them since her outburst the week before, even though they both tried to behave as if the incident had not happened.

  “Would you like to come up for coffee?” she asked routinely when he pulled up in front of her apartment house. She did not look at him, and her tone indicated that she did not expect him to accept the invitation.

  But because he genuinely liked her and wanted to bury the uneasiness between them, he did not, as usual, start looking for some excuse to beg off. “Sure. For once I don’t have a thing to do when I get home.”

  She looked at him quickly, almost surprised. “Let’s go then, before you have time to change your mind.”

  Her apartment was on the second floor in the back. The building was clean, although the carpeting in the hallway was slightly worm. Denise seemed nervous as she unlocked her door. “The place is a mess,” she apologized as they went in. “I haven’t had time to clean this week.”

  It was cool and dim inside, the drapes drawn against the blast of the summer sun. The air was faintly scented with the light fragrance she wore—a virginal, almost little-girl perfume that he noticed only when he was very close to her. The apartment was small and very clean. Probably every woman alive has declared that “the place is a mess” before escorting someone into her living quarters for the first time. Denise had a surprising number of books, Raphael saw, and they ranged from light fiction to philosophy with a fair smattering of poetry thrown in. She also had a small record player, and he saw a record jacket. Rather strangely, Denise seemed to have a taste for opera—Puccini in this case.

  She led the way into the small kitchen, turned on the light, and pulled a chair out from the table for him. “Sit down. I’ll put the pot on.”

  Raphael eased himself down into the chair and set his crutches against the wall behind him.

  At the sink Denise was nervously rinsing out her coffeepot, holding it in her left hand and leaning far forward to reach the faucet handle with the dwarfed hand. She dropped the pot with a clatter and stepped back quickly to avoid the splash. “Damn. Please don’t watch me. I’m not very good at this. I don’t get much company.”

  He looked away, smiling.

  She put the pot on the stove, came over, and sat down at the table across from him. She carefully turned so that her right arm was hidden. “I’m going to say something. Don’t try to stop me, because this is hard enough to say without being interrupted.”

  “Okay,” he said, still smiling at her.

  “I want to apologize for last week. I was being bitchy and there wasn’t any excuse for it.”

  “Forget it. Everybody’s cranky right now. It’s the heat.”

  “The heat didn’t have anything to do with it. I was jealous—it was just that simple.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Are you blind, Rafe? Of course I was jealous. As soon as you started talking about that girl, I turned bright green all over—I know, there’s never been any reason—I mean, there’s nothing—no hint or anything that gives me any excuse to feel that way, but I did. I can’t help it. It’s the way I am.”

  “Denise—” he started.

  “Don’t patronize me, Raphael. In spite of everything I’m a woman. I’m not experienced at it or anything, but I am a woman, and I do get jealous.”

  “There’s no reason to feel that way. There’s nothing like that involved. There couldn’t be, of course.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Do you think that”—she gestured vaguely at his crutches—“really makes any difference at all? You’re intelligent; you’re gentle; and you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” She stopped quickly. “I’m making a fool of myself again, aren’t I?”

  On the stove the coffeepot started to percolate.

  Raphael took a deep breath. It had been bound to happen, of course—someday. It was one of the risks he had taken when he had decided to try to live as normally as possible. Sooner or later it had been bound to happen. “Denise.” He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

  “Don’t try to smooth it over. It’s your life, after all. I was stupid even to build up any hopes or anything. Look at me. I’m a freak.”

  Her tone was harsh. She was punishing herself. She turned and laid the tiny hand on the table in plain sight. “Like I say, it’s your life. If that girl’s attractive to you, go ahead. It’s none of my business. I just hope we can still be friends after all my stupidity.”

  “Denise, there’s no real point to all of this. In the first place you’re not a freak, and I don’t want to hear any more of that kind of crap. In the second place I’ll be your friend no matter what. You’re stuck with me. You’re one of the few people in the world I care anything about. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still be hiding from the world in that apartment of mine. Before I met you, I’d managed to cut myself off from everybody. I was pretty well down the road toward becoming one of those bitter, reclusive cripples you see once in a while. At least I’ve managed to get past that part of it.”

  “All right, that’s something, I suppose. Now that you realize that a leg more or less doesn’t have anything to do with what you really are, you ought to be able to pick up your life where you left off before the accident. Why don’t you go back to school? I’m sure you don’t plan to spend the rest of your life fixing shoes. You’ll be able to have a career, a wife, a family—the whole bit.”

  “Denise—”

  “No. Let me finish. I knew from the start that you’d get over it—adjust to it—and I knew that when you did, you’d go back to being normal again. I just let myself get carried away, that’s all. I had you all to myself. A girl like me can’t really compete with normal girls—I know that. I’ve never even tried. Do you know that I’ve never had a date?—not once in my whole life? No one has ever taken me to the movies or out to dinner or any of it. Anyhow, I began to think that because we were both—well, special—that somehow, when you got over it all, you’d look around and there I’d be. It was foolish of me, of course. If you really like this girl you met, do something about it. Just please don’t stop being my friend is all.”

  “Denise, I don’t think you understand. I’m not going to go back
to being what you call ‘normal’ again. There was never any question about that part of it. I lost more than just a leg in that accident, so all the things you’ve been talking about just aren’t really relevant.

  I’m interested in that girl for exactly the reasons I said I was—I want to salvage one human life. I don’t want her to become a loser. And I’ll always be your friend—but that’s all. Maybe I should have told you earlier, but it’s not exactly the sort of thing you go around bragging about.”

  She was staring at him, her face stricken and pale. Suddenly she was out of her chair and was cradling his head in her arms, pressing him tightly against her body. “Oh, my poor Angel,” she sobbed.

  Why was it always “Angel”? Why was that always the first word that came to people’s lips? Why that and not something else?

  She held him for a long time, crying, and then she turned and fled into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. He could hear her still crying in there.

  After a few minutes he took his crutches, got up, and went to the closed door. “Denise?”

  “Go away. Just go away, Rafe.”

  He went back into the kitchen, turned off the coffeepot, and then quietly left her apartment.

  When he got home, old Tobe was sitting on the porch of the shabby little house across the street. A half-full wine bottle sat beside him, but he did not seem to be all that drunk. More than anything right now Raphael did not want to be alone. He went across to the little man. “How’s Sam?” he asked.

  “He’s dyin’, Rafe. ?l’ Sam’s dyin’. They found out he’s got the lung cancer, too.”

  “Aw, no. I‘m sorry, Tobe.”

  “They got ‘im in a nursin’ home out in the valley,” Tobe went on quietly. “I went out there an’ seen ‘im today. He told me he don’t want me comin’ to see ‘im no more. We been together for damn near twenty years now, an’ now he says he don’t wanna see me no more.” The little man shook his head.

  “I’m really sorry, Tobe.”

  Tobe looked up, his eyes filled with tears. “How come he done that, Rafe? How come ?l’ Sam said a thing like that to me after all these years?”