"David Eddings - Losers, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

Then the young man looked at Raphael as if seeing him for the first time, and something peculiar happened to his face. His eyes widened, and a strange pallor turned his olive complexion slightly green. His eyes narrowed, seeming almost to glitter. It was as if a shock of recognition had passed through him. "You must be Edwards, right?" His expression seemed tight somehow.

"Sorry," Raphael replied. "The name's Taylor."

"I thought you might be my roomie."

"No. I'm two doors up the hall."

"Oh, well"-the stranger shrugged, making a wry face-"there goes my chance to keep the knowledge of my little blunder a secret. Edwards is bound to smell the smoke when he gets here." He rose to his feet and extended his hand. "J. D. Flood," he said by way of introducing himself.

"Rafe Taylor," Raphael responded. They shook hands. "What were you burning, Flood?"

"Some pieces of a packing crate. I've never had a dormitory room with a fireplace before, so I had to try it. Hell, I was even going out to buy a pipe." He raised one eyebrow. "Rafe-is that short for Raphael?"

"Afraid so. It was a romantic notion of my mother's. You wouldn't believe how many school-yard brawls it started."

Flood's face darkened noticeably. "Unreal," he said. That strange, almost shocked expression that had appeared in his eyes when he had first looked at Raphael returned, and there was a distinct tightening in his face. Once again Raphael felt that momentary warning as if something were telling him to be very careful about this glib young man. In that private place within his mind from which he had always watched and made decisions, he began to erect some cautionary defenses. "And what does the J.D. stand for?" he asked, trying to make it sound casual.

"Jacob Damon Flood, Junior," Flood said with distaste.

"Jake?" Raphael suggested.

"Not hardly."

"J.D. then?"

"That's worse. That's what they call my father."

"How about Damon?"

Flood considered that. "Why not? How about a martini?"

"Is it legal? In the dorm, I mean?"

"Who gives a shit? I'm not going to start paying any attention to the rules at this late date."

Raphael shrugged. "Most of my drinking has been limited to beer, but I'll give it a try."

"That's the spirit," Flood said, opening one of his suitcases and taking out a couple of bottles. "I laid in some ice a bit earlier. I make a mean martini-it's one of the few things I've actually learned." He busied himself with a silver shaker. "Any cretin can swill liquor out of a bottle," he went on with a certain brittle extravagance, "but a gentleman boozes it up with class."

Flood's language seemed to shift back and forth between an easy colloquialism Raphael found comfortable and a kind of stilted eastern usage. There was a forced quality about Flood that made him uncomfortable.

They had a couple of drinks, and Raphael feigned enjoyment, although the sharp taste of nearly raw gin was not particularly to his liking. He was not really accustomed to drinking, and Flood's martinis were strong enough to make his ears hot and the tips of his fingers tingle. "Well," he said finally, setting down his glass, "I guess I'd better go get moved in."

"Taylor," Flood said, an odd note in his voice. "I've got a sort of an idea. Is your roommate up the hall an old friend?"

"Never met the man, actually."

"And I've never met Edwards either-obviously. Why don't you room in here?" There was a kind of intensity about the way Flood said it, as if it were far, far more important than the casual nature of the suggestion called for.