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

Flood leaned out over the railing, looking down into the streets.

"Careful," Raphael warned.

"It's solid enough," Flood said negligently. "I've been playing your game, Angel."

"What game is that?"

"Watching people-examining loserhood in all its elemental purity. You picked the wrong place, Raphael. Come on down to Peaceful Valley. That's the natural and native habitat of the archetypal loser. Did you know that people throw things off the Maple Street Bridge down onto the roofs of the houses down there? It's the only place in the world where it rains beer cans. A couple years back a drunken old woman got her head caved in when somebody chucked a potted plant over the side up there. Can you imagine being geraniumed into eternity? Now that's a real, honest-to-God loser for you."

"You're not serious."

"May the great and eternal flyswatter of God squash me flat right here if I'm not. Who's that?" He pointed down at the street.

Raphael glanced over the rail. "That's Patch."

"Another one of your losers?"

"No, I don't think so. He doesn't look like a loser, and he doesn't act like one. I haven't figured him out yet."

"Gloomy-looking bastard, isn't he? He's got a face that could curdle milk." Flood walked away from the railing as if the sight of Patch were some kind of personal affront. "Anyway," he went on quickly as if trying to recapture his mood, "I've started collecting losers, too. We got a whole 'nother class down in Peaceful Valley. Take Bob the Buggerer, for example. He's been busted four or five times for molesting little boys. One more time and he goes off to the slammer for the rest of his natural life plus about seventy-five years. Every time a kid goes by on a bicycle, he gets that same desperately longing look on his face you see on the old geeks downtown when a wine truck passes. It's just a matter of time until it'll get to be too much for him. And then there's Paul the Pusher. He's got stashes of dope all over the valley down there. The cops shake him down every time they go through just to keep in practice-so he's afraid to keep the stuff in his house. He buries it in tin cans under logs and behind trees up on the hillside. He's worried that somebody's going to find it, so he's always digging it up to make sure it's still there. Every night you can see him scurrying out of his house with a shovel and a panic-stricken look on his face. Freddie the Flasher creeps around exposing himself to little girls. Polly the Punchboard is a raging nymphomaniac. She frequents some of the raunchier taverns and brings home horny drunks by the busload."

Flood's tone was harsh, contemptuous, and his descriptions were a kind of savage parody of Raphael's earlier observations. It was almost as if the silent passage of Patch had somehow set him off, somehow made him so angry that he went beyond the bounds of what he might normally have said. Raphael watched him and listened closely, trying to detect the note of personal ridicule he knew must be there, but Flood was too smooth, too glib, even in his anger, and the flow of his, description moved too fast to be able to pin him down.

It had been private before, a kind of passive observing that hadn't harmed anyone, but he had made the mistake of telling Flood. He should have known that the dark young man with the obsidian eyes would twist it, pervert it for his own amusement. Raphael began to wish that he had kept his mouth shut.

iv
Raphael had been swimming, and he had spent an hour in the weight room at the YMCA. The car made getting around much easier, but it had definitely disrupted his exercise routine. Since Flood had arrived in Spokane, Raphael's life had suddenly become so full that he no longer had time for everything. All in all, though, he preferred it that way. He thought back to those long, empty hours he had spent when he had first arrived in Spokane, and shuddered.

Frankie was waiting for him again when he got home. She stood on the sidewalk wearing a sleeveless blouse. It had been warm for the past week, and Frankie had started to work on her tan. Her arms and shoulders were golden. Her eyes, however, were flashing, and her lips were no longer tremulous. Her raven's-wing eyebrows were drawn down, and she looked very much like a small volcano about to erupt.

Raphael crossed the sidewalk. "Hi, babe." He leered at her. "You wanna go upstairs and fool around?" He had begun to use innuendo and off-color remarks to keep her off balance.

Frankie, however, was not off balance this time. "'Sfacim!" she almost spat at him.

He blinked. He had a sort of an idea what the word meant, and it was not the sort of word he expected from Frankie. Then she said a few other things as well.

"I didn't know you spoke Italian," he said mildly.

"Bastard!"

"Frankie!"

"Get up those goddamn stairs!" She pointed dramatically. This was not the Frankie he knew.

He went around to the side of the building and started up the stairs. He could hear her coming up behind him, bubbling curses like a small, angry teapot.

"What's got you so wound up?" he asked her when they reached the roof.