“Consonantize?”
“Poetic license-number forty-seven eighteen. Anyhow, poor old bumbling Bob nailed a paperboy on his morning route this A.M., and then he made his getaway-or at least he thought so. But the fuzz showed the rapee a bunch of mug shots, and the kid fingered Bob. About two this afternoon three squad cars came roaring down the hill into Peaceful Valley. Hey, babee, that’s like throwing a brick into a hornet’s nest. You absolutely wouldn’t believe what happens in Peaceful Valley when the pigs come down there in force. It looked like an impromptu track meet. There were people running every which way. Two guys came running out of Polly the Punchboard’s house stark-ass naked and bailed into the river. Last I saw of them they were being swept around the bend. Guys I’d never even seen before came out of some of those houses. It looked like a convention of jackrabbits there for a while. Poor old Bob tried to run, too, but he’s a little too old and a little too fat, so the cops caught up with him about fifty yards up the side hill. He tried to fight, and they literally kicked the shit out of him-I mean, they flat stomped a mud puddle in his ass right there on the spot. You’ve got some real unfriendly cops in this town.”
“Was he hurt?” Raphael asked, not knowing whether to believe Flood or not. In his present mood Flood could expand and embellish a simple incident into an extended narrative that would be related to the truth only by implication.
“Hard to say. He looked pretty comfortable-lying there.”
“Damon,” Raphael said irritably, “I don’t think I believe one single word of all this.”
“Would I lie to you?”
“Yes, I think you would just to see if I’d swallow all this crap.”
“May the motor scooter of the Almighty run over my bare toes if it didn’t happen just the way I described it.”
“I think you’re missing the whole point, Damon. I’m just not too entertained by this unsympathetic attitude of yours.”
“Unsympathetic? Me? What about you, Raphael? What’s your excuse for your attitude?”
“What about my attitude?”
“You’re playing God. You sit in splendid isolation on top of your grubby little Mount Zion here, using your injury as an excuse not to come down among the real people. You’ve created a little fantasy world instead and peopled it with these losers of yours-‘and whatsoever the God Raphael called them, so were they named.’ But let me tell you something, Archangel, old buddy. You can sit brooding on your lonely mountaintop here with those seraphic wings outspread to shade these rickety streets, but your cute little fantasy names have no relationship whatsoever to these people and who they really are. Those are real people down there with real emotions and real problems, and you did not create them.”
“I’ve never said I did.” Raphael was startled by the sudden intensity of Flood’s words.
Flood stood up and began pacing in the small apartment, his eyes burning. “Okay, so you had a little accident-you’ve got a certain disability. Big goddamn deal! What if it had been your eyes, baby? Think about that.”
Raphael flinched, the sudden horrid picture of a world of total darkness coming over him so palpably that he could almost feel the anguish of it.
“You’ve created this little dreamworld of yours so you can hide.” Flood jabbed at him. “You want to sit up here where it’s safe, wallowing in self-pity and dreaming away the rest of your life. Well, I’ve got a flash for you, Rafe, baby. Jake Flood is here, and he’s goddamned if he’s going to let you just vegetate your life away like this-doped out on melancholy musings, drunk on mournful little fantasies. If you’re so damned interested in these shitty little people, get involved, for Chrissake. Go out and meet them. Find out who they really are.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business, Flood?” Raphael was getting angry. “Why don’t we just forget all this. Just go away and leave me alone. Go back to Portland-go back to Grosse Pointe go to hell for all I care. Just get off my back.”
Flood stopped, turned sharply, and stared at Raphael. Then he grinned broadly. “Gotcha!” he said exultantly. “By God, you’re alive after all! For a while there I was starting to have some doubts. You’re going to make it after all, baby. It may be in spite of yourself, but you’re going to make it. If you can get mad, at least it proves you’re not dead.”
“Oh, go to hell!”
“Anyplace, baby, anyplace.” Flood laughed. “I finally got a rise out of you. Have you got any idea how I’ve been busting my ass to do just that?”
“Flood,” Raphael said, feeling suddenly sheepish, “don’t play games with me. Exactly what are you up to now?”
“What’s necessary, Raphael, what’s necessary. I’ll set fire to your crutches if I have to, but I’ll be a son of a bitch if I’m going to sit back and let you lie down and play dead.”
It sounded very convincing, but the look in Flood’s eyes was too familiar. Raphael remembered it, and it stirred doubts. It was all very complicated. Flood almost never did things for the apparent or obvious reason; his motives were usually obscure. It would be easy-even flattering–to accept this protestation of hardheaded friendship at face value, but the agatelike eyes and that faintest shadow of a sardonic smile that flickered at the corners of his mouth made Raphael cautious, uncertain. As always with Flood, he decided, it might be better to wait and see.
vi
The next day when he was coming home from his therapist’s office, Raphael stopped by the grocery store to pick up a few things, and as he usually did, he stopped to talk with the blond clerk. The man had a dry wit Raphael liked and an open, friendly manner that was a relief from the deviousness of Flood or the tart touchiness he sometimes encountered in the people with whom he worked.
“Hey, Rafe,” the clerk said, looking up from the milk case he was filling, “what’s shakin’, baby?”
“Just passin’ through, Darrel.”
“That friend of yours was in a while ago.”
“Damon?”
“Is that his name?” the clerk asked, straightening. “I thought it was Jake.”
“It is. The other is a name he used to use at school.”
“Whatever turns him on, I guess,” Darrel said. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, Rafe, but I’m not too partial to that young man. I think a lesson or two in manners wouldn’t hurt him all that much.”
“His family’s got money. Sometimes he lets that go to his head a little.”
“You might suggest to him that he’s using up his welcome in here pretty fast. If he bad-mouths one of the girls about one more time, he and I are going to tangle assholes-definitively.”
“Was he offensive?”
“That gets pretty close to it. He had one of the girls in tears before he left.”
“I’m sorry, Darrel. I’ll have a talk with him about it.”
“I’d appreciate it, Rafe.” The clerk started 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.