“The witness advised us that the subject has already jumped.” “I’ll check it out.”
Raphael shook his head. The Monroe Street Bridge was the most surely lethal place in town. It was not that it was so high, for it was not. A leap into the water from that height would prove fatal only if the jumper suffered from extremely bad luck. The bridge, however, overlooked the foot of the falls of the Spokane River. The riverbed broke there, and the water hurtled savagely down a polished basalt chute. It was not a straight drop where the force of the water is broken by the impact at the bottom, but rather was a steeply angled and twisting descent where the water picked up terrific speed and built up seething, tearing currents that swirled with ripping force around the jumble of house-sized boulders in the pool at the bottom of the falls. To jump there quite frequently meant not only death, but total obliteration as well. Bodies often were not found for a year or more, and sometimes not at all.
“District One,” the scanner said.
“One.”
“Are you at the scene?”
“Right. There are several citizens here who state that the subject definitely did go over the side.” “Any possibility of an ID?”
“There was a jacket draped over the rail. One of the citizens states that the subject took it off before he jumped. Wait one. I’ll look through it.” There was a silence while the red lights of the scanner tracked endlessly, searching for a voice. “This is District One. There’s a card in this jacket—identifies the subject as Henry P. Kingsford, 1926 West Dalton. He appears to be an outpatient from Eastern State Hospital.”
Numbly, Raphael got up and went over to the scanner. He
switched it off, then went slowly to the railing and looked across at the rightly drawn shades in Crazy Charlie’s apartment—the shades that had been drawn ever since that day when Flood had so savagely turned on the strange little man. Raphael turned and went into his apartment, feeling a pang of something almost akin to personal grief. Of all the losers, he had been watching Crazy Charlie the longest, and his apparent suicide left a sudden gaping vacancy in Raphael’s conception of the street upon which he lived.
Finally, after several minutes, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the police.
“Crime Check,” the voice came back.
“I live on the 1900 block of West Dalton,” Raphael said. “I’ve got a police scanner.”
“Yes, sir?” The voice was neutral.
“I just heard a report that one of my neighbors, Mr. Henry Kingsford, has committed suicide.”
“We’re not really allowed to discuss things like that over the phone, sir.”
“I’m not asking you to discuss it,” Raphael said. “All I wanted to do was to tell you that Mr. Kingsford was a recluse and that he’s got six or eight cats in his apartment.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t you think it might be a good idea to notify the Humane Society?” Raphael said, trying to control his temper.
“I’m not sure we’re authorized to do that, sir. Maybe a neighbor—or a friend—”
“The man’s a recluse—a crazy. He doesn’t have any friends, and none of the neighbors here even know he exists.”
“How about you, sir? Maybe you could—”
“I’m a cripple,” Raphael said bluntly. “It’s all I can do to take care of myself. Tell you what—either you can get hold of the Humane Society in the next day or so, or you can wait for a couple of weeks and then get hold of the health department. It doesn’t really matter to me which.” He slammed down the phone.
The apartment was suddenly stifling, and the thought of looking
at the street anymore was unbearable. He felt an insistent nagging compulsion to do something. To simply sit passively listening to the scanner was no longer possible. Although he had used the word “cripple” in describing himself to the officer he’d just talked with, he realized that it was probably no longer true. Somehow, somewhere during the last summer, he had without realizing it crossed that line Quillian had told him about. He was no longer a cripple, but rather was simply a man who happened to have only one leg. “All right,” he said, facing it squarely. “That takes care of that then. Now what?”
A dozen ideas occurred to him at once, but the most important was to get out, to go someplace, do something. He pulled on a light jacket because the evenings were cool and he was not sure just how long he would be out. Then he crutched smoothly out of the apartment and across the rooftop, conscious of the grace and flow of his long, one-legged stride. The stairs had become simplicity itself, and even the once-awkward shuffle into the front seat of his car was a smooth, continuous motion now.
He drove then, aimlessly, with no goal or purpose in mind, simply looking at the city in which he had lived for more than half a year but had never considered home.
The Spokane River passes east to west through the center of town and then swings north on its way to meet the Columbia. The gorge of the Spokane on its northward course ends the city in that quarter. The streets do not dwindle or the houses grow farther apart. Everything is very paved and neat, landscaped and mowed right to the edge of that single, abrupt gash that cuts off the city like the stroke of a surgeon’s knife. Raphael had never seen a place where the transition from city to woods was so instantaneous.
The rock face of the gorge on the far side of the river was a brownish black, curiously crumbled looking because of the square fracture lines of the volcanic basalt that formed the elemental foundation of the entire region.
And then, of course, he looked at the river, and that was a mistake, really. It seemed more like a mountain stream than some docile, slow-moving urban river. The water thundered and ripped at its twisted rock bed. Somewhere down there Crazy Charlie, broken and dead, turned and rolled in the tearing current, his shaved head white—almost luminous—in the dark water. The dragon on his floor would no longer threaten him, and the voices were now forever silent.
Raphael turned away from the river and drove back through the sunny early-autumn afternoon toward town.
Sadie the Sitter was dead, old Sam was dying, and now Crazy Charlie had killed himself. Bennie the Bicycler rode no more, and Willie the Walker had not strode by since early summer. Chicken Coop Annie and Freddie the Fruit had moved away, playing that game of musical houses that seemed part of the endless life of Welfare City, where moving from shabby rented house to shabby rented house was the normal thing to do. Everything was temporary; everything was transitory; nothing about their lives had any permanence. They were almost all gone now, and his street had been depopulated as if a plague had run through it. There were others living in some of those houses now, probably also losers, but they were strangers, and he did not want to know them.
Raphael suddenly realized even more sharply that he was absolutely alone. There was no one to whom he could talk. There were not even familiar faces around him. The victory that he had only just realized had been won sometime during the summer was meaningless. The fact that he was no longer a cripple but rather was a one-legged man was a fact that interested not one single living soul in the entire town.
It was at that point that he found himself parked in front of the apartment house where Denise lived. He could not be sure how deep the break between them was, but she was the only one in the whole sorry town who might possibly still be his friend. He got out of his car, went up the steps to the front of the building, and rang the bell over her mailbox.
“Who’s there?” Her voice sounded tinny coming out of the small speaker.
“It’s me—Rafe. I have to talk with you.”
There was a momentary pause, and Raphael felt himself shrivel inside as he considered the possibility of refusal—some easy, offhand excuse. But she said, “All right,” and the latch on the door clicked.
She was waiting warily at the door to her apartment. Mutely, she stood to one side and let him in.
“I think it’s time we got this squared away,” he said as so
on as he was inside, knowing that if they started with vague pleasantries, the whole issue would slide away and they would never really come to grips with it.
“There’s no problem, really.” Her voice had that injured brightness about it with which people attempt to conceal a deep hurt.
“Yes, there is. We know each other too well to start lying to each other at this point.”
“Really, Rafe—” she started, but then she glanced up and saw that he was looking very intently at her, and she faltered, “All right,” she said then, “let’s go into the kitchen, and I’ll make some coffee.”
They went in, she put the pot on, and they sat down.
“I made a fool of myself that night,” she told him, “and I’m sorry. I was stupid and thoughtless. My silly little jealousy forced you to tell me something no man ought to be forced to admit.”
“Have you got that out of your system now?”
She looked at him sharply.
“Why do you continually beat yourself over the head? There’s no need for it. We had a misunderstanding—that’s all. It’s no big thing. We were both embarrassed by it, but nobody dies from embarrassment, and it’s not important enough to make the two of us spend the rest of our lives not talking to each other, is it?”
“I wanted to speak,” she objected, “but you wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Okay. I’m looking at you right now—right straight at you. Speak, Denise, speak.”
“Woof-woof,” she said flatly. And then she smiled, and everything was suddenly all right.
And then the words that had been dammed up in those weeks of silence came pouring out. They talked until very late, their hands frequently touching across the table.
About eleven she reached across the table and took his hand. “Stay with me tonight,” she said simply.
“All right.” He didn’t even hesitate.
And so they got up and turned out the lights and went to bed.
Raphael woke early the next morning, coming from sleep into wakefulness without moving. Denise lay quietly beside him, her arm across his chest and her face burrowed into her pillow. Her skin was pale and very soft, and she smelled faintly of wildflowers.
In the close and friendly darkness of the night before, they had lain very close together and had talked drowsily until long after midnight. There had been no hint of sexuality in their contact, merely comfort and the sense of being together. They had said things to each other in the darkness that would have been impossible to say in the light, and Raphael was content.
In the steely, dim light of dawn filtering through the curtains, he was surprised to discover how content he really was. The closeness, the simple thing of holding each other, the affection, had produced in him an aftermath of feeling not significantly unlike that which he remembered from times before his accident when the other had been involved also. Idly, he wondered how much of the afterglow of sex was related to sex itself and how much was merely this warm euphoria of closeness—and naturally, in all honesty, he realized that he was to some degree rationalizing away his incapacity; but he felt much too good to worry about it all that much.
She stirred in her sleep and nestled closer to him. Then, startled, she awoke. “Oh, my goodness,” she said, blushing furiously and covering herself quickly with the blanket.
“ ‘Oh, my goodness’?”
“Don’t look at me.” She blushed even more. “What?”
“Don’t look at me.”
He laughed and lay looking at the ceiling.
“Rafe,” she said finally, “you don’t think I’m terrible or cheap or anything because of this, do you?” “Of course not. Are you sorry?”
In answer she reached out and pulled him to her, making small, contented noises into his shoulder. Her tiny, misshapen hand gently caressed his neck. “Oh dear,” she said after a moment.
“What?”
“We have a problem.” “What’s that?”
“Do you realize that we’re both stark naked?” “So?”
“So who gets up first?” He laughed. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s like a cold shower. After the initial jolt it’s not so bad.”
“Oh, no. You’re not going to catch me parading around in the altogether. My whole body would go into shock. I’d absolutely die. I’d blush myself to death right on the spot.”
“I think you’re exaggerating.”
“Come on, Rafe,” she pleaded. “We have to get up. I have to be at work.”
“All right,” he relented. “I’ll turn over and cover my head with a pillow. Would that be okay?” “You won’t peek?” “Would I do that?”
“How should I know what you’d do? If you peek, I’ll die.”
“You won’t die, but I won’t peek.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head. He felt the bed quiver as she slipped out and then heard the quick scurrying as she gathered up her clothes and dashed into the bathroom.
Later, over breakfast, she would not look at him.
“Hey,” he said finally.
“What?” She still did not look at him.
“I’m here.” “I know that.”
He reached across the table and lifted her chin with his hand. “If you don’t look at me, I’ll tell everybody at work that we slept together last night.”
“You wouldn’t’”
“Oh yes, I would.” And then he laughed.
“You’re not a nice person,” she accused, and then she also laughed, and everything was all right again.
Before they left for work, he kissed her, and she sighed deeply. “I love you, Rafe,” she said. “It’s stupid and useless and probably a little grotesque, but I love you anyway.”
“And I love you, Denise, and that’s even stupider and probably a whole lot more grotesque, but that’s the way it is.”
“We’ll work it out.” She squeezed his hand. “What we feel about each other is our business, right?”
“Right,” he agreed, kissing her again. And then they opened the door and went out together into the hallway and down the stairs and on out into the bright morning sunlight.
Raphael finished work about noon, turned off his machine, and went over to the desk where Denise was intent on some papers. “Hey you.”
“What, hey?” She looked up at him. Her eyes seemed to sparkle, and her face glowed. He was startled to realize how pretty she was, and wondered why he had never seen it before.
“I’m going to take off now. I’ll give you a call when you get off work.”
“Do.” She smiled at him.
“Maybe we can go to dinner or something.”
“Are you asking?”
“All right, I’m asking.”
“Let me check my appointment schedule—see if I can fit you in.”
“Funny.”
Billy, a retarded boy, was standing nearby, concentrating very hard on some clothing he was unfolding and putting on hangers. He looked up at them. “Rafe,” he said, his thick tongue slurring the word.
“Yes, Billy?”
“You an’ Denise ain’t mad at each other no more, huh?” “No, Billy,” Raphael said gently. “We’re not mad at each other anymore.”
“I’m real glad. I din’t like it when you was mad at each other. It made me real sad.”
“It made us sad, too, Billy. That’s why we decided not to be mad anymore.”
“I’m real glad,” Billy said again. “Please don’t be mad at each other no more.”
“We won’t, Billy,” Raphael promised.
Denise reached out and squeezed his hand.
Raphael went outside, crossed the street to the graveled parking lot, and opened his car doors to let the blast-furnace heat out. After a few minutes he climbed in, opened the front windows, and started the car.
He drove down to Sprague, went west to Lincoln, and then over to Main. He followed Main along behind the Chamber
of Commerce and the Masonic Temple and then down the hill into Peaceful Valley. If he could catch Flood before he went over to the house on Dalton, before, by his arrival and his presence, he committed himself to another of Heintzie’s “last and final wars,” he might be able to talk him out of the ultimate idiocy.
But Flood was gone. The shabby house where he had a second-floor apartment sagged on its patch of sun-destroyed grass, its paint peeling and its cracked windows patched with cardboard and masking tape, and Flood’s red sports car was nowhere in sight.
The little red car was not parked in front of the house where Heck’s Angels lived either, and Raphael wondered if perhaps Flood had perceived on his own how truly stupid the whole affair was and had found other diversions to fill his day.
Raphael parked his car and went up to his apartment. He bathed and shaved and put on clean clothes. He set the scanner in the window and went out onto the rooftop.
“District One,” the scanner said.
“One.”
“We have a report of a subject sleeping in a Dumpster in the alley behind the Saint Cloud Hotel.” “I’ll drop by and wake him up.”
Raphael looked down at his street. It seemed somehow alien now. The familiar faces were all gone, and he realized that there was no longer any real reason to stay. For the first time since he had come here, he began to think about moving.
“This is District One,” the scanner said. “This subject in the Dumpster is DOA. Gunshot wound to the head.”
Raphael felt suddenly very cold. He had heard about it. Everyone hears stories about gangsters and the like. The Mafia is as much a preoccupation of Americans as are cowboys and Indians. Someone had once told him that young men of Sicilian background who aspire to membership in the family test their nerve in this precise manner. Nobody really investigates the death of a wino in an alley. It is a safe way for a young hoodlum to get his first killing behind him so that his nerve won’t falter when the real shooting starts. Almost without realizing what he was doing, he went over to the window and turned off the scanner. He did not want to hear any more, and he did not want to think about it. He returned to his chair and sat in silence, looking down at the shabby street.
The Losers Page 26