The Losers Read Free Page A

together, and I don’t know diddly about Edwards. I know that you’re white, but I haven’t got any idea at all about what color he is.”
    “Is that important?” Raphael said it carefully.
    Flood’s face suddenly broke into a broad grin. “Gotcha!” he said gleefully. “God, I love to do that to people. Actually, it doesn’t mean jack-shit to me one way or another, but it sure as hell does to old J.D. Sooner or later somebody from back home is going to come by, and if words gets back to the old pirate that his son has a nigger roommate—his word, not mine—thee shit will hit thee fan. Old J.D.’s prejudiced against races that have been extinct for thousands of years—like the Hittites—or the Wends.”
    “It won’t work out then, Damon,” Raphael told him with a perfectly straight face. “My mother’s Canadian.”
    “That’s all right, Raphael. I’m liberal. We’ll let you come in through the back door. Have Canadians got rhythm? Do you have overpowering cravings for northern-fried moose?”
    Raphael laughed. The young man from the east was outrageous. There was still something slightly out of tune though. Raphael was quite sure that he reminded Flood of someone else. Flood had seemed about to mention it a couple of times, but had apparently decided against it. “All right,” he decided. “If you think we can get away with it, we’ll try it.”
    “Good enough. We’ll drop the Rafe and Jake bit so we don’t sound like a hillbilly band, and we’ll use Damon and Raphael—unless you’d like to change your name to Pythias?”
    “No, I don’t think so. It sounds a little urinary.”
    Flood laughed. “It does at that, doesn’t it? Have you got any more bags? Or do you travel light?”
    “I’ve got a whole backseat full.”
    “Let’s go get them then. Get you settled in.”
    They clattered downstairs, brought up the rest of Raphael’s luggage, and then went to the commons for dinner.
    Damon Flood talked almost continuously through the meal, his rich voice compelling, almost hypnotic. He saw nearly everything, and his sardonic wit made it all wryly humorous.
    “And this,” he said, almost with a sneer as they walked back in the luminous twilight toward their dormitory, “is the ‘most intelligent group of undergraduates in the country’?” He quoted from a recent magazine article about the college. “It looks more like a hippie convention—or a soirée in a hobo jungle.”
    “Appearances can be deceiving.”
    “Indeed they can, Raphael, Angel of Light”—Flood laughed—“but appearance is the shadow at least of reality, don’t you think?”
    Raphael shrugged. “We’re more casual out here on the coast.”
    “Granted, but wouldn’t you say that the fact that a young lady doesn’t wear shoes to dinner says a great deal about her character?”
    “Where’s your home?” Raphael asked as they started up the stairs.
    “Grosse Pointe,” Flood said dryly, “the flower on the weed of Detroit.”
    “What are you doing way out here?” Raphael opened the door to their room.
    “Seeking my fortune,” Flood said, flinging himself down on his bed. Then he laughed. “Actually, I’m putting as much distance as possible between my father and me. The old bastard can’t stand the sight of me. The rest of the family wanted me to go to Princeton, but I preferred to avoid the continuous surveillance of all those cousins. A very large family, the Floods, and I have the distinction of being its major preoccupation. All those dumpy female cousins literally slather at the idea of being able to report my indiscretions back to old J.D. himself.”
    Raphael began to unpack.
    “J.D.’s the family patriarch,” Flood went on. “The whole damned bunch genuflects in his direction five times a day—except me, of course. I suppose I’ve never really forgiven him for tacking that ‘Junior’ on me, so I set out to be as unlike him as I could. He looks on that as a personal insult, so we