Clown Girl - Monica Drake [61]
“A cop and a clown, head to head!” the drunk in the hat yelled, over at the bar. “Haven’t seen that since my dear grandmama double-parked my little perambulator.”
“You got the DTs,” his tiny sliver of a friend said. “You’re seeing things.”
“You mean to tell me you don’t see a cop and a clown shooting the lights out over there?” the first drunk asked. With one pudgy hand he reached for the flat brim of his straw topper.
The sliver nodded. “I mean to say you ain’t got a granny. And I got the DTs too.” He burped.
“Ah, yes. I see…It’s hard to tell where Baloneytown ends and the DTs begin, isn’t it, Silvo?” The man in the hat said, “Nurse Addie, time for rounds. For my fellow patient and me, that is.” He tapped his empty pitcher, then fumbled and knocked his hat off backward.
Jerrod picked out another cue stick and called to the bartender, “These sticks are crooked.”
Mad Addie rolled her eyes. “Show me somethin’ in Baloneytown that ain’t.” The men at the bar ducked low, as though to escape notice.
My third shot, my hip shrieked in a wince of pain. My knee buckled. I hit too far to the left; the cue ball veered around my mark, kissed a solid, and pushed it closer to a side pocket. Rex never would’ve fallen like that. Jerrod lined up his shot to take advantage.
“Merry Christmas,” I said.
He asked, “Where’d you live before this?”
I smiled, leaned into the pool table. “Why’re you asking?”
He shrugged. The two ball went in without scratching. No spin on the cue ball, though, just angled enough to hit the bumper. No leave. His second shot hit too lightly. The ball rolled, gentle and tired, across the green felt. It rested at the edge of the pocket at the foot of the table, where a breath could’ve sunk it. The cue nestled in at the far end.
“What kind of cop shot is that?” I asked.
“Strategy,” he said. “Patience. Now the cue ball’s trapped. You haven’t got a shot.” He chalked up, like chalk would help.
“Ah, strategy. I see. And to think, I underestimated the play.” I twirled my cane like a gunslinger, caught it in front. “Nine ball, far and away,” I said, then took a gamble on a jump shot. The cue jumped a solid, hit the nine to a corner pocket, and stopped fast on impact. No wasted motion. Nice and clean.
Mad Addie scowled and tapped a sign on the wall: NO JUMP SHOTS, NO MASSÉ, NO BALLS ON THE FLOOR. Her finger was skeletal, her voice hoarse. She said, “Jerry, you two better be playing with your own balls.”
Jerrod flushed, embarrassed, nodded a silent OK, ma’am.
I ducked back down to the table. “Time to take a little ride, fifteen and eleven. Across town and downtown.” The cue ball hit the fifteen in the left side pocket, veered right, and hit the eleven in the corner. “And the solids rest easy. Untouched.” Somebody in a far corner cheered. A hand clapped against the bar.
I was a clown hero, beating the cops: Anarchy beats order any day! That was the unspoken message, my gift to the crowd.
“The clown’s got the nuts here. Got the nuts,” a drunk hollered.
I shot fast—too fast. I barely nicked the edge of the cue ball. The other end of my cane scraped the felt.
The drunk in the hat stood, and leaned forward over the bar to look; beer cascaded from his tipped hand. “Call out the coast guard!” he said, and straightened. He sloshed the other way, spilled beer on his gut.
Jerrod hit the one ball in a side pocket, and said, “This is why Baloneytown stays the way it is.” A little louder he added, “I have no sympathy for a man who’s intoxicated all the time.”
“That’s all right,” the drunk said. “A man who’s intoxicated all the time doesn’t need sympathy. He needs a stenographer.” He pulled on the end of his wrinkled, beer-soaked necktie.
Jerrod bent low in a way that made creases in the pants of his uniform and those creases were like arrows to his crotch. My eyes followed the arrows.