Clown Girl - Monica Drake [62]
“Herman?” I leaned into my cane. “I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.”
Jerrod, warmed up now, on a run, said, “Who is your boyfriend?”
“What makes you think I have one?”
“You’re a pretty girl. Anyone ever tell you that? What’s a pretty girl like you doing in Baloneytown anyway?” He turned his head only, and kept his hands steady. He said, “You have perfect lips.”
Clown lips. Hooker’s lips, always plain except when they were painted too much, when I was working. Now they were drawn in dark red, thin but curvy, for Crack’s photo shoot. The lips of Trixie, Twinkie, and Bubbles. He said something else then I couldn’t hear because “Sweet Jane” was too loud on the jukebox behind us. I stepped in closer, leaned over the table too, nearer to Jerrod, and asked, “Ever have to shoot anybody?”
He didn’t flinch. He watched my lips. “Side pocket.” He tapped the table with his cue stick, leaving a fine blue dust.
“It’s not as common as it looks on TV, you know. Shooting people.” He missed the shot.
“I don’t have a TV. But I’ve seen a few cops pull their guns in our neighborhood anyhow.” It was my turn. I chalked up, and said, “Time to clean house. North and east.” I pointed my cane at the corresponding corners. One shot sent the thirteen and the fourteen home. The eight stood alone. I knocked the eight ball in. A scattering of solids lay like random stars in a night sky. “Rack ’em.” I gave my cane a friendly swing.
Jerrod said, “Think I got taken.” He dropped another quarter and shoved in the lever. The balls fell with a loud rush, chipping and clicking as they found their way into a line on the ledge underneath. “With most people, showing a gun is enough. I spend more time calling the drunk wagon on folks like Dukenfield over there.” He pointed to the drunk in the hat. “Enforcing restraining orders, listening to talk about dog litter on the wrong lawn.”
I liked the way he said dog “litter,” like dogs dropped crumpled cigarette packs and used Big Gulp cups.
He said, “In this neighborhood, growing up, the choice was cop or criminal. I chose cop. That’s all, end of story.” He laid the triangle on the table and dropped the balls in. He looked serious as he racked. His eyes were in shadow, and his jaw muscle tightened, then relaxed, then tightened again, the same way as when he called for Chance or when he caught me with the stolen mower. Like maybe even fun took work and worry. He clicked the balls together in the rack, held his fingers between the balls and the plastic racking triangle with his thumbs outstretched, then lifted the triangle gently off the racked balls. He gave the triangle a spin, and tucked it away.
I used my full body force in the break. My cane bent and flexed with the impact. The balls scattered. A lone solid wandered toward a pocket, teetered, then fell. I walked around to the other side of the table. The table was crowded, solids clustered alongside stripes. “The old umbrella.” I tapped my cane on the far three corners. “Side pocket.”
I hit the cue ball at an angle, down and against the opposite far rail to the left. It bounced off the side rail and headed for the foot. It bounced off that bumper, came back at a new angle, and hit my mark into the rail, table’s side right. That ball ricocheted across the table again and into the left side pocket, as called. A perfect box step.
“Going for the easy ones, I see,” Jerrod said.
“Watch this!” I pulled out the big plans. Yes, I have a weakness for audience, wanted to put on a show, give the drunks something to watch. Maybe I was showing off for Jerrod too. “Flying trapeze,” I said, and hoisted one hip up on the table’s edge with the other foot on the ground. I’d shoot low on the cue ball for maximum backspin. A little draw.
I ran the cane through my fingers. I visualized the vectors, aimed to defeat gravity. The one and the four balls nuzzled each other at the head of the table. Hit the balls just right, with the right speed, a smidge of English, it’d