Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [40]
Takarama was the perfect example of a freak. He had muscular calves, tree-trunk thighs, a girlish waist, and shoulders befitting a running back. There did not appear to be an ounce of wasted tissue on his body, and probably never had been. Walking over to the Ping-Pong table with the skillet in hand, he took several practice serves.
“Are you sure you can beat him?” the Greek asked, standing beside him.
“Yes,” Takarama said confidently.
The Greek was sweating, the bright light of Zack’s camera centered squarely on his face. Embarrassed by his decision to renege, the suckers had moved away from him. The Greek looked lost. In the poker world, your reputation was all you had.
The Greek turned to Rufus. “You’re on,” he said.
Gloria Curtis produced a shiny coin from her purse, tossed it into the air.
“Call it,” she said to Rufus.
“Heads,” Rufus said.
The coin landed on the floor. It was heads.
“Yee-haw,” the old cowboy said.
Rufus and Takarama took their positions at opposite ends of the Ping-Pong table. As Rufus bent his knees and prepared to serve, Takarama went into a crouch and held the skillet in front of his body defensively. His eyes narrowed, seeing only the table.
Rufus held his skillet a foot from his head, the ball resting on the palm of his other hand. “Good luck, son,” he said.
“I do not need luck,” Takarama replied.
Rufus tossed the ball into the air and banged it with the skillet. It wasn’t the kind of stroke that Valentine had thought would produce a deadly spin, but that was exactly what happened. The ball hopped over the net, then leaped a few feet into the air, hitting Takarama’s skillet and flying behind him.
“My point,” Rufus declared. “One-zip.”
Rufus served four more unreturnable serves. With each lost point, Takarama shifted his grip on his skillet, and tried another method of stroking. Each change produced the same result. A wayward shot and a lost point.
“Five-zip,” Rufus said, tossing him the ball.
Takarama went to the sideline and wiped his hands with a towel. When he returned to the table, Rufus was sipping whiskey.
“Not funny,” Takarama said.
“You ought to try some.” Rufus grinned.
Takarama prepared to serve. He tossed the ball into the air, and hit it with his skillet. As he did, the index finger on his serving hand struck the table edge. He yelped and dropped his skillet.
“Hope you didn’t break it,” Rufus said.
“Time out,” the Greek called.
Takarama clutched his damaged finger and left the room to walk off the pain. When he returned, he’d regained his composure, and banged the table with the palm of his good hand.
“I get you now,” he said.
It took Takarama a few points to figure out how to serve. When he finally did get the ball over the table, Rufus batted it back for a winner. Rufus had an unusual technique, and relied solely on his wrist to stroke the ball, his arm hardly coming into play.
Takarama copied the motion, and on Rufus’s next service game, managed to win two points. The score was now thirteen to two, but a significant shift had occurred. Like all great athletes, Takarama had adjusted his game, and was forcing Rufus to work to win a point, making the old cowboy lunge from side to side. The toll on Rufus was immediate. His chest sagged, a hound-dog look appeared on his face, and after every point he stopped to catch his breath.
On his next serve, Rufus lost five points in a row, making the score thirteen to seven. The whiskey had risen to his face and sprouted a thousand red blossoms. He looked like a dying man. Taking his Stetson off, he tossed it to the floor.
It was Takarama’s turn to serve. Rufus made a motion to throw him the ball, only to drop it on the floor instead. There was a loud crunching sound.
“Shit! I stepped on it,” Rufus said.
The Greek pulled a Ping-Pong ball from his pocket, and tossed