Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [86]
Pool is a fascinating game. I know a structural engineer who took years to figure out a way to make a shot if the cue ball was exactly in the spot where the head ball would be if there was a full rack. It looks damn near impossible, but he could do it every time. He’s been waiting years for the situation to come up in a game—when it does, he’ll be ready.
I dropped the balls in their pockets and they rolled down their runners to be collected at the head of the table. Like this caper—a whole lot of balls and a whole lot of pockets. I kept shooting, occasionally trying to imitate the subtle, relaxed stroke of the professional three tables down. It would never come to me. He had the technique perfect—he never looked up. Once you do you lose your concentration and you have to refocus your eyes. I can’t do that, can’t keep my eyes only on the table. Probably cost me a few games over the years, but I’ve won the ones that count. Every morning I wake up, I beat the system. And every morning I wake up and I’m not in jail, I beat the hell out of it.
I saw it was getting close to eleven-thirty so I called Mama’s from the pay phone and asked her to have Max drop by the poolroom later on. She said there were no calls for me so I had to assume Margot was still coming. If she was and if she wasn’t running a con, I’d need Max to move the cash for me. I told Pop I was expecting to do some business and I’d need the room. He said sure, but didn’t make a move. When the other person showed up he’d hand over the key, not before. Pop wasn’t going to be a concierge for anyone. I turned in the balls and paid for the table, then went into the lobby to wait for Margot, munching on a package of chocolate-chip cookies Pop had for sale at the counter. They weren’t any older than me, and not as sweet.
She was on time, carrying a big purse and wearing one of those huge floppy hats that belong in midtown. I gave Pop the money, took the key, and we went upstairs.
Margot couldn’t wait to open her mouth. “Burke, I’ve got to tell you this . . . Dandy said—”
“Have you got the money?”
“Sure. Now listen, I—”
“Where is it?”
She snapped open her purse, took out a wad of hundreds wrapped in a rubber band, tossed it over to me. “You want to count it?” She seemed unsurprised when I did. It was all there. On surface inspection, it was all good too. Used bills, but not ready for the shredder, no consecutive serial numbers, the right paper, clean inking, no engraving problems. Even if it was bogus I could move stuff this good without any problems.
I still checked it carefully though—some counterfeiters are lunatics and you never know what they’ll do. I was watching that TV show about Archie Bunker in a bar one night waiting for a client’s husband to come in and make a fool of himself with the go-go dancers, and they had this bit about funny money. Seems the counterfeiter had engraved “In Dog We Trust—instead of “In God We Trust.” Everybody watching thought that was hilarious, but the counterfeiter watching from the barstool next to me thought it was blasphemy. He muttered to me that the buffoon who’d done that job had no class. It was okay to do something on the front of a bill for a joke—a spit on the system—but the lame on TV was just a guy who couldn’t spell. I nodded like I understood, and the guy pulled out a beautiful twenty-dollar bill and asked me to look it over. The bill was real as far as I could tell, but instead of “In God We Trust,” it said “By God We Must.” Now that, the