Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [9]
To his right, a glass cigar counter with a few stale-looking wrapped sandwiches on top, a horse-pinball with the usual player bent over it, a telephone booth, a man in a white shirt, probably the proprietor, leaning against the counter and giving advice to the pinball player; to his left, six tables in a row, all pool tables. Three of them had games going, and there was a row of theater seats against the wall, with clusters of idle watchers opposite the active tables. Beyond the cigar counter Billy saw an entryway leading to a back room, and through it he could see the corner of a snooker table, and past that, more theater seats. There was a lot of noise coming from the back room, and with his hands in the windbreaker pockets, Billy walked over and leaned against the entryway. There were three snooker tables, and all three had games going; businessmen with their coats off, probably playing four bits a corner while they ate their lunch, laughing, all friends, all playing together every day at noon. One of them, Billy saw, was a policeman, plump, loose-faced, chewing on a sandwich. Billy was just about to turn around and leave when he felt something on his shoulder.
He turned and looked directly into the proprietor’s face. The mouth was tense, the words were harsh, but behind gold-rimmed glasses the gray eyes looked troubled, as if the eyes were trying to tell Billy not to mind the words, not to blame the proprietor. But then again, Billy thought as he went back up the stairs, maybe the old fart was just excusing himself. Billy paid no attention to the actual words; whether they were “Beat it, nigger,” or, “Take off, nigger,” or just, “Blah blah, nigger,” did not matter to him and he did not remember; it was not important; “The Rathole” was not the kind of place he was looking for. It was a dirty, two-bit joint full of pastime players and horsebettors in out of the weather; there was nothing for Billy there anyway.
Ben Fenne’s was different; he could see that right away. It was another basement, but the staircase coming down was wider and had been swept off; at the bottom there was a barbershop to the left and the poolhall to the right, and it was a bigger room, with a higher ceiling, more tables, more action; and instead of a cigar counter there was a long bar, of dark wood, behind which two white-shirted men worked, drawing beer or cooking on the griddle. A quick glance around the room showed Billy that there were no other Negroes in the room, but he expected that; there were no Negroes at the Two-Eleven in Seattle, either, or hadn’t been until Billy persisted, and finally was permitted to hang around. For that matter, he had even developed a reputation of sorts in Seattle as the “Kid Nigger,” who always played his best and showed real talent as a straight pool or one-pocket player.
The first table to the right was billiard, and there was a three-handed game of 31 going on. Feeling the hard-action tension in his gut, in all his muscles, Billy walked over to the counter behind the billiard table and perched himself up on the stool in the corner, leaning against the wall as he turned to watch the game. He felt the thrill of action in him, almost as if he were going to get into a game for a hundred dollars right then. It was a good feeling, and his hands were dry now and he could swallow easily. He almost laughed, he felt so good.
Pretty soon the counterman came over to him, wiping his hands on his stained white apron: a short man, monkey-faced, tired-looking, with thick, hairy forearms.
“What’ll it be?” he asked Billy.
Billy felt the laughter trying to bubble up out of his throat, because he knew what