Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [94]
“You don’t want to play.” The fat man dismissed Billy. He said to the crowd, “He don’t want to play.” He looked strangely baffled. “I guess I’ll have me a sangwich.”
“You do look a little undernourished,” Billy said.
“Oh, that’s all. That’s all. Get your stick, Sambo.” He headed for the wall racks where the house cues were kept. Billy shrugged and went back of the counter for his Willie Hoppe Special, returned to the number one table, screwing the shaft of the cue into the butt, running his hand over the high gloss of the wood, checking the firmness of the leather tip with his thumbnail, chalking up, while the fat man rummaged over the cues, testing, weighing, sighting, and finally returned with a 22-ounce club with a billiard tip. “This’ll do,” he declared. “Warped as an old lady’s sexlife. Ha ha.”
Billy happened to look over in old Larkin’s direction, and for the first time began to feel apprehension; old Larkin’s face was screwed up in an insufferable smirk. He must have hated Billy and been looking forward to seeing him beaten. Billy felt a twinge of doubt, and he had to keep his fingers from reaching up and touching his caseroll through his pocket. He grinned tightly at the fat man. “How much we goin to play for, tubby?”
“A friendly game, that’s all I ever play,” the fat man said. “But I reckon you got a flock of little pickaninnies runnin around dependin on you for food and whatall, so let’s just play for a couple dollars. Sound like a friendly game to you? Make it easy on yourself, boy.”
“Win, place, or show?” Billy said acidly. Quickly he swallowed his anger. That was the worst thing he could do. He smiled. “Two dollars is fine,” he said.
There was a murmur of disappointment from the crowd. Billy tossed a coin, lost, and racked the balls for eight-ball. He backed away from the table to watch the fat man shoot. Everyone was quiet now; all Billy could hear were two hard-core bowlers over on the other side, and the faint, insipid music from the speaker system. He felt the coldness of the air conditioning on his cheek, and he suppressed an urge to rub his hand across his mouth. He wanted a cigarette very badly, but refused to light one.
The Arizona guy looked like a plump child bending seriously over the table, his fat fingers dead white in the glare. He broke with a thwack, drawing the cue ball back toward the end rail, and sank the twelve and the four. He walked around the table rapidly, choosing the striped balls, and sank them one after the other, following the fifteen past the side pocket for perfect position on the eight, called it in the corner and sank it. His lips, which had been pursed in concentration, went flaccid again and he straightened up and grunted. “Huh. Lucky. Rack!”
Billy dropped the two bills on the table, and began fishing balls out of pockets and rolling them toward the end. “We rack our own balls here,” he said.
“Some joint,” the fat man reflected. He chalked up and waited for Billy to finish racking. It was winner break, of course. The fat man stepped up, broke, and ran out again. He won six straight games, and Billy did not shoot once.
“That’s all,” Billy said. He felt remote, almost as if he were dead. He unscrewed his stick, as if he had been driven to the rack.
“You’re right,” said the fat man. “Two dollars a game. What’s the matter with us? The house is winnin all the money. Let’s play for something.”
“No more eight-ball,” Billy said.
The fat man looked surprised. “Name your game,” he said.
“One-pocket,” Billy said. With something near dread, he added, “For any amount you choose.” He glanced at the crowd. You’re waiting to see me die, you sons of bitches. It was as if he had never seen them before. They had disgusting, stupid, greedy faces. They were not his friends. He was just entertaining them. He should pack up his cue and quit. He did not want to play the fat man. He did not want to play at all. He was tired.