Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [95]
“One -pocket?” The fat man was hurt. “One-pocket?”
“For twenty a game,” Billy said. Somebody tittered nervously.
“I don’t play one-pocket,” the fat man said. “It’s the dullest goddam game ever invented. How do you stay awake?”
“Well, what’s your best game? We done played your road game, now, what do you play at home?”
“Eight-ball. That’s all I play. I’ll play you eight-ball for ten or twenty a game. I’m a sport. I know I got no chance against you.”
Billy was flabbergasted. “No chance? Goddam, man, I aint even shot!”
“That’s right; I never did see you shoot. How do I know how good you are?”
“You don’t want to play,” Billy said. “You got my twelve dollars. You go back home and tell everybody you beat Billy Lancing out of twelve dollars.”
“Why should I tell em that?” the fat man asked. “Who ever heard of you?”
“I’ll tell you what, you chicken-livered tub of guts; I’ll play you any game on any kind of table in this joint; but I won’t play you eight-ball. I’ll play nine-ball, six-ball, bank pool, cribbage, one-pocket, straight pool—either rack or lineup; I’ll play you rotation or snooker, balkline or three-rail billiards, pee-pool, golf; I’ll play you one-handed or ten or no count; anything you want— but, I don’t want to waste your time or mine, so the minimum price per contest is twenty dollars, and the maximum price is whatever you think you can handle. Now, do you want to play pool or do you want to go have your dinner?”
The fat man did not say a word for at least a minute. He looked as if he was in shock. Then he bellowed, “Twenty dollars? Twenty dollars? I feel like I’m being nibbled to death by a duck! I come in here to play some friendly pool among strangers; but you don’t want to play friendly pool, you want to gamble! Now, if you want to gamble, I’m willin, but let’s gamble, not piss and fart away our time at twenty dollars! Let’s play for money!”
“There he is, folks,” Billy said to the crowd, “the world’s champion bullshit artist; he don’t have no foldin money; all he’s got is talkin money; cause if he had the green kind he’d make a game with me. He knows he can beat me; what’s he scared of?” Grinning happily, he turned to the fat man. “How about fifty a game, sportsy?”
The fat man rolled his eyes. “Fifty? How long has it been since you saw fifty dollars all in one heap? I hear you talk but I don’t see your money. Have you got fifty dollars and fifty cents all mixed up in your woolly old head?”
“How about a hundred?” Billy asked happily. He did not reach for his pocket yet, but leaned back against the table and pretended to inspect the tip of his cue.
“We talkin mouth bets, I raise it to a million,” said the fat man. “Hell, two million, I aint proud.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Billy said. “I always carry a little caseroll on me, just in case, you know. If you can match it, less play for it.”
“Match it? Why, son, if I couldn’t match anything you carried around in your little old pocket, why I’d just naturally die of humiliation. Haul out your thirty-four dollars and fifty cents and let them bills get a breath of fresh air. I’ll not only match it, I’ll play you any game you choose for it. I hate to waste time.”
Billy removed from his shirt pocket ten one-hundred-dollar bills, unfolded them, and fanned them out on the table. He smiled wolfishly. “You’re gonna look awful fuckin stupid if you can’t come up,” he said.
The fat man stared at the thousand dollars.
“Match it, or just die of shame,” Billy said.
After a reflective pause, the fat man drew his two friends aside and they talked quietly, getting their rolls out and putting them together. The fat man came back to Billy and laid a gigantic heap of bills on the table. “There’s four hundred