Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [99]
“Come on down out of there, my friend,” the fat man said. “We got to talk.”
Billy grinned down at him. “I’se comfy,” he said.
“What would you like to play tonight?”
“You rob a bank or somethin?”
The fat man smiled coyly. “I got money. What do you want to play?”
“What makes you think I want to play at all? I’m tired. I worked all day, mon.”
“Shee. You’ll play. Come on, what’s your best game?”
“One-pocket.”
“Never. You’re the best one-pocket player in the world.” The fat man reflected for a moment, and then said, as if it had just occurred to him, “How about some eight-ball?”
“Not in this life; you’re the best eight-ball player in the world.” Around and around, Billy thought.
“Well, I brought the money, I’d like to gamble.”
The crowd was beginning to gather again. It was going to be just like last night, except for one thing; Billy would no longer have the emotional advantage. He did not know just exactly what this advantage was or how you got it, but he knew it was gone. He really did not think the fat man could beat him, though. They argued, showed off for the crowd, joked, insulted each other, and Billy made the fat man show his money, and they ended up at the fat end of the pool section playing straight snooker. Billy lost the first three games, each time with the seven ball crucial, paid off $150, and quit. They settled their time and then the fat man said, “I aint sleepy. Hell, let’s play some nine-ball just for fun. Five dollars a game.”
“Okay,” Billy said. They took the number one table and Billy racked it for nine-ball. The fat man won the toss and was standing ready to break. He looked at his two friends, who were leaning against the number three table, and he laughed. They both grinned. The fat man turned to Billy and laughed again. “I got you now, sonny,” he said. “And I won’t let go.”
“We’ll see about that,” Billy said. “If you’re too good, I’ll hit the rack; but you ain’t that good.”
“You won’t hit the rack,” the fat man said with assurance. “I know you. You’re dead.” They eyed each other steadily, and Billy knew the fat man was right; he would not quit, neither of them would, until the other was broke. That was it; that was the center of it all, the nugget of truth he had been searching for all his life: to do something that was endless, to risk it all on himself.
They played until four o’clock the next afternoon; most of the crowd had gone home, slept and come back. For several hours they played for five a game, and then jumped it to ten. Billy could not remember whose idea the raised bet was. It did not matter. At the end he was broke: casemoney, salary, winnings, everything. He had played his best, he hadn’t dogged it; it was just that over the long haul the fat man was just a tiny bit better than he was, and so took all the money. It was really very boring. When it was over Billy signed for his share of the tab and went into the bowling alley office and talked to the manager, getting an advance on his wages. Then he came out, still carrying his cue. The fat man and his friends were sitting at the lunch counter, eating cheeseburgers. Billy unscrewed his stick and instead of putting it in its wooden slot back of the checkout counter, reached down and got out his leather carrying case, dusted it off, and slipped the two halves of the cue in. One of the white kids wanted to talk to him, but Billy brushed him off, and started out of the place.
“Where you goin, Billy?” the kid asked him.
He smiled. “Out to win that money back, boy. You think I like to lose?” But he knew it was a lie, and he was leaving out of shame. Outside, it was raining hard. Conscious of the deliberate irony, he took a cab to the Greyhound bus depot. He did not telephone his wife. The shame included her. I am a child, he thought. When am I going to grow up?
Sixteen
“Night or day it’s