by Jeff Ross
“Well,” War said, laughing. He nodded his head and started racking again. “You’re a hell of a player.”
“Those ones lined up for me,” I said. “I got lucky.”
“I don’t think you get lucky,” War said, lifting the triangle. “I think you see the table like very few people do.”
I didn’t respond. I did, however, back away from the table. “You can break,” I said.
“Not how I play,” War said. “You won, you break.” This was different than the night before at the tournament. Then, War wasn’t going to give up the table even if he had to cheat to break. But with nothing riding on the game, I figured he didn’t care. I was totally in the mood for playing that night, so it made no difference to me. I wanted to clear the table again and again. That’s the thing about pool—you might be up against someone else, but in the end you’re really only playing yourself. You play the table and very rarely worry about what your opponent is going to do.
The balls lined up perfectly. Half of them sat right beside pockets. The rest were within, at most, a single bounce off a bumper. I moved around the table, chalking, aiming and sinking balls until the table was, yet again, empty.
“Well, I guess you’ve won the best of three,” War said, racking. “Want another?”
“Absolutely,” I said. I felt like I could play all night
“Am I going to get to play this time?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.” We both laughed, though I could tell War was getting irritated. When he pulled the triangle up, he shifted it slightly, edging a couple of balls away from the pack. This might not seem like anything, but when the balls aren’t tight to one another, it really affects the break. And, sure enough, my break went wild. The balls on the outside spun off in all directions, but a clump of balls remained as though not struck at all.
The seven dropped, and then I was able to sink the one and two before missing on the three. War stood up and leaned over the table.
“So you never play for money,” he said.
“The odd tournament,” I said. “Like last night. Those are okay. It’s all out in the open there.”
“What do you mean?” War asked, firing the four and then five in opposite corners. He played a very slow and deliberate game. Always lining his shots up with a practiced care.
“You put in ten dollars or whatever and then get to play. No one is getting cheated,” I said.
“But you wouldn’t play for money in a pool hall?”
“It feels too personal,” I said. “In a tournament, you take someone out and then have the next opponent to deal with. When you get to the end, it’s everyone’s money you’re playing for. It’s different.”
“You could clean up,” War said.
I shrugged and leaned back over the table. I managed to get to the nine and somehow left it sitting in the middle of the table. At first I couldn’t say why this happened, but afterward, once we were back outside and sitting in War’s truck, I realized it was because War had been watching me. Not watching the game, but staring at me. I’d turned around a couple of times, and he’d been looking right at me.
He did the same thing as we pulled up to a red light.
“So you have absolutely no interest at all in playing for money,” he said. At the time I had no idea why he kept asking.
“No,” I said. “I know I should. Or at least get into a league or something. But it’s not me.”
“Not even if I told you you could make a lot of money? That I could help make that happen?”
“No,” I said. “Sorry.”
When we pulled up outside my house, War put the truck into Park in the same thoughtful way he played pool. Not slamming the gearshift but moving it slowly into place. He drove the same way. There were no quick jumps off red lights or tight, tire-squawking turns. He did everything in a perfectly methodical way.
“Thanks,” I said. He gave me a half smile, his blue eyes boring holes in me again. I jumped out of the truck and turned back to close the door, but he’d already leaned across the seat and taken hold of the handle.
“Sure, Shark,” he said. “No problem. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter Six
And just like that, War was around all the time. The next morning he stopped by to fix a broken tile he’d seen. He told my mother the story about his father being the one who’d put it in and that he felt responsible for fixing it. She happened to mention a dripping faucet in the basement that the landlord had promised to come by and fix but never had. It wasn’t her problem if he didn’t care, but she hated being wasteful. War returned the next day to fix that. He was normally gone by the time Wendy and I got home from school, but his odor, a mix of sweat and cologne, lingered.
It was a few days before I saw him at the pool hall again.
I’d been playing Hippy for almost two hours. He was always up for a fun game and was good enough to give me a challenge. Then War walked in, looking clean-cut although upholding his biker image with a beat-up leather jacket. When he unzipped it, I could see the bright-blue sweater glowing underneath.
“Mark,” he said. “How are you?”
“Great,” I replied. I was in the middle of a game.
He pointed to the far end of the room. “League night,” he said, giving me a pat on the back. “Talk later, okay?”
I noticed he smiled at Hippy before walking away.
“I don’t know about that guy,” Hippy said. “You hang out with him a lot?”
I finished my shot and leaned against the table. “He’s kind of around now,” I said.
“What do you think of him?” he asked.
I considered this for a moment and had to admit, “I don’t know. I guess he’s all right?”
“I don’t know anything about him. But he has this vibe, man. Not a good one.”
I played Hippy for a while longer, until it started to feel late. I decided to leave with plenty of time to make my bus this time rather than play one last game and risk missing it. The league tournament was still going on when I left. I was standing at the bus stop when War came banging out the front door of the hall.
“Shark! One minute, son.” He lit a cigarette as he crossed the parking lot. Was the old, scruffy War the real deal, or was it this new clean-cut Warren? Either way, I was getting an uneasy feeling as he came toward me.
“Let me give you a lift home,” he said.
“I’m good,” I said, holding up my bus pass.
“Nah, come on. I’m going to pick your mom up from Ray’s as well.”
“What?”
“She called earlier. Her car broke down, and she’s stuck. I told her I’d give her a lift home and get someone to come tow her car to my buddy’s garage.”
Huh. The pharmacy was only a few blocks away, so I didn’t get the chance to ask how it came about that my mom had called him. But then, what would I have said? What are your intentions with my mother? Why are you suddenly a part of my life? That sounded rude, and at the time, War seemed nice enough. I mean, Warren of the blue sweater and slick hair. He peeled the leather jacket off when he got into the truck and tossed it to the backseat. Then he checked his hair in the mirror and dropped the truck into gear.
I slipped into the backseat of the cab when my mom got in. She and War chatted about all kinds of things I wouldn’t have suspected they would talk about. Even the possibility that Mom might go visit Dad. She hadn’t seen him in ages. For some reason, though, she was suddenly thinking of going.
When we got home, War got a call from his buddy to let him know that everything was okay with the car. It wasn’t anything serious. He’d fix it that night, off the books, for the cost of parts and enough for him to get some dinner and a case of beer.
“Thank you so much, Warren,” Mom said.
“No problem. Glenn likes to tinker. He could mess around with those things all day. You might want to think about looking for a new car sometime soon though.”
“Maybe,” Mom said.
/> “You’re working awful hard. You should be able to afford something, right?”
“Legal fees,” Mom said. “It takes a lot.” Warren sat there watching her until she clapped her hands. “Okay, dinner!”
“Yes,” War said. “A home-cooked meal.” I hadn’t known that War was staying for dinner. Mom had one special meal she loved to make. She knew it would always be perfect. It was this kind of baked chicken thing with a sauce her grandmother had come up with. A salad on the side and a baked potato with garlic butter and chives. War enjoyed it as if he hadn’t eaten a real meal in years. He was mmmming and licking his lips and looking around as if there might be seconds. Nothing made my mom happier than someone enjoying her cooking. It wasn’t necessarily something she took pride in, but she did love when people enjoyed it.
“The kids have homework to do, I imagine,” War said once dinner was finished. He’d stacked the dishes in the sink against mom’s protests. “Don’t want to get in the way here.”
“Oh, you can stay a little longer,” Mom said.
“No, I’ve always believed it’s best to leave when you’re still welcome.” He looked over at me and smiled. “Say, Shark, I have that book I was telling you about out in the truck. I forgot to give it to you earlier.”
“What book?” I said. I was pretty sure he hadn’t mentioned a book.
“Come on out. I’ll show you.” He bowed again to Mom and, holding both her hands in his, said, “Until next time.”
It was cold outside, with a sharp, biting wind washing up the street. War opened the door of his truck as if he was going to grab something. Then he turned to me. There was a look on his face I’d never seen before.
“And just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers, “I’m in your life.” He narrowed his eyes at me.
“What?” I said. I was still trying to figure out where the book was that he wanted to give me.
“Your mom loves me. She’s eating it up.”
“What are you talking about?” A cold shiver shot through my body.
“I’m a nice guy, Shark. The kind of man you’d want your kid to hang around with while his dad’s locked up.” He stared at the house again.
“What are you talking about, War?”
“I’m here now,” he said, still staring at the house. “The question is, do I want to stay?”
“Stay?” I said. I felt as if I couldn’t move. Like my feet had taken root in the ground.
“I have a plan A and a plan B. Plan A, I get into your life and then when I ask you to help me make some money, you can’t say no. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your mom, after all. Plan B, I get into your life and I stay.” I was starting to understand what he was talking about. I understood what that look had been on his face.
It was the look of an initial victory in a long battle.
“If you decide to go along with me, then, once I get what I want, I go away. Or, if you decide not to work with me, then I stay. Now, you know, I really like your mom. I like your house. It’s a nice place. But I’m not sure how long I could put up with some of this stuff. Your sister seems fine, but I’m not a little-kid kind of guy.” He sniffed and wiped at his nose. “Who knows? Maybe I’d grow to love it all. So if you don’t go along with my plan, then I’ll be making myself at home. My only problem with that is, I’d still have to figure out a way to make some cash.”
“What plan?” I felt sick. The way War was talking sounded unlike anything he’d said before.
“I owe a bookie a few grand.” He lit a cigarette, palm in front of his face to block the wind. “Eight thousand, to be exact.”
“We don’t have any money.”
“You don’t need money.” He looked dead at me. “You’re not really listening to me here. I need eight grand. And you’re going to help me get it.”
“Doing what?” I asked. Although by now I knew.
“We’re going to run some tables, Shark. You’re going to live up to your name.” I didn’t reply. “Or I stay.” He pointed at the house. “I can figure out some other way to make money. You’re just the fastest route. You decide. Meet me at the pool hall tomorrow at four, and we’ll go with plan A. Or, I’ll come back here and we’ll see what plan B looks like.” He clapped me on the shoulder and gave me a little shake. “Good talk, Shark. Good talk. We’ll see you soon, one way or another.” Then he got in his truck and drove away.
Chapter Seven
I went to the pool hall the next day. I didn’t have a choice. Once War had spelled it out for me, I knew that if I didn’t do what he wanted, we’d never get rid of him. My mom couldn’t take any more than she already had. Neither could Wendy. I had to be a man.
War smiled his great big grin when he came in and saw me dropping balls into the triangle. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“You made the right choice,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“What, you thought you were going to shark people here? They already know how good you are.” He lifted the triangle and scattered the balls. “Hippy, I’ll cover whatever time he had.”
“Sounds good,” Hippy yelled. “Take it easy, Shark.”
“Thanks, Hippy.” We drove a couple of neighborhoods over, into a different world. The pool hall we stopped in front of looked like a slightly crappier Minnesota’s. It was in an older building, and the stores on either side had been shut down and boarded up.
“Here’s the plan,” War said, shifting in his seat. “People like to throw down ten dollars here to start. You’re just with me. You’re my son, got it?” I hated that idea. I kept looking at him, hoping he’d quit all this. “Got it?”
“Whatever,” I said.
“I’ll do my best straight up against someone. Win or lose, it doesn’t matter. You’ll be on another table. Someone comes up, they’ll ask me if they can play you. Whenever someone new comes in, you and I have a chat so everyone knows we’re together. Then, if someone wants to play you, they’ll ask me. I’ll say, ‘Sure, twenty-dollar minimum to play him.’ You know, like it’s a big joke. Then when they look at you, you say, ‘I don’t care’ or whatever you want. Don’t be cocky though. Then you get in there and you play your game and you fuck up all over the place. It’s gotta be a serious mess. I’ll start riding your ass about it. Calling you names. Telling you that you suck. I’ll be that dad kids hate but maybe one day end up loving. Got me?” He knew what had happened with my dad. How intense he’d been with hockey. Neither my mom nor I had ever said anything about how dedicated Dad had been about helping me improve my skills. How calm he could be. To War, he was that crazy man in the stands who was always yelling.
“Fine,” I said.
“Then the next game…” He eased up in his seat and pulled a twenty from his pocket. “I’m going to tell you that you’re putting money on the next game so that maybe you’ll think about actually trying. That it’s your own cash and you have to spend it.” He handed me the twenty, and I slid it into my pocket.
“Okay,” I said.
“You’re going to take that twenty and put it on the table, and then you’re going to kick the guy’s ass.”
“What’s twenty bucks?” I said.
“You don’t have to destroy him. Bump it up a little. Leave some space so he thinks he has a chance. Then you leave the forty on the table. That’s your next bet, and he’ll have to match it if he wants to play again, and he will. That time you’ll lose. And I’m going to lose my shit on you. At which time I’ll slap a hundred down. And when he takes that bet, you are going to kick his ass.”
“What’s a hundred bucks when you need eight thousand?”
“It’s a beginning. But it’s also practice. You need to know how these things work. People get heated. You have to figure out where your emotions will go.”
“Fine,” I said, although it was anything but.
I didn’t like it any more once we were inside. The same stale spilled-beer stink rose up around us. The crisp, tinny laughter. Pe
ople chortling at inappropriate jokes.
I messed around on a table while War played, until finally a thick, crisp-looking dude came up, leaned into War and asked him something.
“Sure, go ahead, play him,” War said, voice overly loud. “Don’t need my permission.” I played as crappily as possible. The guy introduced himself as Jimmy, and Jimmy was impossibly bad. It took more skill than ever to let him win. When the eight ball dropped, War was quick to light into me.
“Jesus Christ, son, what are you doing?” he yelled.
“What?” I replied, then stood still, looking frightened. His tone and the loudness and the anger in his voice all reminded me of my father in the worst way.
“What the hell was that?” War demanded.
“He played a pretty good game,” Jimmy said. “He just got trapped around the corner.”
“Trapped?” War said, staring daggers at me. “You couldn’t figure out a way to get un-trapped?”
“It was a hard game,” I said. I didn’t like any of this. It was the reason I never played for money. There were few ways it could end well.
War said, “You have any money, son?”
“Yeah,” I said through gritted teeth.
“What do you have?”
“Twenty,” I said.
“You’re playing him for twenty,” War said.
“Nah, man, he’s a kid,” Jimmy said.
“He’s a kid who has to get better,” War said. “And he needs to have something on the line or that’ll never happen. Twenty to play him.”
“You okay with this, kid?” Jimmy asked. He had warm, round eyes. He looked like he wanted to give me a way out but didn’t know how that’d look. I pulled the twenty from my pocket and put it on the table. “Keep that in your pocket, kid,” he said. “They don’t like us playing for money here.” I slid the twenty back into my pocket. He flashed a twenty from his shirt pocket. It was all pretty awkward, but some guys like this stuff. I guess it feels as if they’re breaking the law or something. As if they’re putting it over on all the regular chumps of the world. “You want to break?”
