by Jeff Ross
“Sure,” I said.
“Okay. You break.” He began chalking his cue like crazy. I broke and played it slow. I ended up with a high ball in and potted three more before I skimmed the fourth. I didn’t want it to look like a runaway. The table was perfect for me though. I could have sunk everything without breaking a sweat. But I didn’t. Mostly because I was afraid of War.
Jimmy managed to get five balls in before he stalled. I sank another three before shanking again. He then put in one, evening things up. The eleven and the eight were perfectly set up. I fluffed on the eleven, managing to just get it in but looking totally inept. Then I hammered in the eight like an absolute amateur.
“There you go,” Jimmy said. He came over and secretly pressed a twenty into my hand. “That was a better game.”
I slid the twenty into my pocket.
“I could have had you,” he said.
“It was tight,” I said.
“Double down?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.” It was playing out even better than War had expected. This guy was pulling me in, not the other way around.
I threw the next game to the point where I had four balls left on the table when he was done. Jimmy was pretty pleased. War lost his shit. He took me into a corner and berated me. Made it look like he was clipping me on the back of the head. Then he stormed back over to Jimmy. And in his nicest, calmest voice he said, “I got a hundred bucks here says he’ll win the next game.”
Jimmy balked. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
“What do you care? The games have been tight. You don’t want to take my money?”
“I don’t think I want to be in the middle of this.”
“The middle of what?” War said. “Everyone in here is betting on pool. You just bet on a game.”
Jimmy looked at me. I was chalking one of the crappy pool-hall cues.
“Fine,” Jimmy said. “One hundred. But I break.”
“Go ahead,” War said.
Jimmy broke and managed to drop three before screwing up. I ran the low balls, sinking the eight on a spinning shot that went off two walls before sending the white to gently settle in the middle of the table. Jimmy stood there staring at it. This is why I don’t like sharking people. When it happens, they know. The question is, do they admit to it? The other problem with sharking someone is, you don’t know how they’re going to react.
I took the hundred from him. War was suddenly beside me. He looked at his watch. “Time we get out of here, son.”
“Wait a second,” Jimmy said. “You’re not going to give me a chance to win it back?”
“We have to get going,” War said, moving me toward and then out the door. We didn’t get halfway to the truck before the door of the pool hall opened behind us and Jimmy came out.
“Hey, how come I ain’t never seen either of you before?” That’s when I noticed how War had parked the pickup. It was backed into a spot facing directly into the street. He’d been working every angle of this from the beginning.
War stepped up to Jimmy, grabbed his collar and said, “Don’t be a sore loser.” He shoved him backward. Jimmy opened his mouth, then shut it. War is a big dude. Big enough that you wouldn’t want to mess with him alone. I felt bad for Jimmy. What War was here was a straight-up bully.
“Don’t bring that shit around here again,” Jimmy said. “It’s bullshit.” Then he went back into the pool hall.
“Give me the money,” War said. He snatched the bills out of my hand. “I made twenty, so we cleared one hundred.”
“One hundred,” I said. “You said you needed eight thousand.”
“I do,” he said. He was angry, or at least riled up, from the recent encounter. “And we’ll get it. This was a test. Let’s get out of here before that guy finds some friends.” We got in the truck. It started on the first turn, and in a second we were out of the lot and onto the street. “Tell your mom you’re staying at a friend’s place this weekend. We’re going all around this city and making some serious money.” He stepped on the gas, inhaled and then slowly, carefully, pulled into traffic.
Chapter Eight
In the morning Mom let me know she had the weekend off. This didn’t happen very often. For once she was going to be able to stay home, which worked perfectly for War’s plan. I didn’t even have to worry about leaving Wendy alone. I’d spent most of the night trying to figure a way out of this but knew there weren’t any. So I made up an imaginary friend to go out with and lied to my mother.
“I might end up staying at his place,” I said.
“How come I haven’t met this friend before?” Mom asked.
“We ended up in a group at school. I’ve started hanging out with him. We have a project we need to get done.” It all felt so awful. I hate lying to my mother. It was something my father did as well, always glancing at me to go along with him as he did it.
“Well, Wendy and I can have some girl time then.” I wasn’t certain how happy Wendy was with this idea. She hates doing her nails and stuff, but she will if Mom asks.
“Sounds great,” I said.
Then, out of nowhere, Mom said, “Warren seems so nice. Doesn’t he seem nice to you?”
“He’s quite a guy,” I admitted.
“You know I worry about you going into those pool halls. The kinds of people in some of them. But I think you found one of the good ones there.”
“I guess so,” I said. Mom left for work. I turned to my sister, who had been staring at me the whole time Mom had been talking.
“You really think Warren is that great?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“There’s something creepy about him. Isn’t there?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. She could read people. And I couldn’t lie to her. “Don’t worry—he won’t be around much longer.”
“I hope not. He gives me the shivers.”
That afternoon War was waiting for me a block from my house. Wendy and I were coming down the street, and she was telling me all about the short story she was working on. I was listening so intently that I didn’t even notice War until he stepped out of the pickup.
“Hey, Shark, let’s get going,” he said. Wendy stared at him.
“I thought you were going to a friend’s place,” she whispered.
“I am, Wendy. In a little bit. Warren and I have to do something first.” The look on her face made me feel as if I’d let her down. But what could I do? I was entirely trapped. I made sure she had her house key, then watched her walk the rest of the way to our house and go inside.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Cheer up, Sharky, it’ll be fun!”
It wouldn’t be fun.
The first place we hit was a giant pool emporium downtown. Forty tables spread out over a vast, organized space. Half of the tables were occupied at four thirty on a Friday. There were enough dudes standing around that it was obvious some betting was going on. All these men waiting for someone to challenge them. The majority of the TVs had sports on but also horse racing and off-track betting scores. It didn’t take War long to find a ten-dollar game he could join. Here the bills sat on the table, and people leaned back and waited for someone to show and play. If you won, you owned the table and got to choose how much it cost to play. There was a free table beside the one War jumped on. I racked a set and started knocking balls around, waiting for someone to take up the challenge.
It wasn’t long before we had the opportunity to run the game again. The dad, the kid. The only difference was that War told me to hold back. I could win, but it had to be tight. We wanted to extend the time I could play before people clued in to the fact that there was a kid at the hall sharking people.
We managed to run the act for almost three hours, pulling in a little over five hundred dollars. That was the thing with these big rooms—you could bounce around while people arrived and others left. You could tell that some of these guys had spent the whole day thin
king about playing pool. Believing that tonight was the night they’d win big. Most of them didn’t even seem to mind losing.
I took fifty dollars off a dude named Al who’d come off a shift at the nearby bakery and smelled of flour and vanilla. I was just jamming the money into my pocket when I noticed a couple of men looking at us strangely.
“We should get out of here, War,” I said. “I think we’re raising some suspicion.”
“We’re good,” War said.
“Those guys have been watching us for a while. I don’t think we should chance it.” War looked at the two I’d indicated. I could tell he was checking them out for size and strength.
“You might be right,” he said. He dug around in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and lighter. He put a cigarette between his lips and brought the lighter up to it.
“No smoking in here,” one of the bartenders said.
“Shit, yeah. The good old days are gone, aren’t they, buddy?” he replied, slapping the bartender on the back. He pocketed his lighter and leaned in close to me. “Stick your phone to your ear and walk out of here. I’ll be right behind you.”
I did as he said, and no one bothered me. Soon enough War came out, and we got in his truck. It was parked the same way as the last time. Nose out, facing the exit. He planned for everything. He had everything covered. I didn’t ask what was next because I assumed it was going to be the same thing. Over and over, the same thing, until he had made his money. I would have to put up with it until he earned enough.
“First night and we’re up eight hundred. Not bad for a start. A few of these places stay open late. I know a couple of backroom games as well, if we want.”
“I don’t think our little scheme will work in a backroom game,” I said. My dad had taken me to a few of those before. He’d played clean. Never sharked anyone. He’d always played to the peak of his ability. And when he got sharked himself, he knew it. He’d point at whoever had sharked him and say, “Never again.” And that was the end of it.
“The thing about backroom players, Shark,” War said, reaching over and squeezing my shoulder, “is they’re ready to be played. Everyone’s a pro. It’s not the amateur-hour stuff we’re facing here.” He suddenly turned down a side street. “And I think you’re ready to give it a shot.”
Chapter Nine
We parked outside a deli and, to my surprise, went directly to the back entrance. War banged on the door and, just like in the movies, a little window opened.
“You back for more?” someone asked. War flicked his cigarette to the ground and jutted a thumb at me.
“The kid wants to play.” All I could see through the slot were eyes.
“He good?”
“What do you care? Come on, let us in. It’s freezing out here.” The door opened, and we stepped inside. A tall, thin guy in black-framed glasses locked the door. We were on a landing at the top of a stairwell.
“What did you lose last time you were here?”
“I paid my bill.”
The guy moved to the first step and looked back. “Word is, that’s not always what happens.”
War didn’t respond, and eventually the thin guy shrugged his shoulders and moved down the stairs into the darkness.
“I’m not playing here,” War whispered to me. “Just you. This isn’t sharking. These dudes are the best you have ever played against. It’s five hundred a game, so don’t fuck up.” He poked me in the chest, then went down the stairs.
The basement was well decked out. Dart boards, a long bar down one wall, a stereo playing old soul music off in a corner and a single snooker table in the center of the room. I quickly counted ten men. Two guys were playing a game, one was behind the bar in a tight tuxedo, and the rest stood around watching. When we stepped into the room, it seemed as if everyone stopped what they were doing to look at us.
“You’re not welcome here,” a big man in a suit and tie said to War.
“I’m not playing,” War said. He put his hands on my shoulders and moved me forward. “He is.”
The man looked at me. He held his pool cue in one hand and a triangle in the other. “Five hundred a game,” he said. I felt my heart speed up.
“I didn’t think it’d be any different,” War replied.
“Where’s his cue?”
I’d always wanted my own cue. But the problem was that if I got one, it would be something someone could take from me.
“I’ll use whatever,” I said, my voice catching and squeaking like a thirteen-year-old’s. There was a gurgle of laughter.
“Can you loan him one, John?” War asked.
John stepped forward and handed me his cue. “This work for you?”
I took the cue, barely looking at it. “Sure.”
Everyone laughed again. I had no idea what was so funny. “You can school us with any old cue, is that it?” John said. I guess I must have looked arrogant. But, honestly, the cue doesn’t matter to me. A good one you’re used to is always going to be better. But any cue that is basically straight will do.
“It looks like a nice cue,” I said, studying it carefully for John’s sake. I don’t really get nervous when it comes to pool. I get excited, sometimes a little sweaty, but not, strictly speaking, nervous.
That night I was nervous.
John said, “Let’s have a drink first. Though nothing with alcohol. I don’t want to get in trouble with your mom.” Everyone laughed again.
You’d think that with all the laughter, the place would feel pretty lively. That could not have been further from the truth. It felt to me at the time like a playground where a bully had squared off with some little kid and everyone with any sense was choosing the bigger guy’s side in case things got ugly.
“We’re on a bit of a schedule here,” War said, looking at his oversized gold watch. “A ginger ale for the kid,” he said to the bartender. “Rum for his manager.”
War inhaled and exhaled as he crossed the room. “Throw some coke in it, would you?” he said as he pulled out a barstool. I sat down beside him and drew the ginger ale toward me.
“So War is managing you?” John asked. His breath smelled of whiskey. When I didn’t answer right away, he gestured at the top shelf above the bar, where the bottles were clean and bright and almost entirely full. “Another, Pete.” He accepted the glass and leaned against the bar. “Because I would suggest that’s a horrible idea.”
“Not your business, John,” War said.
“This guy,” John said without glancing at War, “is a man with a lot of plans and very little follow-through.”
The music playing was a crazy, repetitive techno thing. There were three or four voices that kept singing the same lines over and over again, wrapping around one another until you couldn’t tell what was being said. Honestly, it was beginning to play with my head a bit.
John leaned back hard on the bar and looked around the room. He took another pull from his drink, then said, “Who wants a shot at War’s wonder boy?” No one immediately volunteered. “No one?” The song had changed to the Band’s “The Weight,” immediately making the room feel more like every other pool hall on earth. “All right, wonder boy, I guess it’s you and me.” He flicked his head toward the bartender, who produced a quarter and set it on his thumbnail. “We flip to see who breaks. You call.”
The bartender, a bright-blue-eyed man with a half grin stapled on his face, said, “Ready?”
“Sure.”
He flipped the coin, and I said, “Tails” as it reached its peak height. The coin landed softly in Pete’s palm, and he clapped his other hand over it, then looked at John.
“Well, what is it?” John asked.
Pete opened his hand and presented the quarter, tails side up.
“Eight-ball or nine-ball?” John asked.
“Nine,” I replied without thinking. In nine-ball, all you have to do is sink the nine. It doesn’t matter when as long as you hit whatever ball is next in line first. I’d been working on m
y nine-ball break after seeing a pro on YouTube sinking the nine off the break. When that happens, you win and have the shortest game imaginable. I’d discovered during practice that if you hit the racked balls just right and the nine doesn’t drop, it will at the very least be set up in the perfect position to finish the match quickly.
Pete stepped to the stereo. He put on some classical music, then moved to the table and began setting the balls in a triangle.
“You listen to classical music, wonder boy?” John asked.
“Sure,” I said. Classic rock was a staple in pool halls, but my mom often listened to classical music on the radio in the mornings. I didn’t know the composers or who was playing, but I could name a few pieces.
“Whatever,” John said, laughing. “Isn’t that what all the kids say these days?”
Pete was finished racking the balls. I looked down at the tight cluster of nine balls as I chalked my borrowed cue. Pete had used an eight-ball triangle to set the balls, and they weren’t that tight. There was space between the two and three.
“Do you not have a nine-ball triangle?” I asked. I’d finished chalking. Bits of blue dust floated around me.
“Not good enough for you?” John said, leaning over the table.
“It’s not frozen,” I said, pointing at the space between the two and three. I noticed War tensing up beside me. John looked more closely at the balls.
“Seems good to me.”
“You break then,” I said.
The room felt as if it inhaled on itself. John was staring dead at me and standing way too close, and a wave of whiskey breath floated over me.
He sniffed and said, “Pete, grab the nine triangle, would you?” He never took his eyes off me. Pete came up behind John, who reached out a hand without looking back. He passed me the triangle.
“Be my guest.”
“I’m breaking?” I asked.
