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Just an introduction to my new staff fighter:
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Jimmy wiped the sweat off his brow and looked out over his domain one last time. The green felt stretched out in front of him, worn thin in a few spots, but still level. Four balls lay scattered across the table, one white, one black, one orange, and one green and white. Jimmy surveyed the angles and reflected on how he had ended up staring down a shot that literally had his life riding on it.
“Any time you’re ready, James.”
Jimmy looked up from the table at his opponent. Nick Dante, he’d introduced himself as, coming out of the rain and into Jack’s Pool Hall on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in Atlantic City when no one but Jimmy and Jack himself were sitting in the place. Jimmy had been nursing a two-beer buzz, waiting for the after-work crowd, hoping to hustle some so-called pool players, and in came Dante, in his black suit and crimson tie, asking if he was interested in a game or two.
That had been six games ago. Arrogantly, Jimmy had let the man break, and found himself staring down the barrel of five balls sunk before Dante had missed. Jimmy had shaken off his amazement and managed to sink all seven of his balls and then the eight without too much effort, but the other man was clearly good at the game. “Good game,” Dante had said, offering his hand. “Care for a rematch?”
Jimmy had heard himself agree before he really knew what was going on. Pretty soon, he was watching Dante sink the eight, and Jimmy hadn’t gotten two balls in after the break. Dante tsked and shook his head, and then said, “How about a tie-breaker?”
Jimmy recovered his wits enough to reply, “Sure. Want to put some money on it, to make it interesting?”
Dante had paused then, and then pulled out a roll of hundreds, peeled one off and put it on the edge of the table. Jimmy had balanced it with a small stack of twenties, and the game was off. Dante took the break and, as Jimmy watched, he had begun to realize that there was something odd about the other man. His shots were careless, sloppy, but the balls rolled straight and clean, striking their targets with just enough force to sink them, the cue ball coming to a near stop as it imparted its force to the other ball. Shots that Jimmy had been sure would strike one of his balls instead of Dante’s seemed to be imparted with just enough english to slide around obstacles and tap the target with enough force to send it across the felt to a far pocket. Impossible shots seemed to be no concern to Dante, and Jimmy had sat there watching shot after shot go in, and then heard Dante say, “Eight ball, side pocket.” and the other man was pocketing his money.
Dante had smiled, a satisfied and smug expression, and asked, “Another game, James?”
Jimmy couldn’t say no. This was his hall; he owned these tables and took anyone came to them. He won tournaments regularly, and few regulars ever bothered Jimmy Hustle when he was playing. To lose to a stranger was death to his reputation. He had to win.
Three games had followed, and Jimmy had lost each one. It had been close, but Dante seemed to have the Devil’s own luck, and Jimmy had always been a ball or two behind. Finally, as Dante had collected the money from the table on the sixth game, he had straightened his tie unnecessarily (where Jimmy had discarded his Homburg and coat, the other man was still wearing his coat and tie, looking as fresh as if he had just walked out his door), and had said, “Well, this has been fun, but playing for cash is getting a little dull. How about we up the stakes?”
Jimmy stared at him. “Whaddaya have in mind?” he had asked.
Dante had lifted the cue stick that he had brought in. Most hustlers don’t let shills play with custom sticks, but Jimmy was playing with his own, so he hadn’t made a case of it. This one was an elegant hardwood, stained a blue so dark as to almost black. “My stick, plus all the cash you’ve lost, James.”
Jimmy had frowned. Dante insisted on calling him ‘James,’ as if he knew that it irritated him. He’d ignored it, but the five losses had made it hard. “In exchange for what?”
“Nothing special,” he had replied, examining his nails. They were curiously long for a pool player, and appeared to have been shaped, coming to slight points. Jimmy had suddenly noticed that they were the only two people in the room; even Jack had disappeared in the back. “I was thinking that you ante up your soul.”
Jimmy had been about to laugh at the absurd statement when he got a look at Dante’s eyes. They had no color, no whites, just flat black orbs that studied Jimmy like a shark studies a smaller fish. He swallowed and looked around, as if to assure himself that the room was, in fact empty. “I suppose,” he had said after a moment, “that I ain’t got much of a choice, do I?”
Dante had smiled, a shark’s grin, filled with pointed teeth. “No, James. No you don’t.” He then stepped back from the table, and Jimmy noticed that the balls had been racked and set up without anyone touching them. “You break.”
Jimmy swallowed and leaned over the table. He shifted the cue in the kitchen slightly to the right, as was his usual, and then stopped. “What the hell,” he muttered, and shifted it back to the center, and let fly with a furious break that sank four balls – three solids and a stripe – before everything stopped moving.
“’What the hell’ indeed,” Dante had said, smiling. “You’re solids,” he added, his smile broadening into a ferocious grin.
Jimmy was so unnerved that he missed an easy sinker on the next shot, and Dante took over. He sank five of the remaining striped balls before he missed a hard shot at the fourteen and had to hand it over. “Ah, well,” he had said, still smiling, “a slight delay only adds to the final pleasure, wouldn’t you agree, James?”
Jimmy hadn’t responded, but stepped up to the table and surveyed the balls. He sank the first two shots easily, but he noticed his hands were shaking on the third shot and had to take a pause. “Problem, James?” inquired Dante.
“Yeah,” responded Jimmy, “some banger keeps talking while I’m tryin’ to play.”
Dante chuckled at that. “My apologies,” he said, in an insincere tone. “Please continue.”
Jimmy fixed him with a hard stare and then turned back to the balls. The third shot required banking off the right rail with a fierce amount of running english and enough force to reach the back rail and send the three ball into the left side pocket, avoiding the fourteen. The three sank solidly, and there had been a grudging “Nice shot.” from Dante, but Jimmy didn’t look up. The cue ball came to a stop with the fourteen and the five on the table, with the eight resting on the back side of the five, only an inch or so from the back left pocket. The fourteen was between the cue and the five ball, making any shot have to come at an angle that would be difficult to take without sending the eight ball into the corner before the five had sunk.
And now, as Jimmy looked over the table, Dante drew his breath in with a hiss. “Nasty,” he said. “I’d offer you a chance to resign without the embarrassing loss, but I doubt you’d take it.”
“Fuck you,” said Jimmy. He looked down at the balls, plotting lines of force and angles of reflection. No matter how he took the shot, it was likely that the eight ball would go in before he could sink the five, and that would cost him the game. There was a chance, but it was slim, that he could move the five without touching the eight and send if off against the side rail and down to left side pocket, but it would be a hard shot, even on a good day. He closed his eyes for a moment. Please, he thought, though he couldn’t say to what or whom he was thinking it. Then he opened his eyes, took a breath, sighted on the cue, and took the shot.
The back spin slowed the ball, but Jimmy hammered it and it caromed off the right rail and kept going. Jimmy saw it slowing as it hit the left rail, barely missing the fourteen and rebounding to impact with the five. Jimmy saw the eight ball shift as the five rolled away and drew in a breath in fright, but it caught the corner of the rail and stopped on the lip of the pocket, the cue less than an inch away and lined up.
The five rolled back across the table toward the right rail and bounced off, but Jimmy could see that it was slowing. “Too slow, James,” said Dante, shaking his head in mock-sympathy. “It’s not going to make… it…?” His mockery faded to confusion as he saw the ball slow, but not stop, and drop quietly into the left side pocket.
Jimmy smiled slightly and stepped around to the left side of the table. “Eight ball, left corner pocket,” he said, and with a brief, simple shot, sank the eight ball. Turning to Dante, he added, “Pay up.”
Dante glared at Jimmy, but reached into his pocket and peeled the stack of twenties and hundreds that had exchanged hands over the game off his money roll and dropped them into his hand. Jimmy leaned his cue stick against his shoulder and held out his other. Dante’s glare gave way to a snarl, and he handed the dark blue stick over. “Take good care of that,” he growled. “I’ll want it back when you’re done with it.”
“Tell you what,” said Jimmy, pocketing the cash and taking a firm grip on the stick. “You can play me again for it in a couple of years. If you think you’re any good without it, that is.”
Dante snarled again. “You got lucky, James,” he said, pointing a finger at Jimmy. “That’s all.”
Jimmy turned his back to Dante and began to retrieve the balls from the pockets of the table. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, pal.” There was no response, and when he turned around, Dante had disappeared. With a shrug, he went back to racking the pyramid.
The front door swung open and the first of the afternoon players made their way in, stopping at the bar to grab a beer from Jack (who came out of the back at the sound of the door opening) before heading to their regular tables. Pretty soon, other games were going, but Jimmy was putting on his coat and hat and boxing up the sticks. “Hey, Jimmy,” said Jack as he saw the hustler making to leave, “not sticking around?”
“Nah, Jack, it’s been a long afternoon. Truth be told, this place ain’t got too much appeal anymore.” Jimmy reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of blue-tinted cheaters, which he put on as he paid off his tab. “I think I’m gonna head over to Paragon City for a while, and see what sort of action is around there.” He tucked the sticks up under his arm and headed out. “You take care, Jack.”
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com
"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."
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