“How will you get to work?” Tonya asked him after he showed her the cue.
“I’ll walk,” Evan told her.
“You better watch it, Evan, or you’ll be walking your whole life.”
Evan still did not own a car, but he wouldn’t have traded his cue for anything. It was his prize possession.
Evan walked into the bathroom with the cue and entered the stall. He counted out the six hundred dollars. He would never have played with a penny less than he had. He had lost money before. He had awakened hung over and broke in the morning, unaware for just a moment of what happened the night before, free from the memory as if it was not his. But it always found him, and then he became certain. With his pockets empty he was forced to begin answering all those questions he always so easily ignored: how would he pay the rent and his bills and the numerous friends he owed? It was the same the morning after Tonya left. He awoke, not realizing at first that she was gone, but then, past his cotton mouth and splitting head, it had returned to him, the cursing and packed bags. That morning was worse because for a long time Evan lay in bed and tried with all the truth he could find to convince himself that it was all part of a nightmare, that Tonya was simply at work. Even that was pointless.
Evan patted the money through his jeans. He would never play with just words and promises of funds. Waking up broke was one thing, but there were certain rules for welchers, and Evan knew them well enough to never take the chance. He walked to the sink and splashed his face with cold water. He held out his right hand, his shooting hand, palm down, and watched its stillness. He seemed ready, certain. Tonight he could jump tracks, and as he took his cue from the stall he felt the rhythm of his heart churning steadily within him.
At the table, Frank practiced his draw, trying to leave the cue ball exactly where he desired as if he was some kind of magician. Evan saw that the ten through fifteen balls were still boxed, as he knew they would be. Nine Ball was the only game anyone at the Crown ever played for money.
“So what do you say, Frank,” Evan asked, “a race to five for two notes?”
Frank pulled back his cue and studied its joint. It was a nice stick, a vintage Brunswick, and Evan admired its precise inlays. But he could tell Frank was impressed when he laid the McDermott on the table. Frank began to rack the balls.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said.
Evan won the break off the lag and took the first and second games easily, but in the third he misjudged a bank and watched the nine ball bounce off the inside point of the side pocket. Frank won the game and pulled ahead in the race three to two before Evan had another chance to shoot. In the sixth game Evan had a chance at a combination shot that could tie things up. The seven was sitting about an inch off the side rail and Evan saw that with a good enough cut he could use it to put in the nine, which was near the edge of the corner pocket. Evan leaned down and eyed the balls over the expanse of green felt. He envisioned an imaginary line, the same line the ball would have to travel for him to make the shot. He straightened up, chalked his cue, and ran his left hand over the white cone of chalk that sat on the divider behind him. It would help the Sedona run smoothly over his coarse skin. Evan leaned down and spread the fingers of his left hand over the table before pulling the felt tightly between them, stretching it slightly from the slate. He placed the end of his cue between the knuckle of his pointer finger and the inside of his thumb. He held the cue as softly as a woman’s hand and ran it back and forth over his fingers. The shot was all finesse and Evan watched as the nine dropped smoothly into the far corner pocket. After that the games seemed effortless. In the next one he sank the nine off a rocket break. To win the race he capitalized off a miss by Frank on the three ball. He sank the three through nine, counting each ball as it dropped like a child learning his numbers for the first time. After that they played a double or nothing and Evan won that race as well, five games to one. He could not remember the last time he played so brilliantly, the balls rolling as if they knew and respected him, the cue sliding through his hands like a piston.
In the bar Evan bought two bourbons. He tried not to smile, but when he ordered the drinks, Thomas gave him a slight nod acknowledging his victory. Evan sat down across from Frank at one of the bar’s tables and handed him his drink. Frank pushed a sweaty wad of fifties and twenties across the table and Evan pocketed the money without a word. The bills looked as crumpled as Frank. Evan hoped that all four hundred was there but he would not count it until he arrived home.
“You play well,” Frank said.
“Thanks. I was on tonight I guess.”
“Yeah, well cheers.” Frank lifted his glass and hit it recklessly against the side of Evan’s. “So how about one more?”
“I just got started on this one,” Evan said, raising his glass.
Frank smiled. “I wasn’t talking about the drink.”
“I know,” Evan said, “but it’s getting late, and my luck can’t last forever.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Frank said.
Evan did not want to play again. It had already been a good night. He thought that he might call Tonya, tell her how well he’d played.
“Maybe another time,” Evan said. “I’m around.”
“I know you are.” With that Frank stood from his chair and walked back toward his table.
Evan lifted his cue from where it rested against the wooden divider and walked to the back wall. He began to unscrew the McDermott. When he undid the two-piece cue, the top half slid out of his hand and hit the floor with a crack. He bent down to pick it up, but before he could, Augie stepped over and scooped it from the ground. He held the top half of the cue between his fingers like a toothpick and handed it over.
“It’s a beautiful cue,” Augie said.
“Thanks,” Evan said, surprised by the way the large man spoke. The words came out as nothing more than a whisper, his voice as soft as felt.
“I saw your combo in that one game. That was a nice cut.”
Evan nodded. “Maybe we could shoot around some time,” he said.
Augie peered down at him. “I don’t really play anymore,” he said. “I’ve kind of retired. But I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.” He walked back to his seat at the end of the bar.
Evan slipped both halves of his cue into the locker, and shut it.
Outside the hail had turned to a light rain. A warm wind was blowing in off the lake and Evan felt alright walking home. He zipped up his jacket and moved quickly. It was after midnight and the streets were empty. Only a few cars moved slowly past, rolling over the darkened potholes. The air smelled of the thaw, and silvery rivulets streamed in the gutters.
At home he went straight to the kitchen and took Frank’s money from his pocket. It was all there: ten crumpled twenties and four fifties. He straightened them against the table top and then added them to his own six hundred dollar roll.
In the living room he left the lights off and took a seat on the couch. He thought again about calling Tonya. He could tell her about his night. About the money. He could tell her that things were looking up. But it was late and the thought of her not answering at all was worse than anything.
His apartment was on the second floor and outside his window a maple branch shook beside a streetlight, throwing shadows onto the dark walls. Evan watched them and remembered a morning shortly after Tonya moved in. It was a Sunday, early, and they had just made love. Outside the sky was beginning to lighten. They were lying together on a mattress in the center of the floor, and Tonya had her head cradled on Evan’s chest. They both stared at the ceiling, silent. Evan could not remember now why he said it. Perhaps he felt he should offer her some compliment, show his affection. And so with the day’s first light casting shadows above them he told her he loved her eyes, that they were beautiful eyes. Tonya quickly squeezed them shut and brought her face to rest near his.