He and Lee-Anne were at the bar, their backs to the door.
You surprised by that? Turn around, walk out. Smartest thing you could do.
Althea waved from the bar. Billy turned, saw her. Lee-Anne turned then, too. Sara lifted her chin at them, went to the far end of the bar, found a spot. Althea brought her a pint of Guinness.
“Sam’s here,” she said.
“Where?”
“Over there.” She gestured toward the back alcove. Elwood was at the pool table alone, stretched over the felt, sizing up a shot, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans and a red Western shirt with pearl snaps.
“Want me to start a tab?” Althea said.
“No.” Sara got bills from her pocket, put a five on the bar. “I’m not staying long.”
She picked up the Guinness, walked back to the alcove. She heard the click of balls, the thump of the shot going in.
“Who’s winning?” she said.
Elwood turned, squinted at her through smoke. “Hi, Sara.” He tapped the cigarette into an ashtray on a shelf, picked up the bottle of Coors Light next to it.
“Surprised to see you here,” she said.
“Old Luke lets me off the leash every once in a while. Figured I’d come by, grab a beer.”
“Loose definition of beer.”
He gave a short laugh. “I guess. Rack ’em up.”
She put her Guinness on the shelf, got the rack from the wall peg. He squatted, fed quarters into the slot. The balls clacked, rolled out.
She set the rack, put the balls in, the one ball in the top position, eight ball in the center, lifted the rack away. He chalked his stick.
“Eight ball?” he said.
“Good enough. Calling shots?”
“Might as well.”
She got a cue down from the rack, tested its weight, chose another, heavier one.
“Shoot for the break?” she said.
“No, you go ahead.”
She chalked, placed the cue ball, leaned over the table, her weight equally distributed, knees slightly bent. She shot to the right of the one ball, hard and fast, the way her father had shown her. The balls flew apart. The fourteen ball spun, dropped into a corner pocket.
“Stripes,” she said, walking around the table to the other side. The rim was marked with ancient cigarette burns. Elwood sipped beer, watched her. She picked her shot, leaned, eyed the setup, pointed the stick at a side pocket. She hit the nine off the eleven, watched it drop.
“Glad we’re not betting on this,” he said.
She missed her next shot, watched the twelve carom harmlessly off the rail.
Elwood put his cigarette down, blew smoke through his nose, hefted his stick, and circled the table. Sara looked back into the bar. Lee-Anne had her left arm linked in Billy’s right, had pulled him close. He was listening to her, nodding. He looked over his shoulder at Sara. She met his eyes for a moment, looked away.
Elwood sank his shot, took another, missed. She looked back at the table and for a moment couldn’t remember if she had stripes or solids. Elwood was watching her.
She eyed a combination on the eleven, shot and missed.
“You’re distracted,” he said.
She chalked up. “I guess.”
He walked around the table, looking for his shot.
“Our friend’s out a lot these days,” he said. “He should be keeping a lower profile.”
He sank the five ball.
“Is that what you’re doing here?” she said. “Keeping an eye on him?”
He stretched out for a shot, looked up at her, then back at the table, hammered the three ball into a corner pocket. “Maybe somebody needs to,” he said.
She sipped Guinness, looked out to the bar. Billy and Lee-Anne were standing, ready to leave, arms still entwined.
Elwood missed his next shot. Sara looked away from them, back at the table.
“Your shot,” he said.
She put the Guinness down, shot for the eleven again, missed. She heard the front door open and close.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw you miss two shots in a row,” he said.
“Can’t seem to concentrate.”
“No wonder on that.” He bent, missed an easy shot on the four.
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“You know what I mean.”
He shrugged, got his beer.
She looked at him, then down at the table. She chalked up, leaned for the shot, used the ten ball to put the eleven in the side pocket. The cue ball came to rest midtable, gave her an easy setup with the fifteen in the far corner. She sank it hard, watched the cue roll back into position for another shot at the ten.
“That’s more like it,” he said.
She sank the ten, ran the table. The eight ball lingered near a corner pocket. She pointed the stick at the pocket, and he nodded. She chalked, bent, put it in.
“Like I said, glad we weren’t betting.”
“Good game, Sam.”
“Go again?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ve got to be getting home.”
She put the cue back on the rack. The pint of Guinness was still half full, but she was done with it. She carried it back to the bar to save Althea a trip, went out the front door. It shut behind her, muffling the music. She got her keys out, headed for the Blazer.
Billy’s truck was still there. Light wash from a pole fell at an angle across the windshield. She could see him in the driver’s seat, alone, head back, eyes closed, as if he were sleeping.
As she walked by, he opened his eyes, saw her. He said something she couldn’t hear, and then Lee-Anne raised her head up from under the dash, looked out at her.
Sara felt the warmth rush to her face. Lee-Anne met her eyes, smiled. She pushed her braids away, turned and spoke to Billy, then powered her window down. Billy sat there, frozen, blinking.
Sara couldn’t move. Lee-Anne looked out at her.
“You want to come over here and watch?” she said. “See how it’s done?”
Sara turned away, walked to the Blazer, her face burning. Behind her, Lee-Anne laughed. Sara got behind the wheel, turned the key, ground the starter, had to switch the ignition off, try it again.
Lee-Anne looked back at her, then dipped her head again, disappeared from sight. Sara heard a low moan from the truck, one she knew well.
She backed out, turned the wheel, pulled fast out of the lot. She was a mile down the road before she realized she was speeding. She willed herself to slow down, her face still flush and hot. It was the tears that surprised her.
EIGHT
When the knock came at the door, Morgan got the Beretta from the nightstand, looked through the peephole. C-Love and Mikey were outside.
“Come on, man,” C-Love said. “It’s freezing out here.”
Morgan undid the lock and night latch, opened the door, the Beretta at his side. As they came in, he looked past them into the parking lot. The Suburban was parked in the shadows near a Dumpster.
“The twins out there?” he said. He shut the door, locked it.
“Yeah, why you ask?” C-Love said. He was carrying a black plastic grocery bag. Mikey walked around the room, poked the bathroom door open.
“What are you looking for?” Morgan said.
“Nothing.”
“You bring what I asked?”
C-Love hefted the bag, dropped it on the bed.
“We need to talk about some shit,” Mikey said. There was a table and chair under the front window. He pulled the chair out, straddled it.
“That boy you murked in the alley,” he said. “That was Philly Joe from around the way.”
“So?” He set the Beretta on the nightstand.
“His people gonna be looking for you.”
Morgan went to the bed, opened the bag. Inside was a ziplock plastic bag filled with greenish-gold marijuana. C-Love stood near the door, watching him.