Movement flashed inside a black van Everett had never seen before. Someone had brought a dog, he decided, probably a valuable coonhound he was afraid to leave at home. Everett walked past Jesse’s pickup, wishing his truck had a gun rack instead of garbage cans. He polished the toe of each boot on his opposite calf and pushed the heavy door open. Flies the size of bullets droned the smoky air. Lard buckets for tobacco spit sat in each corner.
A cue ball sailed off the table and smacked Jesse’s thigh.
“You hurt?” someone asked.
Jesse lifted the ball in a big-knuckled hand. “Didn’t hit me,” he said, and laughed a short bark. He tossed the ball to a stranger. Jesse snapped a stove match against his fly and lit a cigarette, staring at Everett.
“It’s a Wall Eye,” Jesse said.
Everett kept walking, lips clamped like pliers. Quentin unlocked a tiny padlock, more for show than security, and removed a cue from a rack. Taped to the butt was a scrap of paper printed with Everett’s name. Three other private sticks stood in the rack.
“Good wood,” Quentin said.
“Just a stick.”
“Could do worse.”
“I have.”
“You will,” Quentin said. “How’s your daddy?”
Everett squeezed the cue as hard as he could, knowing it would hold. He’d seen one break, but it had taken three blows across a man’s back, a poor way to treat a good stick. He slowly relaxed, the cue damp in his palms.
Quentin opened a round tin of snuff and dipped a pinch, tucking it behind his lip and working it into position with his tongue. The corners of his mouth were black. He jerked his head to indicate a table.
“Boy yonder is tearing up pill-pool at two bucks a pill,”
“He can keep it,” Everett said.
Quentin punched his arm. “Good man, boy,” he said. “Gamblers die broke.”
Everett shot a rack, banking the balls around a slash in the felt. He squatted to slip another quarter in the slot, listening for his favorite sound, the dull rumble of balls. Jesse brayed from the far corner, where he played nine-ball with two strangers. Everett figured they owned the black van and the dog. They were shooting the best table, regulation size, rented by the hour instead of coin operated. Below each pocket hung a braided leather pouch. It was ideal for nine-ball, a game he’d never liked. The first eight balls were shot in numerical order and whoever made the nine ball won. Everett preferred the precision of straight pool.
Jesse moved around the table, rubbing the cue between his legs and talking loud.
“First time I had her she could piss in a thimble,” he said. “Now she’s got a stream wide as a handsaw.”
The strangers grinned, leaning on their cues as if they were hoe handles. Quentin walked to the table and spoke quietly. The men stiffened, staring at Everett. Quentin went to the jukebox.
“Hey, Everett,” he called, “name it!”
“L-8,” said Everett.
Quentin pushed the button for Boxcar Willie’s song about seeing the world from a slow freight train. Everett concentrated on his practice. The side pockets were the hard pockets, Quentin always said, and the long shots were the hard shots. After several racks, his arm felt limber and he was controlling the cue ball well. Jesse’s high voice rose above the crack of balls.
“Can’t ask much from Wall Eye no way. His daddy’d done better to raise him like a hog. Could have sold him off and got some good out of him that way.”
Everett’s back stiffened. He felt cold inside but his skin was hot. He crossed the room to the table and the two strangers gripped their cues across their bodies. Quentin began moving slowly from the back. Jesse pressed a finger to his nostril and blew snot to the cement floor.
“What are you looking at?” he said.
“Shoot some pool.”
“Money game,” sneered Jesse. “Dollar on the five and two on the nine.”
“Oh,” said Everett, turning away. “Thought you said money.”
One of the strangers grinned. He lifted a dirty cap and pressed it back to his head. “How much you fixing to lose?”
“Ten,” Everett said.
“Show it.”
“He don’t have to,” Quentin said. “This ain’t town.”
“I’m not from town,” the man said. “Me and my buddy work the river loading coal.”
“The Blue Lick’s not that close,” Quentin said.
“Jesse brung us up here for some tail but I ain’t seen none yet.” He grinned to his friend. “Porter gets it and me and you are stuck in a damn game room. That Porter, he honks the horn every time he’s finished.”
Balls thundered into the trough below a table, and someone asked Quentin for change. Everett lost the coin toss and shot fourth, following Jesse. If the others played well, he’d lose before his chance to shoot, and ten dollars was all he had. The riverman ran five balls and left a lousy leave. His buddy made the eight ball without calling it.
“No slop,” Jesse said. He grinned at Everett. “Call everything and keep your slop at home.”
Everett tightened his grip on the cue. As long as he stayed on the other side of the table from Jesse, he’d be all right. In a fight, Jesse would come at him from the side and pound his bad eye. He’d done it twice before.
Jesse rushed his shot and missed. Everett dropped the nine with a simple combination for twenty dollars, half the money. Jesse spat between his teeth. “Forty on the nine,” he said. “No splits.”
Everyone nodded and Everett broke. Two balls fell and he made two more before trapping himself in a corner. Both the rivermen missed.
Jesse made the seven, but the cue ball rolled to the rail, trapped behind the nine. He could shoot a long bank on the eight, or nudge the cue ball and leave Everett the same choice. Jesse blew on his bridge hand. He lined up the shot and gently tapped the white ball.
“Dirty pool’s still pool, ain’t it,” he said.
The riverman tucked the cue into his armpit and over his forearm like a rifle.
Everett wiped his forehead, smearing blue chalk into the sweat. If he did the same as Jesse, they would all pass until someone made a mistake and left the next man an easy shot. Never play safe, Quentin had said. Play for the game, not the shot. Always forward.
Everett bent his knees and spread his legs, head cocked sideways to keep his good eye directed down the nicked cue. He was too close to the rail, on top of the ball.
“Twenty-five bucks you miss,” Jesse said.
“I want some of that,” said the riverman. His friend nodded.
Everett stroked the top of the cue ball. It sped down the table, lost momentum ricocheting out of the corner, and slowed as it traveled back. It clicked the eight with just enough force to shove it in the pocket.
“I be dogged,” said the riverman.
“Nice shot,” his friend said.
“Lucky,” Jesse muttered.
Everett exhaled as he leaned over the table for the nine ball. It dropped easily in the corner. Quentin lifted his eyebrows to the locked cue rack on the wall. Everett shook his head, fingering the old yellow tape on the stick. A rapid fiddle whined from the jukebox.
The riverman won the next game and Everett won two more. Jesse raised the bet to sixty, counting on a win to regain his losses. Play slowed at the surrounding tables as people watched. Everett broke, balls scattered, and the six crashed into a corner pocket. He called a combination on the nine. As he drew his stick to shoot, Jesse spoke in a voice cold as metal.
“I hear Wall Eye went to sows after Sue shut him off.”
Everett froze, staring at the cue ball blued by chalk like a bruise. His bad eye spiraled toward the ceiling. He knew what people thought, what everyone on the creek said, but they usually hushed around him. He took a deep breath and faced the table. Shoot each shot one at a time, Quentin had said. Shut your ears off and don’t listen to nobody.