30.
The pool hall took up the top floor of a three-story walk-up.
Hugging a main drag, built for action. A bruiser hovered the front door, collecting cover charges. For players, he’d wave the ten-spot.
A fleet of tables in a smoke-filled room. Crowds at every few tables. Shorty stepped through the haze with a small carrying case, as if hiding a flute. Shorty cut a path, reaching the back table.
He popped the case, and screwed the cue. He grabbed a free slate. Popping shots, drilling the table clean. Another Guy stepped up to the table. Young and cocky. He smiled at Shorty, watching the old bird drain stripes and solids. The posture and smile, inviting a match. Shorty made quick work of the guy. Bossed the table from the break. Never letting him get in a shot of his own.
Shorty wrapped up, pulling a roll of bills. He stepped to one of the fleet tables, reserved for big matches. Bettors creeped from the smoky fog, dropping dough on the felt. Paz, the hall‘s book, snatched bills, notching wagers.
Shorty broke, kicking off the match. Shorty ran the table.
Shot after shot, mailing balls into the pockets. He brushed the guy in a jiff. More guys came forward to take on this old sharp shooter.
The clinic continued. Game after game, Shorty dusting the comp, pocketing bills. The last victim tossed the stick on the table in disgust, walking off.
"Who else you got for me Paz?"
"That's it, Shorty. There's nobody left." Shorty started to break down, boxing his hot stick. The night’s catch would provide a nice meal, and some tail. Shorty, already running the stops through his skull. A night wing calypso. Meal, woo-woo, whiskey sours.
A young cocky hot shot, breezed up to the table, calling out Shorty.
"Not so fast--I'm looking for a game." Shorty turned.
Shorty paused, recording the guy. He recognized the punk. "Oh, you again."
"Yeah, that's right--it's me. How's it hangin' old times?"
"I thought you would a got a real job by now." The hot shot chalked his cue, and called out to the crowd. "Look who it is everybody--Minnesota fucking Fats--back from the Twilight Zone."
"Hard-on." Shorty took off his jacket, and broke out the hot stick. The hot shot reached out to the crowd. "Hey everybody.
This is the one I've been telling you about." The hot shot promoting interest. Bettors popped from the shadows. Paz didn’t dig it, pulling Shorty aside.
"You sure you want to do this?"
"He's a punk, Paz."
"I'm with you--but that's beside the point."
"Get it going--I'll kick this kid's ass." Shorty handed Paz his money roll.
"If you say so. It's your money."
"Hey old-times--make sure you keep some in your pocket, I don't want to take all of your license plate money."
"Rack 'em up." Shorty stepped up. The hot shot hawked.
"I've been practicing, since the last time. You cleaned my clock, old-times--but now, I want to show you what I learned from it."
"You talk a lot--don't you?" Shorty said. He chalked his pool cue, and broke.
Shorty and the hot shot went deep. A horseshoe crowd ribboned the table. They exchanged the english. Weird curves, and banks. Cue balls swerved and slalomed. A scorer notched drops. More guys stepped out of the crowd, kicking in the wagers.
Paz plucked wool, and penciled. The horseshoe swelled, stuffing a corner of the hall.
More breaks, shots, and money. The hot shot tore a run, leaving Shorty in a tough hole. The punk hogged the table. A freak streak. The last shot nailed it home, knocking Shorty out.
Another player took Shorty's place.
"Take it easy, old-times. Better luck next game."
"Yeah.…", Shorty said. A young guy stepped out of the crowd. A Shorty fan.
"I'm sorry Shorty".
"Not your fault."
"I know another hall."
"You gotta find another player."
"You can't win 'em all."
"I'm tapped. That guy cleaned me out. Take it easy, kid", Shorty attempted to leave. The kid calls out. "Where are you going?"
"Back home."
"Where's that?"
"Jersey. I gotta make some more dough. I'll make it back."
Shorty walked off, dissolving into the foggy hall.
A guy stepped out of the haze, tailing Shorty. A fedora silhouette. The guy continued, pacing Shorty. He called out.
"Yo, Shorty." Shorty turned. Eddie Bones, feet away.
"Hey Bones--what are you doing here?" The men shook hands. Whitey, his wing man, stepped forward. "You remember Whitey?"
"Yeah, sure." Shorty and Whitey shook hands. "How you doin'? All slicked up, workin' the town." Shorty said. Bones laughed.
"Gettin' around."
"Atta boy."
"I'm glad I ran into ya."
"What's up?" Bones stopped.
"Me and Whitey are workin' our next job. We're gonna need a good, stand-up crew. You know anybody?"
"I hadda feelin' why you showed up tonight. What are we lookin' at?" Bones put his hand on Shorty's shoulder, as they strolled the hall. "This fuckin' thing is big. We're talkin' retirement score around here."
"Sounds good--I'd like to hear you out."
"You know, it's a good thing you showed up. I was on my way to the station to buy a bus ticket back to my daughter‘s."
"Gimme your number. We're settin' up a meet, and I'll give you a shout."
"Looks like I'm stickin' around."