Less Than Human (20 page)

"Just look at that, would you?" Kevin watched the sweet young thing wiggle her ass for Jake as she walked away. "That old son of a bitch gets more pussy than the rest of us put together."

"And him old enough to be her granddaddy, too," Boyce kicked in. "It ain't right."

"Well, if Jake only got laid once, that'd put him ahead of you two." Bobby stuck his cue stick between his legs, poured talc on it, and began thrusting the slick wood back and forth in his cupped hand, pushing it up farther with each stroke. The stick seemed to grow larger. "This should bring back a lot of memories for you boys."

"It sure does," Nash said. "Throw me that talc, will you? I think I gotta go to the john."

Earl held up his hand to get their attention. "If you boys are through foolin' around, it's time to get this show on the road." He rolled the cue ball to Bobby and stepped over to say something to a young, blond-haired guy with a crucifix dangling from his ear. The young guy laughed before slipping something unseen to Earl. The old man quickly inserted the object into his mouth and bit down. "It's just my teeth," Earl said, flashing a smile for all to see. "I'm always going off and forgetting the damned things."

Manny, Ernesto, and Jesus settled on one side of the room, Nash, Boyce, and Kevin on the other. The two groups glared at each other for a few moments. Their hostility was mostly for show, since it was Nash's Dodge Charger that Jesus was working on over at the Shell station.

Jesus was doing the work on credit.

The rest of the crowd lined up against the far wall, watching expectantly, and there were a few good natured jeers. Some money rustled as it exchanged hands.

Finally everyone became still as Bobby leaned over the pool table and dropped his cigarette butt on the floor, grinding it out beneath his boot. He lifted his hat once, sat it forward on his head.

Rituals, Jesse thought, watching Bobby. Magic to protect him from bad luck.

Bobby leaned into the break and the cue ball was a pistol shot when it hit. Two stripes and a solid fell. Bobby strolled around the table, eyeing the remaining balls. "The solids look like they lay out a little better, don't they, Jesse?" Without waiting for an answer, Bobby dropped the three in the corner and looked over at Jesse. "I hope you brought plenty of money with you."

"I didn't think I'd need much."

"Speaking of money, I hear you been saving yours, Jesse. You thinking about leaving us?" Bobby dropped another solid into the side pocket with a showy hammer stroke. Then he sent the cue ball two rails and gently kissed the four in the corner good night. "What's the matter, this town not good enough for you anymore?"

Jesse said nothing.

Bobby sank still another ball. "Amy Warrick been putting ideas into your head, talking about that great big old world out there? Telling you that you got a place in it?"

"You leave Amy out of this," Jesse said, "or we can stop the game right here."

The last two solids went down and only the eight remained. Bobby said, "Side pocket, one rail," and he made the black ball vanish into the middle of the hole as though it had eyes. The cue ball came back to Bobby and paused in front of him like an eager dog waiting to do its next trick. "Sorry, Jesse. I didn't mean to get you pissed off. It just sort of surprised me to hear Amy would hook up with another pool hustler." Bobby laid his cue stick on the table. "Especially after her dad ran off and left her when she was little."

Jesse started toward Bobby, but Earl stepped in front of Jesse and put a hand on his chest. "Take it easy, son. He's just trying to get you riled up, throw you off your game."

Still angry, Jesse tried to move Earl out of the way, but the old man was surprisingly strong. He steered Jesse back to a seat along the wall and sat him down. "I heard Bobby boy, over there, mention Amy Warrick," Earl said. "I guess that'd be your girl?"

Jesse nodded. "Bobby hasn't got used to the idea yet."

Earl started racking the balls again, sliding the triangle back and forth until all the balls were tightly bunched, before lifting it with surgical precision. "Warrick, Warrick. I think I know that name from somewhere." Earl smiled, showing a quick flash of white teeth as he pretended to remember. "Your girl, Amy, would her dad be John Warrick?"

"Yeah, that's right. You know John?"

"No, not exactly. Let's just say I heard of him," Earl said, sliding the rack out of sight. "I hear he can handle a stick pretty good."

"Pretty good." Jesse smiled. "Mister, ain't nobody can touch John Warrick. He's the best."

"The best, huh?" Earl considered Jesse's statement for a moment. "I hear he comes around here from time to time."

Bobby broke again, this time sinking two stripes. "You might have to wait around awhile, Earl. Nobody's seen him in almost a year." Bobby pistoned another ball out of sight.

"I'd like a shot at him myself."

Steven Adler appeared at Earl's side and Bobby was slightly startled. He hadn't seen or heard the guy with the earring move. The guy was just there.

"You must want John real bad," Bobby said, "to interrupt a man while he's trying to shoot." Bobby stared at the young guy in black and he started to make a crack about the earring, but something in the guy's eyes stopped him. They made Jake's look pleasant by comparison.

"Yes, I do," Steven said softly. "I want him real bad."

There was a sudden hunger in Steven Adler's eyes, a longing that Bobby had only seen when a man looked at a woman. "I'm sorry for interrupting, Bobby and Jesse, but I'd like to play the winner of this little contest… if it's ever over." His smile was insolent. "I've got a little time on my hands and I think both of you are ready to learn the finer points of the game."

"Mister, whoever you are, you got some real cojones on you," Bobby said, "waltzing in here from Texas like you own the place."

"My name is Steven Adler," the guy with the earring said simply. "I'm the best. And I'm willing to prove it."

"Well, Mr. Steven Adler, you just park your butt over there. You're next in line."

"Consider it parked, but try to speed this up a little, okay? I might get bored and go back to Texas, then you Arizona goat ropers won't get those pointers I promised."

"Goat ropers?" someone in the crowd said. An angry buzz rippled through the room.

"It's all right, don't apologize," Steven said. "I've seen your women; I understand why you prefer goats."

This time someone in the crowd threw a beer bottle, hard, at the back of Steven Adler's head. As best as Bobby could tell, it was thrown by one of the women. He thought about telling the guy to duck, decided against it.

Just before the bottle connected, Steven turned, reached out and caught it, emptied the contents on the floor. "Thanks, ma'am, not my brand." He sat the bottle down on the table, turned and sank into a chair along the wall, leaned back, and closed his eyes as though bored.

Jesse stared at Steven Adler for a moment, unnerved. He too had seen Steven move and he didn't believe his own eyes. The guy was quick. Unbelievably quick.

Steven opened his eyes and winked at Jesse, then closed them again. Jesse felt a cold wind touch his back, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh. He didn't know where these guys were from, but they sure as hell weren't from Texas.

The crowd quieted and Bobby went back to work, dropping the rest of the stripes in short order before putting the eight ball to bed. In the fifth game, Bobby left himself a bad lay and finally missed a shot.

Jesse ran off the next four games before scratching on a tough two-rail bank shot.

Bobby won the next one.

Jesse won the next three.

Three hours and seventeen games later, Jesse was ahead only two hundred dollars and the grind was starting to wear them down. Both were sweating in the smoky, too-hot bar and their shirts were soaked through.

"This is bullshit," Bobby said. "This is going to take all goddamned night at this rate." He slammed his stick down on the table. "I got an idea how to speed things up, if you got the cojones for it. How much money you got?"

"Five grand and a little change," Jesse answered after a brief look at his friends, who were shaking their heads no. They looked like those plastic dogs with wobbly heads that often adorned the back of cars.

Jesse went over to Manny, pulled a wad of hundred-dollar bills out of his jacket pocket and laid them on the table. It had taken him over a year to earn that much money, hustling, scrimping, and saving, going without. It was his ticket out of Crowder Flats. He stared at the folded bills and asked, "What you got in mind, Bobby?" His own voice sounded distant to him, unreal.

"I'll lay it out real simple. Each of us takes one turn at the table. You shoot until you miss, any ball you want, it's as simple as that. Whoever sinks the most balls wins. What do you say, Jesse, you got the guts?"

Jesse felt more than saw everyone looking at him, waiting for his answer. His mouth went dry.

"Oh, by the way, I thought I'd throw in a little kicker," Bobby added. "Just to keep things interesting. You don't make something on the break, it's all over."

Sweat dotted Jesse's forehead but he didn't dare reach up to wipe it away.

Bobby picked his stick up from the table and looked at Jesse. "You win; you walk out of here with ten grand. Lots of things a man can do with that kind of money." Bobby took a drink of his Lone Star, held the cold bottle against his face. "You could get out of Crowder Flats, or you could buy whiskey for that crazy old grandfather of yours." The familiar lazy grin spread across Bobby's face. "What do you say, Jesse?"

"I say you go first."

The grin faltered.

For the first time Jesse realized Bobby was just as scared as he was, that Bobby had been trying to make him back off, but now there was no turning back for either of them. Pride wouldn't let them.

The grin returned and this time it looked forced. "All right, Jesse, I guess that's only fair." He downed the rest of his beer. "Rack 'em up, will you, Earl?"

"You boys play rough," Earl said. "You both sure you want to do this?"

Jesse looked at Bobby, their eyes locking for an instant, and they were both eleven years old again, standing by the calf chute at the local rodeo while waiting for Bobby's number to come up. Chester Roberts had signed Bobby up for calf riding. Bobby had been scared to death on that day long ago, but he hadn't said a word. He wore that cocky grin of his as he had climbed into the chute. Even as he had pissed his jeans. He wore that same expression right now.

Why was Bobby pushing him so hard? Jesse looked into the crowd and saw the reason why. Standing there, in black jeans, a plain white cotton shirt, and a black hat that matched her hair was Amy Warrick. She was watching Jesse with total disbelief on her face. She had heard everything.

"Rack the balls, Earl," Jesse said, looking away from her. "Let's get this over with."

"All right, son." There was regret on Earl's seamed face as he bent to his task. He, too, had seen the way Amy had looked at Jesse.

Bobby made three balls on his first break and then went on to clear seven more racks, sinking 123 more balls before he finally missed.

"Looks like I'm going to have to talk to your daddy," Jesse said with grudging admiration.

"Why's that?"

"You been spending too much time in pool halls."

"That's one twenty-six to you, Jesse, and that's a lot of balls in the hole, old buddy." Bobby sank down in a chair, cocked his hat back on his head. "But never let it be said that Bobby Roberts isn't a sporting man. Tell you what, Jesse, you give me five hundred and we'll call it a night right now. You don't even have to shoot."

Jesse wanted to take Bobby's offer that would be the smart thing to do, only something inside wouldn't let him. It wasn't macho posturing: it wasn't something he could explain. It had to do with being a man, with being able to hold your head up. He stood and went to the table, leaned against it because his legs didn't seem to want to hold him up anymore. "Thanks, Bobby, but I don't think I'd sleep too good if I didn't at least give it a try."

"I'd have been surprised if you hadn't."

Earl dumped the balls in the rack, made a swirling pass, and the balls clicked once and then were quiet. The rack came away.

Everything was set.

Everything was waiting.

For Jesse.

Jesse placed the cue ball exactly twelve inches from the back rail, two inches off center, paused to wipe the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve. He was operating on automatic pilot right now. Amy was watching him with an unblinking stare and he tried to read her expression. It was unreadable. Her face might have been made from stone, but stone didn't have a tear running down it. Jesse dusted his hands with talc, chalked his stick, carefully going through his own rituals as though they were magic that could protect him from what was to come.

Manny, Ernesto, and Jesus were watching. Their expressions were very readable. They looked scared.

"Come on, boys, lighten up a little," Jesse said. "It's only money." Taking a deep breath, he drew back his stick and prayed that he wouldn't miscue. He didn't. The cue ball slammed into the rack with a satisfying crack and suddenly Jesse knew everything was going to be all right. Only one solid fell. It was enough. He finished the rack.

And the next seven. One hundred and twenty balls down the hole.

"That's good shooting, son," Earl said. "Mighty good." He slowly dumped the balls into the plastic triangle, rolled them around until they were good and tight. "I guess you know this is the one that counts." He slipped the rack off and stepped away.

Jesse went straight into the break, putting everything he had behind his stick, feeling the shock run up his arm. It was a clean hit and the cue ball was a hammer. The balls scattered, darting across the table almost too fast to see, but nothing was falling. They danced their dance, began to slow.

Still plenty of action, still plenty of time.

The fifteen was coming down the rail, moving good. The three was coming, too.

One was all he needed.