by Bob Brewer
Bill punched in a few more numbers on the jukebox while the two men wolfed down their dinner and the other customer racked up the balls on the billiard table. In the midst of the twangy strums of country music and the ceramic clicking of pool balls, another customer sidestepped the old dog and joined the small party. He was a young man, twenty-two or three. He wore pleated-front slacks and a short-sleeved shirt with the top three buttons undone to display his array of gold neck-chains. His head was in a constant little nod as he sauntered past the counter. In one hand he carried a long, thin, zippered case. He headed straight for the billiard table where he snapped a quarter on its mahogany railing. “Ten bucks says I can beat you,” he said testily to the man who still had four balls on the table.
“Make it five, and we play eight ball,” the man answered.
“You’ve got it,” the young man said. With a thin smirk on his lips he stepped over to the counter, opened the case and took out the two parts of a pearl-inlayed cue stick. He sat on a stool and screwed the two sections together while the man re-racked the balls. Bill, the bartender, didn’t bother to ask if he wanted a drink.
McDougal leaned over the bar and whispered to Bill, “The lad’s got a lot to learn about hustlin’ a table.”
“I don’t know,” Bill answered. “He’d better be awfully good. I’ve seen Hank play many a game and he wins ‘em mostly.”
Abe was listening in. “What do you know about hustling?” he asked McDougal, but the little man shrugged the question off and swiveled around to watch the action. Hank won the lag and lined up to break the triangle of balls. He shot and a scattered array of color blitzed across the green felt top. Two balls rolled haphazardly into pockets at the same instant, the fifteen and the two ball, one large number, one small. Hank’s choice.
The cocky kid glared at Hank. “Which will it be?” Hank looked over the table. “Small,” he said, and proceeded to shoot the next two balls in. His third effort missed, and the kid took over.
“Left me pretty good,” the kid said in his thin-lipped manner as he walked around the entire table once. He chose his first target and bent over the expensive cue stick. That ball and the next four balls dropped effortlessly, but his fifth ball tapped the cushion just before the pocket and careened back into the middle of the table. The cue ball spun into a pocket and Abe laughed. The punky young fellow turned and gave him an icy stare for a second then turned back to Hank. “Your shot,” he said just as icily as was his stare.
Hank didn’t have a good open shot anywhere on the table. He tried a two-cushion bank and missed.
“Tough luck,” the kid said, then cleaned the table of his balls and sank the eight into the pocket he called. “Five bucks,” he snarled, and Hank paid him. “Want another one?”
Hank shook his head and stuck his cue stick back into the rack on the wall.
The brash young fellow strolled over to Abe. “Thought that was funny, huh? Why don’t you show me how it’s done, old timer.”
“No,” Abe passed the challenge. “You’re way too good for me.”
The kid looked over at Thomas with a silly little smile on his face. “How about you, Shorty? You feel lucky?”
McDougal smiled back at him. “Oh, luck has nothin’ to do with it, me boy.” His voice was slurred which prompted Bill and Abe to exchange puzzled looks. “It’s all in the mind, don’t ya see?”
The kid grunted a sound of disgust. “Big talk for a little drunk. You want to shoot me or not?”
Bill held up a finger. “Give us a minute, here.” The kid gave them all an egotistical smirk and sauntered back to the table.
“You’re hustling him, ain’t you?” Bill said quietly, to which McDougal gave a little nod and a wink to Abe. “Just how good are you?” Bill continued.
“He deserves to be knocked down a few pegs,” Abe said. “It’d do him a world of good in the long run. Do you think you can do it?”
Bill jumped back in. “Well, what do you say, Shorty, can you whip him?”
“Not fer five dollars,” McDougal said, and winked at both of them.
Bill reached into his pocket. “I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I can’t stand a smart aleck.” He handed McDougal a twenty-dollar bill. “Here, take this. If you beat him, we’ll go fifty-fifty.”
The Irishman palmed the bill, adjusted his cap so the visor part was in the back and jumped down from the stool. He staggered a bit on his way to the billiard table where the kid was waiting. Very methodically he removed his jacket, folded it nicely then let it fall to the floor. In his slurred voice he said, “I prefer nine-ball meself. A faster game, don’t ya see?” He dropped two quarters in the slide-slot, pushed it in and listened for the balls to fall into the rack under the table.
“Where’s your money?” the kid ordered more than asked.
“Well, let’s see. Five dollars a game ya say?”
“No. I said ten.”
“Oh, did ya now? Well, that’s different.” McDougal turned and selected a stick from the wall rack. In a quick sequence that took only seconds, he held it out to peer down its length to see if it was straight, butted its handle on the floor to see if the counterweight was loose, and checked its leather tip. Satisfied that it was a decent stick, he looked back at the kid. “Why don’t we make it an even twenty?”
The kid smiled and gave him a quick nod. While Shorty was racking up the balls, Abe and Bill moved down next to Hank to watch the game from a front row seat. Bill brought both of them another glass of beer and had one for himself. He set an extra glassful on the counter for Shorty and motioned to him that it was there. “I’ll be right with ya,” the Irishman said to Bill, then turned to the kid. “Seein’ as how it’s yer game and since me lager’s waitin’ fer me, I’m thinkin’ yer the one who ought to be breakin’ ‘em up.” He started to walk away but stopped abruptly. “Oh, by the way, what do ya say we let the keeper of the inn hold on to the wagers?”
“Fine,” the kid agreed, and the game was on.
In a matter of two or three minutes at most the game was over. The kid had broken up the diamond shape, made the three on the break and shot five of the eight remaining balls in before missing. McDougal stepped up to the table and shot his first ball, the seven. The seven-ball screamed down the length of the table, missed the corner pocket and came screaming back up the table where it glanced off the eight, hit the cushion and spun hopelessly out into the middle of the table. It would have been a disastrous shot had it not been for the lucky hit on the eight, which rolled back down the table and barely nudged the nine-ball into a side pocket. “Would ya look at that?” the Irishman blurted out when it happened.
A look of utter disbelief crossed the kid’s face. There was no way the combination of hits could have occurred. In one wild, lucky shot, he had lost the game. “Double or nothing,” was his only comment.
The Irishman took off his cap and scratched his sandy hair. “Oh, it’d pain me somethin’ awful to be takin’ any more of yer money. Let’s see that’d be forty dollars wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah. Forty bucks, if you win. You in or out?”
“I wouldn’t want to be hurtin’ yer feelin’s, so I suppose it’d only be fair to be givin’ ya a chance to come out even, wouldn’t it?” He wobbled over to the counter and downed the rest of his beer, then winked again at his audience.
The punk kid had racked up the balls and was showing his loss of patience. “You going to think about it all night, Shorty?” he hissed.
Thomas made it back over to the table without falling down. “Out of me way, lad,” he commanded with the thick tongue of someone much drunker that he actually was. He set the cue ball on the table, moved it to three different locations, steadied his stick, then gave such a tremendous hit to the cue ball that it caused his feet to rise up off the floor. The neatly formed diamond burst so rapidly that the eye could not follow the various paths of the playing balls. As if by some m
iracle, the winning nine-ball emerged all on its own and rolled in slow motion towards the unobstructed pocket at the far end of the table from where Shorty had just landed.
“No, no, no!” the kid was yelling and slamming the butt end of his precious cue stick against the floor.
When the ball did finally drop out of sight, McDougal threw his baseball cap onto the table and did a little circular jig. “Forty dollars! Forty dollars!” he sang out. “Can ya believe it?”
Bill slapped Abe on the shoulder, and in a loud voice said he for one couldn’t believe it. “The luck of the Irish. Boy you’ve got it tonight, Shorty.”
“His name is McDougal,” Abe spoke up on Shorty’s behalf. “Mr. McDougal.”
Hank caught on to the game Bill was playing with the kid’s mind. “That makes you the big winner, Mr. McDougal. I think he’s had enough.” He teased the awestruck punk and held his hand out. “You owe the pot forty dollars, loser.”
The young man pulled a roll of money from his pocket and peeled off two twenty-dollar bills. “It ain’t going to end like this,” he swore as he roughly slammed the money into Hank’s hand. He counted out the balance of the roll, five more twenties, and threw them onto the table. “One more game,” he said. “You’ll be a hundred and sixty ahead or twenty behind. You got any guts, shrimp?”
Abe rose off his stool and started over to get in the middle if something drastic happened, but Shorty waved him back. “Me name’s McDougal, lad. Mr. McDougal to you. Now, if it’s another game you’d be lookin’ fer, I’ll oblige ya, but there’s somethin’ ya need to know. Yer probably lookin’ at the best billiards player you’ve ever had the displeasure of runnin’ into. Knowin’ that, would ya still be wantin’ to wager such a large amount?”
The arrogant look of self-importance flashed in the kid’s eyes. “You’re chicken, ain’t you?” he said, pointing to the table. “That’s probably more money than you’ve ever had at one time. You going to let it sit there? All you have to do is beat me one more game. I don’t think you’ve got it in you, have you, shrimp?”
Shorty picked his cap up off the table to make room for the balls. “Hand yer money to the barkeep then rack ‘em me boy, and make it tight,” he said in a very sober voice.
Abe motioned for Bill to fill the glasses again, then with an apology, bummed a cigarette from Hank. “Don’t smoke as a rule,” he explained. Hank obliged and passed him a box of stick matches and told him to keep them.
Just as McDougal lined up to start the final game, Bill returned with the glasses of beer. “Sure hope his luck holds out,” he said.
Hank leaned his head to one side and muted his voice. “Is he really a pro?”
Abe shook his head. “I couldn’t say. I just met him this morning. But seeing him in action the way I have today, if I was a betting man, I don’t think I’d put my money on him.”
Bill let out a deep breath. “Oh, well, it’s been a good show anyhow. Worth the twenty bucks just to see the frustration on the kid’s face.”
A new record settled down on the jukebox turntable, and to the words of ‘Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys’, Mr. McDougal fired the cue ball down the table. By the time Willie got to the part about ‘Smokey old pool rooms’, the game was over.
The way in which the little man surgically worked the table was an absolute marvel. With each deliberate stroke of his stick, a ball would drop and the cue ball would twist and turn its way to line up perfectly with the next ball in sequence. McDougal never bothered to look up. He would stroke the cue then without waiting to see the reaction he would position his body for the following shot. Without fail, the cue ball would wind up directly in front of him. When it came time to sink the nine, he shot it hard. The ball zigzagged across the table, hit the rail cushions four times and dropped out of sight in the pocket not six inches from where it began its tour. Only then did McDougal raise his brushy eyebrows to catch the expression on his would-be adversary's face.
Without a word, the young show-off let his cue stick fall to the floor. He started to pick it up, then changed his mind and ran for the door leaving his beautiful stick and its zippered case behind. The old dog ‘woofed’ rather loudly when the punk exited the bar.
Abe headed for the doorway to check on the dog while Hank and Bill came over to congratulate and admire Mr. McDougal.
“Boy, I’ve seen some shooters in my time,” Bill said with a whistle to punctuate his remark. “But you’re the doggondest player I’ve ever watched.” He threw an arm around the short man and patted him hard on the back.
Hank reached out and grabbed Thomas’s hand. “I’m sure glad I didn’t try to hustle you,” he said mixed with a chuckling laugh.
“Well.” Shorty brushed the compliments aside with a shrugg. “I’m thinkin’ this calls fer a wee celebration. Right after we divvy up the loot, that is.”
“Bring the dog on in,” Bill called to Abe. “It’s party time.”
Abe opened the door and patted his pants-leg to let the old dog know it was all right to enter then he rushed back to the counter. “Where’d you ever learn to play like that?” he asked Shorty in total astonishment.
“Oh, it’s a throwback from me younger days,” McDougal answered, giving his shirt collar where he kept his purse a couple of taps. “Comes in handy at times, don’t ya see?”
Abe smiled. “Now, I can understand how you’ve managed all these years without a proper job as you called it.” He patted Shorty’s back then turned to Bill. “ Where’s the drinks?”
“Coming right up,” said Bill. He handed the Irishman a handful of money. “I took out my twenty, you take the rest of it. You earned every penny.”
“Oh, I couldn’t be doin’ that,” Shorty replied. “As I recall, the deal was fifty-fifty of the winnin’s. If I’m figgurin’ correctly, that’d be seventy fer you and seventy fer me. I couldn’t have done it without yer backin’.”
“Okay,” Bill agreed. “But you keep the cue stick he left.”
“He could change his mind and come back for it,” said Abe.
Bill chuckled. “I kind of doubt he’ll ever show his face in here again.”
“Mr. Douglas has a point,” McDougal said. “There’s a slim possibility. Maybe you ought to be keepin’ it fer a day or two just in case.”
The deal was settled at that. Bill poured them all another tall glass of draft, and they each toasted their good fortune and the come-uppance of the smart-mouthed hoodlum who tried to ruin their evening.
Within the hour they were all singing hit tunes of the fifties. Bill, at Abe’s request, had found a bowl in which he poured a substantial amount of beer for the old dog. Reluctant at first, as the evening wore on and his thirst overtook him, the old boy began lapping it up. He was on his third bowl when Bill sorrowfully announced that it was one a.m.; time to close shop before the law did it for him.
Abe bought a bottle of port wine that Bill didn’t charge him for, and they all said their good-byes, except for Hank. He had passed out an hour earlier and was sleeping it off atop the pool table. Bill locked up behind them as Abe, Shorty, and the old red dog staggered out into the night air to find a bed of some description.
“I think, Mr. McDougal, that we ought to go this way,” Abe slurred, and pointed in the general direction of the railroad tracks.
McDougal took hold of Abe’s arm. “Yer the boss.”
Abe turned around in a small elliptical circle to find out where the dog was, and McDougal, by necessity, followed him. “Oh, there you are,” he said when he focused his eyes on the dog which seemed to be under a lamp of some sort. “Which way do you think we ought to go?”
The old dog’s chin was nearly dragging on the sidewalk. He was wavering back and forth at some fairly drastic angles but he appeared to be facing the same general direction that Abe had suggested.
“All right.” He turned himself and McDougal around. “T
hat’s the way we’ll go.”
Arm in arm they began their short journey to the west side of town with the old dog trying hard in a strange sort of sideways gait to keep up with them. A half-block west of the railroad tracks they veered off into an alley that seemed appropriate and settled down behind a huge garbage bin. The dog followed them in but did not seem that fond of their choice. When the two men sat down he began a low, mournful howling.
“Shhh,” Abe blew through his lips. When that didn’t curb the noise he held out the bottle of wine. “You want another drink?”
“Oh, I really couldn’t,” the Irishman mumbled.
Abe thought the dog answered him. “Well, what do you want?”
The dog ‘woofed’ lightly then turned and began to sidesaddle back out of the alley.
Abe peered around the bin and tried to watch him, but he couldn’t lean far enough out to see where the dog had gone. He reached behind himself and felt for something to hold on to as an aid to get him to his feet. He found a rain down-spout, grabbed on to it and gave a push. The metal tube slipped and he fell back and rolled into the Irishman’s lap.
“Ah, that’s warmer,” the little man breathed.
Abe shifted off him. “The dog has left us, Mr. McDougal,” he said in a hurt voice.
Shorty raised an arm a little in an effort to point. “No he hasn’t, Mr. Douglas. That’s him standin’ in front of ya.”
Abe turned to look into the dog’s face and felt the wind as the dog ‘woofed’, then watched as the old boy left again. Curious as to what the dog was doing, he shoved his bottle of wine into the bottom of the downspout and got to his feet. “Now you stay right there,” he warned the bottle. “I’m going to see what the dog wants.”
Shorty looked up at him. “I’m thinkin’ I’ll just be goin’ with ya, if ya don’t mind, Mr. Douglas. It’s a wee bit cold down here.”
Abe managed to get the Irishman to his feet, and with slow, methodical steps they began to follow as the old dog led them down the deserted street towards the two-lane highway.
“What did ya lose?” McDougal asked when Abe stopped in front of the Sunrise Doughnut Shop to check his pockets. The lights were on inside the shop and the backs of two uniformed policemen were visible through the pink and white curtained windows.
“I thought I had a bottle of wine,” Abe answered. He searched every pocket he had then held out his empty hands to inspect them. “Nope. It’s not here, Mr. McDougal. It has vanished.”
The old dog stopped his forward travel to look back at them. He had walked right by the police car but it had evidently not registered with him. When he saw it this time, it must have come into focus. He ‘woofed’ twice.
“We’re coming,” Abe said, and put a hand back under Shorty’s arm. “Tell him we’re coming, Mr. McDougal.”
A crackling of static noise came from the parked police cruiser, and the old dog ‘woofed’ again, somewhat louder, then took off at a much faster pace than before. Abe tugged at the Irishman’s arm and the two of them wobbled on down the sidewalk to catch up with the dog. They were no more than fifty feet from the doughnut shop when officer Robins called out to them. “Hey you…” he started, but the noise of the car’s radio interrupted him.
“Abe looked down at the Irishman. “What did you say, Mr. McDougal?”
“I don’t remember sayin’ anything,” Shorty replied, then moaned. “But me feet are killin’ me. That’s probably what I said.”
Robins stopped his pursuit of the possible vagrants and turned around to see if his partner was going to answer the radio. Officer Clements had yet to exit the shop. “For crying out loud,” Robins cursed as he went back to the car to answer to call himself.
The call had evidently been of an urgent nature. Almost instantly the emergency lights were whirling on top of the car, the siren was blasting, and Robins was laying on the horn. Clements came trotting out of the shop holding his trousers up with one hand and carrying his belt of weaponry in the other. He bolted into the car headfirst and was still trying to finish his entry when Robins backed away from the curb and screeched a u-turn. There was a loud pop when one of the back tires blew out. The rear end sagged and the car fishtailed for a second, but somehow Robins managed to save everything except the door on Clement’s side. It snapped off and showered a flurry of sparks across the concrete. It was still spinning as the rest of the car thumped its way down the street and out of sight.
Abe and Shorty had stopped to find out what the ruckus was about, but when the police car headed off in the opposite direction they returned their attention to the dog. He led them another block and a half to the highway.
“Me old legs’ll take me no further,” the fatigued, sleepy Irishman complained as he shifted the bulk of his weight onto Abe’s arm. They were standing in front of the park entrance where the bronze plaque was gathering in the last glints of moonlight.
Abe puffed a grunt into the chilly night air and pointed their intertwined bodies towards the bandstand where the old dog was sitting and ‘woofing’ in a low, beckoning staccato. He stopped the noise and ducked under the lattice trim of the bandstand when he saw that he had Abe’s attention.
“I think this is the end of the road, Mr. McDougal,” Abe comforted his exhausted comrade. He took the few steps to the raised platform with the Irishman in tow then sat him down. “I’ll just get us a bed ready.” He dragged their belongings and bedrolls under the lattice. In a couple of minutes he reached out and pulled the unconscious McDougal into their lodgings for the night.