Straight Pool

by JJ Partridge

  So, I had begun the match with an amateurish misplay!

  Salazar wasted no time. In seconds, those three balls, followed by six more disappeared. Finally, he had a shot that wasn’t going to be simple. The cue ball was behind a cluster of four balls. Six balls were left on the table, five to get in, one to be the ‘lone’ ball. He called the eight ball in the side pocket, and made it but again left the cue ball at a tough angle for a next shot and I recognized a flaw in his play. He was striking balls too hard, slamming them instead of finessing them, because he wanted to humiliate me, vindicate his skill with Calibrese, and get the game over. He called the three ball in a corner pocket, a double carom. He chalked, aimed and struck the cue ball. The first carom worked, the second didn’t, and, finally it was my turn. At ten-zip.

  My first three balls were easily pocketed. The fourth shot was a long table shot on the seven ball near the far rail, barely missing the cue ball on its return, and falling in a corner pocket. A good shot, not spectacular, but good at ten-four. That left me six balls behind Salazar and the lone ball on the table. Time to rerack.

  Calibrese appeared with the triangle in his hand, picked balls out of the pockets, and reracked. He pressed the balls toward the base of the triangle, leaving the front spot open. Salazar muttered to me, “Gonna check ‘em?” Calibrese snorted before he returned to his seat.

  I took care of the ‘lone’ ball, but left the cue ball five or six inches in front of the rack, without spacing balls in the rack for any kind of next shot. Not a good place to be. As a practical matter, only from either ends of the base of the triangle can you expect a ball to catch a corner pocket, and I had already missed that shot. I realized I was going to have to commit a foul, which would cost me a point. I aimed carefully and tucked the cue ball into the vacant front spot.

  “Cute,” Salazar cracked as he walked by me, “but watch this.” Could he get the cue stick down on the cue ball with enough force and spin to smack a ball into a pocket. I gave it one in ten and watched him arch over the cue ball, drive it into the rack, and the nine ball rifle into a corner pocket. A marvelous shot, almost a trick shot, the cue stick striking the top of the cue ball, spinning it into the balls forming one side of the triangle, pocketing the ball as called.

  In two minutes, he pocketed every ball except the ‘lone’—making it thirteen in a row—taking little time between shots before burning them in. It was twenty-three to four! I felt perspiration running down my back, my hands needed more talcum. While Calibrese, who squeezed a smile into his toad-like face, racked the balls, I took a cup of water from the dispenser, took a long swig and put the paper cup in the drink holder in the arm of the seat next to Calibrese. When Calibrese was finished, he loudly announced the score, adding that if Salazar pocketed the next fifteen balls, it was over.

  Salazar was beaming confidence and promptly made an ego mistake. He took down the ‘lone’ ball but his carom shot, in breaking the rack, left the cue ball within a clutch of three others. A difficult over-the-hand shot was his only possible shot and he missed. Twenty-four to four and my turn.

  Blessed by what is known as a ‘sweet’ table, I took as much time or as little as needed in moving around the table, putting in one after another, feeling my confidence grow with each pocketed shot. Salazar retreated into the shadows and it was as though he wasn’t there. When I had it down to the ‘lone’ ball, this time, I called out the score, “Twenty-four to seventeen.” I heard Calibrese swear as he racked the balls.

  That moment of confidence dissipated with the first shot in game four: I missed pocketing the ‘lone’ ball. Worse, the cue ball smacked the side rail, ricocheted into the rack with enough momentum to spread most of the balls.

  Salazar came back into the light with determination. When he saw the spread of balls, he grinned but that dissolved when he realized the cue ball was again nestled within a cluster of three balls. He took his time examining his options and executed the shot brilliantly, pocketing the ‘lone’ ball, spreading the rack out further. The five ball was quickly gone, the eleven on a long table shot, then the thirteen at the side pocket where I stood. He had reached twenty-eight; there were ten balls left, plus what would be the lone ball, on the table. He was now in reach of victory.

  Salazar passed by me to sight the remaining balls loosely grouped in the center of the table. I smelled both his cologne and sweat. Maybe the only satisfaction I was to get was that this game against the ‘mark’ wasn’t as easy as anticipated. All I could hope for, however, was another mistake.

  It turned out it wasn’t a mistake; it was simply a difficult shot. The one ball banged off the side rail at an inlaid mother of pearl diamond spot and barely missed the corner pocket. Salazar swore in disgust; that was followed by a ‘hrrumph’ from Calibrese loud enough for Salazar to angrily stare into the shadows.

  I blocked Calibrese’s view when I went for my water cup and analyzed ball position. My host’s impatience was audible. As I circled the table, I knew to stay alive, even within striking range, I had to rattle off a skein.

  The first four balls fell easily, then, on the fifth shot, I called the corner pocket and the four ball went in; unfortunately, the cue ball banged off a rail, hit the thirteen ball and I scratched! The scratch cost a point and the four ball was spotted. Twenty-eight to twenty. There was a chortle from beyond the lights.

  Salazar was quick to take up a position. A ball quickly disappeared, leaving six on the table. Another ball dropped. Salazar is cruising at thirty to twenty. Then, a tiny mistake.

  Chalk is used to help create English on the cue ball; chalk up the tip of the cue stick and you’ve got a better chance to have the surface of the cue ball spin the way you want. Every good player knows that; every good player knows when not to do it. I noticed that Salazar had been chalking after every shot. That meant that his cue stick tip gets a tiny bit caked and chalk marks appear on the cue ball, which I spotted. I wondered when it would make a difference and this time it did. He used English on the next shot, the cue ball kissed exactly where it was supposed to, but as the six ball went in to the corner pocket, the cue ball slowly rolled across the table to a side pocket where it was the classic ‘hanger.’ I inhaled and saw it fall in. He had scratched! Lost a point! Twenty-nine to twenty.

  Calibrese’s palm slammed a seat as he said something inaudible to Salazar, set the rack, and went back to the shadows.

  I took care of business and pocketed four balls, and more importantly, and luckily, left myself with the ‘lone’ ball in perfect position when we started the next game at twenty-nine to twenty-four.

  I surveyed the table, taking my time. Salazar said something to Calibrese that caused another ‘hrrumph.’ The ‘lone’ ball was ten or twelve inches below the rack on the right hand side of the table. If I hit it as hard as I could, slamming it into the side pocket, and at the same time sent the cue ball to break up and spread the balls in the rack, I would have a chance to run out the table.

  I backed away from the table for another gulp of water and felt perspiration running down my back. Was it showing? Calibrese was at my side. I expected a goad or a con, but his voice betrayed a grudging respect. “I gotta tell ya, I haven’t seen a straight pool match in years. That’s all we played at the Italo Club in Westerly when I was a kid.” He glared at Salazar. “Not like these guys. Everything is nine ball because it’s quick and … there’s so much money.” That last bit was for Salazar who was at the other side of the table, his left hand at his hip, his right hand clutching his cue stick with its butt between his legs. His eyes blazed at the rebuke, and I suspected Calibrese’s backhanded compliment was a ‘double con.’

  I wiped my hands on my trousers. I took deep breaths, set up slowly, sent the ‘lone’ ball into the side pocket as the cue ball hit the side rail, then the far rail, and slammed into the rear of the rack for a break as wide as I could have wanted. Twenty-nine to twenty-five, and the cue ball nestled in a loose triangle of three balls!

  W
as it over?

  Picture this. Salazar had made a similar shot earlier. I stood behind the shot for longer than I should have, using the chalk, blowing away the excess, trying to think about whether an opposite spin might put a ball into a pocket. Calibrese left his seat to stand close to the table; Salazar held his cue stick rigidly across the table. Expectation was rising; they saw I had one, very difficult, if not impossible, shot. Which I called.

  I heard Calibrese’s wheezy breaths as I bent forward. This could be it. I struck down on the cue ball, spun it to the right to hit the three ball off the side rail, and slowly, more slowly than I can even imagine, it rolled toward the corner pocket, the white circle in the red ball appearing in each revolution as momentum dissipated, before it struck the angled edge of the pocket, and fell in! So focused was I on the three ball that I didn’t pay attention to the cue ball which slid across the table and fell into a side pocket. A goddamn scratch! I lost a point and turned play over to Salazar. Twenty-nine to twenty-four. Nine more balls pocketed by Salazar and it was all over!

  Was there a patron saint of pool players? Couldn’t remember any. There should be because I needed help. I had to do something to break his momentum.

  “Ugo,” I said nonchalantly after another swig of water, “I can’t imagine having so much fun on a weekday.”

  Salazar’s face crackled with anger. I was a wise ass! He was gonna whack me. Just what I wanted him to do, get really pissed at me. With the balls tightly grouped, he realistically had a choice of two shots, both difficult but not impossible for a professional. He lined up behind the shot that I thought was the easier of the two, then he positioned himself for the other. But he looked at both again, and again took position for the more difficult shot, the nine ball off the side rail, across the table, and back into a corner pocket, a shot that required finesse, concentration, and a little back English. Anger and pride were leading to indecision. Salazar bent over, aimed, shot, and … missed.

  A ‘fuck’ came from the shadows. If I made every shot and the next ‘lone’ ball, fourteen straight points, …

  I’d like to say that I then played my best pool, called my shots coolly, with nonchalance, a steady hand, and a noble heart. But that wouldn’t be true. For the first three shots, comparatively easy shots, my shirt stuck to my back, my face felt wet with perspiration, my hands were wiped countless times on my trousers. My glasses fogged up and I walked away from the table, took them off, and used a handkerchief on its lenses. I knew I needed to catch some calm.

  Calibrese knew it too. “Fer Chrissakes…!”

  And suddenly, as I set up my shot, I was on ‘dead stroke,’ the most dangerous moment for a finesse player like me whose play is all in the geometry of the balls on the table. I didn’t fight it off. Two more balls were pocketed; nine to go. The ten, two and six balls slid across the table into pockets, each time leaving the cue ball in alignment for another shot. All easy. I was cruising, I was there! Five more, including the lone ball. I could do it! I was fluid and crisp and had finesse. The eight ball disappeared and the eleven ball was an arrow in the center of a side pocket. The nine ball was a carom shot that I almost misjudged but rattled in; the two and thirteen were easy pockets. I shouted out the score thirty-seven to twenty-nine, something very boorish, and sat next to Calibrese and gulped down the rest of the water. Calibrese got up, slowly, muttering t himself, to rack the balls for the last time. If I got the ‘lone’ ball in, the rack would not be broken.

  The final shot. Another wipe of my glasses and I was back at the table when I realized I had left the ‘lone’ ball, the seven, an inch or less from a rail at mid-table, with the cue ball no more than twelve inches away but at almost a ninety degree angle. Thirty-eight, I repeated to myself. I can do it. Thirty-eight. The cue ball couldn’t touch the rail, it had to kiss the seven ball so that it would roll parallel to the rail down the length of the table, hit the angled cushion at its outer edge, and fall into the corner pocket.

  And then, as I plotted the shot, I sensed my ‘dead stroke’ leak away. Oh, God, why now? When I was cruising! Thirty-eight. C’mon Algy! I checked the tip of my cue, chalked it, wiped the excess away, took a deep breath, set up, aimed, and shot.

  It was all slow motion. The cue ball barely touches the seven ball and the seven ball starts to roll toward the corner pocket. I saw the slightest deviation from the parallel in the first rotation. A fault in the cloth? I stroked it too hard? With English? Calibrese came to the table. Salazar stood behind me. There wasn’t a breath among the three of us as we watched the ball roll toward the called pocket and barely brush its angled cushion.

  It dropped in.

  Could I have avoided my exultant ‘Yes!’ Did I emulate Tiger Woods on the first hole of a sudden death match? I plead guilty. It was not the way to behave, even here. I placed the cue stick on the table and saw my opponent staring at Calibrese’s purplish face. “What the fuck! You can’t beat this amateur?” Calibrese shouted.

  “Shit lucky! Whoever heard of playing to thirty-eight?” he responded, more plaintively than I would have expected.

  “Thirty-eight or thirty-eight fuckin’ million, ya should’ve crushed him.”

  I put out my hand to Salazar. I lied, “Honored to have played you again.”

  Salazar’s mouth opened and I expected a nasty response but he walked away. Calibrese leaned into me, looking up at me with icy eyes, holding the frustration of a sure thing becoming a bad bet. “Ya expect me to welsh…?” His square chin went forward, his eyes burning in his stare.

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “… Expect me to take a dive because that’s the kind of person ya think I am?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “I’ll tell ya, I didn’t get where I am without being stand up. Ya know what I’m sayin’? What I say, I do. Remember that. Whatever else ya heard about me,” he said, “you remember that. And the people I make a deal with, they better be stand up, too. Always.” He waddled from the room.

  I picked up my jacket and tie and made it to the door when Salazar touched my arm. His face had eased. “Thirty-eight. Why did you pick thirty-eight?”

  “I don’t know.” I touched my forehead. “It was rattling around in there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Archie Soames retorted ‘when pigs fly’ when told by Charlie that Ugo Calibrese would drop his lawsuit, and swallowed hard two days later when the lawsuit was dismissed, with prejudice. Which meant that Ugo Calibrese was a ‘stand up guy’ in a way I probably would never understand.

  The Board responded with an e-mail to all members—forwarded to me by both my brother and Charlie—that gave Charlie Fessenden ‘full marks’ for ‘his cooperation, his guidance, and determination’ in resolving the litigation ‘at no cost to the Club’! And the chatter among the members? According to Charlie, nothing but back slaps at the Club.

  It was time to swallow the Kool-Aid.

  * * *

  Benno called me at the office.

  “Pontarelli’s gone. I checked his apartment this morning, like everyday since I talked to him on Friday. Checked with his landlady, and the post office. No forwarding address. My hunch is that he figured Calibrese … or somebody else might be calling. No surprise there. I’m not lookin’, am I?”

  “No.”

  “There’s something else you oughta know. Fausto’s made an accommodation with Calibrese. He’s supporting council members that Fausto thinks eventually might swing to his brother, the ones on the fence over stayin’ with Sonny, so he can’t be accused by Sonny of welshing him out. We’re talking serious dollars. Tony Gugliami in Ward Four, Rhoda Sanchez in Ward Seven, Antonia Luso in Ward Eleven. And Joe Laretta’s father? There’s been talks.”

  P-s-s-h went the last gasp of air from my good government balloon. That reliable nudgy feeling after Ugo Calibrese’s name surfaced weeks ago had been justified. Fausto Tramonti played hardball, I knew that, would do anything to get his brother elected mayor. Would
the ‘accommodation’ mean a post-election collaboration with Calibrese and company? Was Nadie closer to the truth than I?

  I thanked Benno, told him to send me his bill and reminded him of confidentiality. That comment was received as offensive and I apologized quickly for mentioning it.

  I pushed back in my desk chair. I felt a pang of conscience. Conscience is like a horsefly at the beach, a barking dog at dawn, a yellow jacket at a picnic—not to be ignored but dealt with. I was reminded of a Rhode Island aphorism: In Rhode Island, you can be guilty, not guilty, or guilty with an explanation.

  * * *

  A reluctant Tom Flanaghan informed the Attorney General’s office that he would ‘prefer’ to drop the assault complaints against Jones. The Attorney General was none too happy but Flanaghan is an important party cog in South County so a deal was worked out under which only a single assault charge would be held pending the result of the murder trial. If I owed Jones anything, I felt he had been paid back. He was on his own.

  Charlie and Laretta then went to the Attorney General where another deal was struck. Despite prosecutorial ire about withholding material evidence, Laretta played his cards neatly, pointing out that Charlie had not lied to the State Police, was not an accessory to any crime, and had done the ‘right thing’ by capturing Jones and cooperating in the prosecution in the Gardiner case. Charlie’s silence had ‘pained’ him but he lived in fear of Jones and it was a ‘courageous’ act to come forward, even belatedly. The handshake deal worked out was if Jones was convicted of Peter Gardiner’s murder, there was no need to get into the clubhouse fire, especially with the prime suspect dead. If Jones got off on the murder charge, Jones could be charged as an accessory for the fire, with Charlie as the prime witness, along with the remaining assault charge.