I introduce Keats to the team and they shake their heads in admiration. Claire knocks on his chest twice with a fist, smiles at him.
“I just wondered if it’s real.”
I turn back to Duggan. “Let’s get the preliminaries out of the way.”
“Follow me.”
Keats and I trail the two of them into the tiny kitchen, where I say a silent thanks that I’ve never ordered a burger in this place. On a counter in the back we show the money again. When it’s counted, Keats puts the knapsack on his big shoulder and pulls it tight. Shakespeare picks up the suitcase. He’s as mute as ever, but from the looks he keeps sliding Keats I can tell he doesn’t like what he sees. Been a while since he had to look up at anybody, I bet.
“Okay, Duggan, here’s how it works,” I say. “These guys stand side-by-side at the front door the whole match. Each keeps one hand on his team’s money and one hand on the other team’s. The second the match ends, the loser lets go.”
“Not the trustin’ sort, are you, college boy?”
“It’s your place, Duggan. I need a way out when we win.”
He nods. “Fair enough. But I’ll tell you now, college boy—your man sneaks away and none of the rest of your team will get out that door. I promise you that.”
We walk out of the kitchen. As the two strongmen take up their spots by the door, Duggan snaps his fingers at a pale, thin guy at the bar. “Egan. Over here.” He presents him to me. “Egan here will be chalking tonight—if you approve.”
I look him over. It is important that the chalker be quick and accurate. A slow one can kill the rhythm of the shooters, and a mistake, in a match like this one, could start a riot.
“What’s one thirty-nine minus eighty-seven?” I ask.
“Fifty-two.”
“Two thirteen minus one twenty-four?”
“Eighty-nine.”
“How much do seven nineteens score?”
“One thirty-three.”
I nod at Duggan. “He’ll do.”
The chalker walks to the board. “All clear,” he calls out. “Adam’s Curse has the board for practice. The match will begin in twenty minutes.”
As the team makes its way to the board, Duggan calls me back. “One last thing, college boy. That girl of yours—Lisa, is it? I wonder if you might give me her number.” I stare at him. “Fancy I might throw one into her after we win.”
I’m half over the bar but Tank gets me under the arms and hauls me back.
“Easy, Tom. Come on. He’s just trying to rattle you.”
“Tell me,” says Duggan, grinning now, “how many dates, do you suppose, until I get inside?” He walks away down the bar.
Dave has joined Tank between me and the bar but I’m okay now. I take a good swallow of Guinness and curse myself. Strategy, Tom. I should have figured he’d try to steam me.
“I’m all right, guys,” I say.
“Let’s go,” says Tank. “With those fingers you need all the warm-up you can get.”
We form a practice line, but after a few turns I can see the throws are wasted on me. I leave the board to the others and slip away to a small table in the corner. Any points I score at the board tonight will be a fluke, but there is a way I can help us. I take a second to close my eyes and clear my mind. I’ve always said a good captain can steal a few points in a match without ever throwing a dart. Now is my chance to prove it. I set to work on the lineup.
The standard play-off format is in effect tonight. It divides the match into three rounds. The first round is six games of singles 501, worth one point each. The second round is three games of doubles cricket, worth two points each. The last round is three games of doubles 501, again worth two points each. The first team to ten points wins.
Before each round, Duggan and I will fill out our lineups “blind”; that is, without seeing each other’s. This is where I can’t afford to slip up.
Play in the league long enough and you learn the tendencies of the different captains. Some fill out their lineups from strongest to weakest, others mix their shooters around. Divining your opponent’s strategy and countering can mean one or two points in a match. Over the course of the season that might be the difference between first place and second or third. In one match for all the marbles, like tonight, it can mean everything.
Duggan doesn’t strike me as a guy with a lot of imagination. During the season he always went strongest to weakest. I’m going to bet he simply flops the order tonight and puts Killigan last. I want to be matched against Killigan because I can’t beat anybody. If I can get Duggan to burn his best shooter on me, we’ll have a better shot at winning the other games. We really need to win four of these singles matches to have a chance, because the doubles games are two points each and with my fingers we can pretty much count on losing two of them.
I take a swig of my drink and write the lineup. Duggan comes from behind the bar and we turn our sheets over to the chalker, who turns and posts them on the board.
Tank vs. Wilson
Dave vs. Kelly
Bobby vs. O’Brien
Claire vs. Gallagher
Jimmy vs. Duggan
Tom vs. Killigan
Bingo. Killigan will waste himself on me, and I’ve got Jimmy ready to take out Duggan, their next-best shot. It’s all I could ask for. The rest of the matchups are toss-ups. After their big two there’s not a lot of difference among their other shooters. They all score well and are tough as nails when it comes to taking their outs. But so are we. Tonight it will come down to who is on their game. And who can take the pressure.
At ten to ten we huddle up as a team. I look around the place. The crowd is raring to go. Smoke and old Irish romps fill the air. I send Bobby to the jukebox to put in our favorites, but no dice. It’s backed up—twenty songs in the queue and all of them from the home country, according to the drunk standing guard.
“And when they play through we’ll put in twenty more,” he slurred. “None of that rock ’n’ roll shit tonight.” By the door, Keats and Shakespeare are side by side and silent.
Our heads are close together. I can see from their shining eyes that they don’t need much of a pep talk.
“All right, guys. We know what we’re here for. Before we start, though … thanks.” I look at each of them. “For playing, I mean. Whatever happens tonight, they don’t make friends any better. Now let’s do it.”
We raise our glasses and break away.
“I’m up first, Captain,” says Tank. “Give me a head butt.”
I step into it and he grins as he heads to the board.
Tank earns the right to open the game by winning the cork toss. That is, by throwing one dart closer to the bull than his opponent. The chalker bangs the wall and holds up his hands as Tank steps to the line. “Game on,” he cries.
And so is Tank. He opens with a ton, dart slang for a 100-point turn. He stays just ahead of Wilson the whole time and doubles out the first chance he gets. One for us.
He comes back to the bar and high-fives the rest of the team. “Might have to take back calling you an asshole, Reasons,” he says to me. “This night might be worth a thousand bucks.”
Claire taps me on the arm. “I’m playing Peter Gallagher,” she says. “Which one is he?” I point him out. “Okay, Reasons—you owe me.” She slides off her chair and walks to him. “Peter, right?”
I know Gallagher to be a tough little bastard but in front of Claire he softens in a hurry.
“That’s me.”
“Peter, it’s you and me tonight. How about I buy you a drink before the match?”
Gallagher looks like he woke up in a pile of money. All he can do is nod and grow wide-eyed as Claire hooks his arm and walks him to the bar. I’d bet my wallet he hasn’t been laid this year. Not for free, anyway.
At the board, Dave plays a gritty game but can’t keep up with Kelly, a smooth left-hander who pours them into the triple 20. Kelly takes out a double 4 to finish it off, setting the drunks al
ong the bar to banging their mugs and whooping it up. Duggan claps him on the shoulder. One for them.
Bobby is up next and right away I can see he’s off. He opens with consecutive turns of 26 and can’t seem to get comfortable at the line. I wave him over.
“Maybe you were right not to tell us, Tom. Every time I step up there, I think forty thousand bucks.”
“It’s just a game of darts like all the others, Bobby. Relax. Here, this’ll help.” I hand him a shot of tequila.
He knocks it back, grimaces and shakes his head hard. “Thanks.” He starts back to the board.
“Hey, Bobby, how’s this for a movie opening?” I say. “Little guy starts off slow and then plays the game of his life. Just when his team needs it most.”
He gives a determined nod. “I like that.”
Thank the tequila or the words, but something went straight to his arm. The comeback is on. He hits a ton, then another, and an 85 to take the lead. Two turns later he’s left himself the perfect out—32. O’Brien has 112 left and as he steps to the line Bobby turns his back to the board. He never watches his opponent shoot when he’s near the finish. Me, I can’t stand not to. O’Brien nails a triple 20 and a 12 to leave 40. He needs a double 20 to close her out. He throws the dart and raises his fìst to the bar, which erupts right down the line. All the Hellions step forward to pound his back. But it isn’t in.
Just a trick of the poor lighting. The dart sits on the wrong side of the wire, a millimeter above the double 20, and as O’Brien snatches it from the board the chalker signals Bobby to take his turn. Bobby is low with his first dart, left with his second, and dead sweet perfect with his third. One for us.
Claire’s been at the bar with Gallagher this whole time. I start over to say a few words, but back off when I see she has everything in hand.
“Our turn, Peter,” she says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “And don’t forget tomorrow night.” He steps to the line.
“Tomorrow night?” I mouth at Claire. She glares at me.
“And remember, Peter, dress casual. Nothing you can’t get out of in a hurry.”
He should get a hundred points for not dropping his darts. It’s three turns before he hits his first 20 and probably a half hour before he notices. Claire buries the winning dart and joins the team at the bar. One more for us.
Duggan has Gallagher by the collar as soon as it’s over. “I ought to kill ya right here. What the hell ya doin’?”
“Go ahead, Joey,” says Gallagher. “Take a swing at me. Then what are ya gonna do? You can’t sit us down tonight—it’s just the six of us.” Duggan lets him go and Gallagher straightens the front of his shirt. “I got a little distracted—so what? This match don’t count for nothin’, and I’m workin’ on a date here.” He walks away.
Back at the bar I give Claire a hug. “I guess we’re even now for all that math homework, huh?”
She gives me a grim smile. “By the end of the night, Reasons, you’ll be way in the red.”
Duggan and Jimmy pick up their darts and head for the line. Jimmy looks cool and ready. Duggan wins the cork toss and starts off with an 85. He’s good tonight, but Jimmy is better. The game is clean and fast, Duggan hitting big scores and Jimmy coming back even bigger. Duggan leaves himself 40 but Jimmy never gives him a shot at it. He drills a double 16 the first chance he gets, spins and offers his hand. “Good game.”
Duggan doesn’t take it. “Lucky darts,” he says, slamming his own against his leg as he walks back to the bar. Another one for us.
Only our 4–1 lead takes the sting out of my match with Killigan, who makes short work of me. The few turns I get I aim for the center and take whatever points I fall into. About all you can say is I keep my darts on the board. 1 have 300 left when Killigan takes out the game. One for them. The chalker steps up on his chair. “Four-two,” he calls out, sounding like the PA guy at Wimbledon. “Advantage: Adam’s Curse.”
Between rounds our team huddles back at the bar with fresh pints. We raise our glasses and I let out a good breath and take a long, celebratory draw off my Guinness. A 4—2 lead is all I could have hoped for. “Keep it comin’, guys,” I say, and then slip away to set the lineup for cricket.
Cricket is a completely different game than 501. Only the numbers 15 through 20 and the bull’s-eye are in play. The idea is to close out a number by hitting it three times. Once you close out a number you can score on it and your opponent cannot. To keep you from scoring on it, he must close it out himself. You win if you are even or ahead in points and have all the numbers and the bull’s-eye closed out.
I decide to go for the early knockout. I put Jimmy and Tank in the first game, Dave and Claire in the second, and myself and Bobby in the third. I’m counting on a quick win by us to turn them against each other. If they come apart we might even take two of three. The risk is, if Jimmy and Tank go down in that first one, we could lose them all, and if they take an 8–4 lead into the last round, that’s about all she wrote. I swallow hard. That’s why they pay us captains the big bucks—to make these decisions.
Duggan and I hand our lineups to the chalker and he posts them on the board.
Jimmy & Tank vs. Kelly & Wilson
Dave & Claire vs. Killigan & O’Brien
Tom & Bobby vs. Duggan & Gallagher
I let a little air out through my teeth. We ought to be able to take that first one.
Jimmy picks up right where he left off in 501, winning the cork toss and putting the pressure on early by opening with four 20s and a 19. Tank is on, too, and the pace is too tough for the Hellions, who shoot well but can never quite make up the early deficit. By the end they’re cursing their throws and jawing at each other about which numbers to shoot for. Jimmy finishes them off with a double bull.
“Six-two. Advantage: Adam’s Curse.”
Duggan walks over to me. “Time out, college boy—five minutes.” He looks back at his players. “All of you, into the kitchen.” They follow.
I couldn’t have scripted it any better. We’re four points away from closing them out and Duggan is leading them off to rip into them. That’s it, guy. Let them have it. Tell them what losers they are. Get them so pissed at you they don’t care what happens at the board. I watch Bobby and Claire take a few extra warm-ups, then lay down their darts and nod at me. “You guys need shots, anything?” I ask.
Claire shakes her head.
“All square, Captain,” says Bobby.
We can throw the knockout punch here. An 8–2 lead would just about clinch it. The kitchen door opens and I turn to watch the Hellions straggle back.
Except no one is straggling. They come through the door in a tight line, their hands on their darts and their eyes on the board. Only Gallagher, trailing the pack, steals a smile at Claire, but he sets his face quickly again. Whatever Duggan said in there, it’s turned them into warriors. I take another sip of Guinness.
Killigan is all business when he steps to the line. He plants one in the center cork to earn honors, then starts the game with a round of 7—four 20s and three 19s. There’s no coming back from that. Dave and Claire play well from behind, hammering away at points, but it’s too little too late. O’Brien nails the final cork to ice it.
“Six-four. Advantage: Adam’s Curse.”
It’s been a good half hour and a couple pints since the bar drunks had anything to celebrate, and they really let loose, banging their fists on the wood and shouting toasts to every Irish hero they can think of. The Hellions themselves, though, are quiet. A few pats on the shoulder for O’Brien and Killigan and fists of encouragement to Duggan and Gallagher as they step to the line. Even the ones who aren’t playing keep their attention on the board. Something isn’t right here.
As I step forward for the game it hits me—Duggan is cutting them in. That’s what he told them in the kitchen. Duggan might be an asshole but he knows better than to screw himself. He found the one way to make sure they care about this match as much as he does. How much is he
throwing them? I wonder. Five hundred each? A grand? You can bet he won’t break himself. Not when a hundred bucks is a fortune to these guys. I step to the line. I can only hope he waited too long.
Bobby and I take it on the chin in cricket. Forced to aim at the numbers we need, I’m lucky to hit one a turn. Bobby shoots like a sniper, but between Duggan and Gallagher we’re overmatched. Down to one bull to clinch it, Duggan lays his darts in his palm and turns to me.
“Pick one, college boy.” I look away, so Gallagher points to the dart in the middle. Duggan hands him the other two, steps to the line and nails a bull to close her out.
“Six-six,” calls the chalker. “Match even.”
At the bar we huddle up again. The night has come down to this—two out of three. If you’d asked at the start if I would take a tie heading into the fìnal round I’d have said ten times out of ten. Now I’m not so sure. All the momentum is over with the Hellions.
“Okay, guys,” I say. “Any advice?”
“Any way you want to play it,” says Dave.
“We trust you, Captain,” says Bobby.
The others nod. Past their heads I can see the Hellions in their corner, confident and determined. I look at Jimmy. “How do you feel, Ace?”
He pats his throwing arm with his left hand.
“Like William Tell.”
“Good. Because I have a hunch. You think you can carry me, if you have to?”
He looks at my fingers. “Sure.”
“Okay,” I say.
I write out the lineup. Duggan and I walk to the board, hand them over, and as the chalker posts them up, a mean smile spreads over Duggan’s face.
“Hell of a time to stop thinking, college boy.”
The matchups are the ones I want, but seeing them up there in hard chalk sends me into a sweat. We’ll be working without a net on this one.
Tank & Bobby vs. Kelly & O’Brien
Dave & Claire vs. Gallagher & Wilson
Jimmy & Tom vs. Killigan & Duggan
I gambled that Duggan would count on splitting the first two games and would load up on the last one. That’s just what he did. I saved Jimmy for the end because even with my fingers, even against their best, we’ll always have a shot with Jimmy. Christ, if it comes to that, though, I’ll need a heart transplant. What I’m really banking on is the rest of the team stepping up in the first two games and putting them away.
Balling the Jack Page 21