by Brian Hodge
The bartender's eyes took in the money and then shifted back to them. The teeth appeared once again. It was not a reassuring sight. "You two got a lot of balls walking in here with a roll like that. What's to keep us from cutting you into fish bait and dumping you in the river? Shit, I bet they won't find you till spring—when you float."
"Jesus, what the hell's happened to western hospitality?" Earl opened his jacket, let his fingers play over his busted ribs and the .38 he had tucked in the waistband of his pants. "We don't want no trouble. Word has it you got a shooter here by the name of D. A. Fontaine. We heard he handles a stick pretty good. My boy here is willing to pay to see how good."
"You boys ain't exactly hiding the fact you're hustlers, walking in here and flashing all that money." Leon studied them, trying to place their faces. "Should I have heard of either of you?"
"No, we're kind of shy. If you don't get your player out here quick," Steven said, "these two sorry-ass white boys are taking their money and leaving."
The bartender picked up the phone, dialed it with a pencil. His fingers were too large to manage the buttons. "It's Leon, get yourself on over here, right now. You got some business."
Earl was tossing down his third shot of George Dickel when the door swung open, letting in the cold autumn air. As he started to turn, he caught sight of Steven's face in the mirror behind the bar. It had a look of bemused amazement on it. He looked around and saw why.
D. A. Fontaine was a girl. A black teenaged girl. She was wearing black leather pants that fit her like a second skin and a chocolate-colored leather jacket that was too big for her. Under her arm was a case much like the one Steven and Earl carried. When she pulled her hands out of her jacket pockets, long golden lacquered nails flashed in the light.
"Is this some kind of joke?" Earl took in the slight form standing in the doorway. "Ain't it past your bedtime, little sister?"
"I guess I could ask you the same, gramps. Shouldn't you be getting back to the home?" She smiled sweetly. "Before you miss out on the stewed prunes. I hear old people get real cranky if they don't get their stewed—"
"You can't be more than fourteen." Earl's voice rose with anger. "We came all the way from Corpus Christi to play a fourteen-year-old girl. I can't goddamn believe this, a girl."
"I've got a name," she said, unruffled. "It's Dorinda but everyone calls me D. A., and I'm not fourteen. I turned seventeen in July, thank you."
"How come we never heard you were a girl," Earl asked. His voice lowered but his expression was still suspicious.
"On account of I used to dress up like a boy when I played pool. The guys wouldn't have liked losing to a girl. But, as you can see," she said, peeling off her jacket, "it got harder and harder to look like a boy. Besides, I found it's a lot more fun to be a girl." She flashed a smile at Steven.
"You stop that, Dorinda," Leon said from behind the bar. "Ain't been able to do nothing with that girl since her mother ran off."
"She's your daughter?" Earl inquired, disbelief on his face.
"She kept her mother's name. What are you trying to say?" Leon cracked his knuckles and a scowl appeared.
"Nothing. I can see the resemblance much better now."
"I hate to interrupt this tale of marital woe, but are you backing her action?" Steven asked Leon.
Leon nodded.
Earl got up from his stool, looked over at the bartender. "Say, brother, you wouldn't mind letting me get a look at some of your dead presidents, would you?"
Leon reached into a pocket and came out with a wad of bills, which he laid beside Earl's stark.
"Looks like mine's bigger than yours," Earl noted with a wink. "Ain't many white men can make that statement."
The expression on Leon's face didn't change.
Steven opened up his case and lifted out his cue. It was a yellowish white, and wrapped around the handle was an intricate red snake covered with feathers. The stick was a rare work of art. "What's your favorite game, Dorinda? You like eight ball?" He put the cue together quickly. "Or maybe a little nine ball is more your speed?"
"I like eight ball. I always got the stripes when Daddy and I played."
"Eight ball it is. Rack 'em, will you, Earl?"
"You want to flip a coin, or roll the cue ball to see who breaks?" Dorinda asked.
"No, that's all right. You break."
Dorinda shrugged. "Okay, man, it's your money. I play for a hundred a game. That too rich for your blood?"
Steven smiled, shook his head no. For a moment Dorinda felt a slight tingle of fear when she looked into his green eyes. Something wasn't right about them. They seemed way too old for his face. And there was some kind of hidden rage swirling around in their depths. She looked away, and when she looked back, his eyes were okay. It must have been the light, she decided.
"Something wrong?" Steven asked.
"No, everything's fine," she said, angry for letting this guy get to her. She took a deep breath and forced herself to be calm. "Say, Earl, you gonna rack those balls tonight or you just gonna stand there and play pocket pool?"
Earl finally got the balls the way he wanted them, a good tight rack. He looked over at Leon. "Listen to the mouth on that girl. You let her talk to the customers like that?"
"Ain't been able to do nothing with that girl since—"
"I know, I know. Since her mother ran off," Earl finished. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
Leon smiled. The effort looked like it hurt him.
As soon as Earl lifted the rack, Dorinda put all of her ninety-seven pounds behind her stick, driving the cue ball into the closely bunched balls. They split with a flat crack, scattering across the table. They rolled around for a while. Slowed.
One teetered on the edge of a pocket. Fell.
"Looks like this is your lucky night, you get stripes," Steven said. "Just like when you played Daddy." Steven's voice was soft, teasing. "I bet your daddy used to let you win, didn't he?" He sat down on a stool and crossed his legs at the ankles, became motionless.
Dorinda walked around the table. "He hasn't let me win since I was nine." She looked at Steven, anger in her eyes. "That's a real nice stick you got there. Too bad you're not going to get a chance to use it."
"Yes, it is a nice stick," he said. "I've had it for a long time." He caressed it softly.
She sank a shot.
"Do you know what it's made out of?" he asked. "Looks like ivory to me."
"No, not ivory. Bone."
Dorinda tried to ignore him, to concentrate on the game. She sank her next three shots, but she was edgy, aware of his unwinking stare. She missed.
"My turn, already?" He uncoiled from his stool and studied the table for a moment. Then, with practiced ease, he sank the seven ball in the far right-corner pocket, putting enough spin on the cue ball to draw it back to him. He sank the three. The two quickly followed. Within thirty seconds he had dropped every solid-colored ball on the table into a pocket. Only her stripes remained.
And the eight.
Steven rolled the yellowish-white cue between his hands. "I thought you'd be better." He seemed disappointed and slightly angry.
She stared at him, alternately attracted and repulsed. "Is that stick really made out of… bone? Or were you just kidding around, trying to throw me off my game?"
"I never kid about anything to do with pool. It's made out of bone. Human bone."
"You're lying. Where did you get something like that?"
"I got it from the first guy I ever played against. When I made my comeback"
Everyone at the bar was watching them now. The TV continued on, soundless people cheering a soundless game. The juke dropped another record. Leon dropped a glass.
Conversation looked to be on hold.
Dorinda looked over at her father, and for the first time she could ever remember, he looked afraid. The sight filled her with fear, too.
"He lost it to you on a bet, huh?" Dorinda asked, licking her
"Ye
s he did, in a manner of speaking."
"I bet it's worth a lot."
"Only to him. It was made from his legs."
The smile died on her lips, unborn.
Leon reached his hand under the bar. "All right, that's enough. You're scaring Dorinda talking that voodoo bullshit. All bets are off." His right hand came out from under the bar with a double-barreled sawed-off twelve-gauge in it. "You and your friend get the hell out of here, right now."
Steven looked at the shotgun, then calmly turned back to Dorinda as though Leon didn't exist. His eyes caught the light and gave it back, shiny yellow, like some kind of animal. "You want to see a trick?" Without waiting for an answer he closed his eyes and stroked the cue ball. It banked twice then rolled the entire length of the table with maddening slowness until it kissed the eight, soft as a whisper. It fell into the pocket.
Leon spat, wadded up a hundred-dollar bill, and threw it at Steven's feet. "Pick it up; go on, you hear me? You take your money and hit that door. I don't want no trouble."
"We don't want any trouble either, do we, Earl?" Steven said. With a small grin, he unscrewed his cue stick and laid it on the table. He picked up the wadded bill, walked toward the bar. Stopped as the gun raised. "We just came in here for a friendly game of pool."
"We like to keep it friendly," Earl agreed. He stood up.
Two soft clicks were the only sounds as Leon pulled back the hammers on the twelve-gauge. It looked like a toy in his huge hand. "I don't know what you two came in here for, but it damn sure wasn't to shoot no pool." He swung the gun around, centered the two stubby barrels on Earl's chest. "If I had to guess, I'd say your friend there is some crazy son of a bitch who gets his kicks out of scaring young girls."
"Hell, Leon," Earl said, "you must be psychic. You ought to get you one of them nine-hundred telephone numbers and tell fortunes for a living. You see anything in my future?"
"Nothing you're gonna like if I ever lay eyes on either one of you again," Leon promised.
"Damn, I was hoping for money."
Steven laid the crumpled bill on the bar, started backing away. "Oh, we'll meet again," he said. "You can count on it." He turned to pick up his cue stick, the easy smile still on his face. "Come on, Earl, I guess we'd better leave. It looks like we've worn out our welcome." The smile left his face.
His cue stick was gone.
Chapter 2
John Warrick was a small-time drifter and hustler, and the only thing he cared about in this world was playing pool. A very few people, who made it their business to know such things, said he might have been the best to ever play the game. They also said he was past it now.
Maybe that was so.
Maybe it wasn't.
All John knew for sure was that last night he'd taken a smart-ass college boy for three hundred of his rich daddy's bucks. And he had also lifted a pool cue, a very nice pool cue with a red snake curled around the handle.
He'd taken a chance walking behind that crazy son of a bitch who'd been messing with Leon. If that shotgun had gone off, it would have made hamburger out of the both of them. But life was full of risks. This one had paid off.
At the moment he was sitting on a bed in a cheap motel just outside San Benito, nursing a Lone Star that had gone warm ten minutes ago. In his hands was the cue stick he had risked his life to get. He was waiting to see if any of the images would gather in his head. Ninety percent of the time nothing ever happened. Sometimes it did. It always took a while, and he was patient, letting the pictures come. Waiting for the cue to give up its secrets.
John Warrick had one other talent besides pool. He was a little bit psychic.
After a few minutes the water stains on the ceiling were gone, replaced by the patter of warm rain, neon glare in the night. John Warrick was now someone else and he was walking down a street. Searching for something. Someone. Hookers came up to him, bright smears of color, soft honied voices, offering to fulfill his every sexual fantasy. He smelled their drugs, their diseases, and he rejected their offers. The crowds thinned. The lights were left behind. He walked on, searching.
Finally he found what he wanted.
A teenaged boy.
They talked. The boy said his name was Joey. The man gave no name. After a few minutes, Joey motioned for him to follow. John felt heat in the pit of his stomach.
The boy led him through a winding alley and up some stairs to a room on the second floor. Money changed hands and he pulled the boy close. Nuzzled his throat. Cold leather, warm skin. A hint of some cheap after-shave on a face too young to shave. John tried to wake up but the images were too strong and they held him between waking and sleeping.
Suddenly John knew that whoever this man was, he wasn't here for sex. Not even this kind. His lips peeled back over teeth, and the hustler knew the man was smiling. A case was laid on the soiled bed. Opened. Something long was taken out. He couldn't quite tell what it was. Then he saw it had a red snake on the handle. And that it was sharp.
Everything faded for a moment. And he knew something had happened. Something awful.
The boy struggled, and John could feel every beat of the laboring heart. Strong at first, then slowing. Slowing. A wild bird flinging itself against the bars of its cage. As the small heart struggled beneath the frail ribs, John could feel his mind merging with Joey's mind. He knew everything the boy knew, his deepest wishes, his darkest fears. It was fragments for the most part, pieces of nightmare coupled with dim memories. This man who held Joey in his arms was watching the boy die. And enjoying it.
John Warrick separated from the man, separated from himself and became Joey Estevez as he was drawn down… into the dying boy's nightmare... as... Joey watched the rats crawl from the gutted dog. He knew they had seen him.
It was impossible they could have found him so soon, yet somehow, they had. More of them spilled from the fire-gutted house on the corner. Just a few at first. But in seconds, the place was swarming with them and they watched him from the stoop, making no effort to hide, jostling each other like a crowd of anxious spectators at a parade.
Joey would have laughed if he wasn't so scared.
Agitation swept through their midst as though they were… expecting him, and Joey felt he should know why they had come, why they were after him. The answer taunted, an elusive secret that danced beyond his grasp, tantalizing him with its nearness, whispering words he couldn't quite hear.
Joey felt the weight of their eyes as he moved past. His legs pistoned, a sharp turn, and the rats disappeared from sight.
He listened for sounds of pursuit.
All he heard was the rain drumming its fingers across the rooftops.
And the jackhammer of his heart.
Few people were on the streets at this late hour of the night. A man with an empty shirtsleeve pinned to his shoulder leaned against a street lamp and drank from a bottle in a brown paper bag. He began dancing, a demented Gene Kelly who stopped now and then to gesture, to whisper vague threats to companions who existed only in his mind. A hooker limped by on her way home, oblivious of the rain, cradling five-inch spike heels in one hand, a glowing cigarette in the other.
"You better lay off that shit, Luke," she called out to the dancer. "It'll make you crazy."
A cab cruised down the puddle-filled street, drowning the man's laughter beneath the hiss of tires.
No one saw Joey, who was dressed in black, from his leather jacket down to the Air Jordans that hugged his feet. The dark clothes made him one more shadow on a street of shadows, and if you were a thief and hustler, that's the way it had to be.
Especially if you were only fifteen.
He'd been out, taking care of business. Now he was on his way home.
Home—
What a joke that was. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to have a real honest-to-god home, the kind that came with parents who made you eat all the vegetables on your plate, who made you do your homework, who beat your ass when you stayed out too late.
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Who said they loved you.
A vacant smile replaced the sneer. That dream had become ancient history when a doctor up at County had walked out into a waiting room and told him his mama had OD'ed. Joey remembered a dirty white jacket and empty blue eyes that looked right through him. The guy said it like he was talking about the fucking weather. Hey kid, it's going to rain today; hey kid, don't forget your umbrella; and by the way, kid, your mama used to be a junkie but now your mama's dead.
Before she made love to the needle for the final time, she had laid a curse on him. She made him swear he would find his dad and get him off the booze.
Last month he'd managed to keep his promise, even though it had been by accident. Still it had been something of a tearful reunion—the old bastard had caught him on the nose with a wine bottle while Joey had been going through his pockets in an alley over on Collins.
Joey had been about to carve his initials on some unwashed skin when something in the old man's voice had stopped him. The foulmouthed swearing had a familiar ring.
They were together now, him and the old man, doing their best to get by. Joey did whatever he had to in order for them to eat: shoplifting, purse snatching, making pickups for the bookies.
When times were really tough, he sold his body to men with a taste for young boys, his defiant smile a bandage far too small to cover the hurt when he endured their cold sweaty hands, when they threw their money at his feet, when they roared away in cars that smelled of new leather and spent passion… to their big fine homes… where the rats never came in the night.
The city fought sleep, tossing and turning fitfully, a shadow troubled by fevered neon dreams. Sounds leaked from the apartments he passed: an argument between a man and a woman, a snatch of Latino melody, a child laughing, an old woman praying, someone crying. Always someone crying.
Night music his mama had called it, a lullaby made by souls in torment.