A Haunting of Horrors, Volume 2: A Twenty-Book eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Brian Hodge

  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.

  Just one ball.

  Jesse watched the striped ball turn, the number fifteen slowly appearing, disappearing, as though it were an eye winking at him.

  "C'mon, you son of a bitch," Jesse whispered. "Come on." He leaned over the table closely tracking the progress of the ball, throwing all the body English he could muster as he urged it toward the pocket.

  The fifteen was going to make it.

  A few more inches.

  That was when the three ball clipped the fifteen, stopped it.

  And just like that, the game was over. At first no one could believe that Jesse had made nothing on the break. They stared at the table, waiting for something to fall, but all the balls were still now.

  "Tough break, son," Earl said softly. "I thought you had that fifteen."

  Jesse didn't answer. He didn't know if he could, even if he wanted to, because there was this sudden, vast emptiness inside of him. He looked at the money for a second before stripping off a hundred and handing it to Earl. "That okay with you, Bobby?"

  "Give him another hundred. He's got to get some work done on his car." Bobby grinned. "Besides, I kind of like the old bastard."

  "Much obliged," Earl said. He stuck the money into the pocket of his ratty old jacket. "You boys put on a good show tonight."

  Before Bobby could pick up the money on the table, another stack of bills landed beside it. "There's twenty grand there," Steven Adler said, "against your ten grand." His grin outshone Bobby's. "You made a hundred and twenty-six balls. Here's the deal: I say I can make two hundred and fifty-three balls, that's twice your count plus one, and I can do it in fifteen minutes." Steven picked up the money and fanned it beneath Bobby's nose. "I'm giving you two-to-one odds. We play for thirty grand. What do you say, Bobby, you got the cojones?"

  It was Bobby's turn for a case of cotton mouth. The guy was fast, Bobby had seen him snatch that beer bottle out of the air like it was nothing. Could anyone really make that many shots in fifteen minutes? Bobby searched the faces in the crowd, trying to find the answer, and saw Amy Warrick standing beside Jesse. She had her arm around Jesse's waist, but her taunting expression was meant for Bobby alone.

  This wasn't going as Bobby had planned.

  Everyone waited for him to answer.

  "All right, mister, you got yourself a bet," Bobby finally said. "You got fifteen minutes, not one second more." He pulled off his watch and announced the time. "There's no way you can sink two hundred and fifty-three balls in fifteen minutes."

  Bobby was right.

  Steven Adler did it in fourteen.

  Chapter 12

  Bobby Roberts was not in a good mood when he dropped Kevin, Nash, and Boyce in front of the bunkhouse. They climbed out of the car without a word, slammed the door.

  Bobby turned off the Caddy and waited for them to say what was on their minds. He already had a pretty good idea what that was. Nobody had said more than two words on the way back from Jake's place, and now, as they stood huddled in the predawn chill, all was quiet except for a few fitful gusts of wind pushing a squeaky weather vane around.

  Somewhere in the distance, the clatter of a passing train came. It was a lonesome sound.

  Bobby took in the familiar sights and smells of the ranch and yet they all suddenly felt alien to him, as though he had become a stranger here at the Broken R. From the bunkhouse, the smell of wood smoke carried on the night air. The outlying buildings were a solid presence. Everything looked the same but it was somehow changed. Different.

  Bobby kept waiting for his friends to say something.

  But they held their silence, and this time, it had the ring of judgment in it.

  Bobby started up the Caddy, put it in drive, changed his mind and slammed the lever into park. "Anybody got anything to say about tonight, go on and say it."

  The three hired hands looked at ea
ch other as though trying to decide who would speak Finally, Nash stepped forward. "That was a bad thing you did to Jesse tonight. He's been your buddy ever since he took the fall for you in high school. Ever since you trashed old man Denton's car. Christ, Denton was the principal. They wanted to kick your ass out of school over that one, or have you forgot? Do you know what your old man would have done to you?"

  "Screw the car," Boyce said. "Jesse's one of us. You backed him into a corner, Bobby. You made him bet every cent he had."

  "I gave him an out."

  Nash spat on the ground as though he tasted something bad. "It wasn't much of an out. You knew he couldn't take it, not with his girl standing there."

  Looking from face to face, Bobby saw their anger. "Is that the way the rest of you feel? That I did wrong?"

  They wouldn't look at him.

  Kevin seemed more sad than angry. "You went too far this time, Bobby."

  "You can go straight to hell, all of you. I didn't make Jesse bet all his money." Bobby, stung, drained his beer and threw the empty can at their feet. "I thought you were my friends, but I can see I was wrong." He ripped the Caddy into drive and punched the gas, raising a cloud of dust that swallowed the three ranch hands. When he looked in his rearview mirror, he saw they were gone, as though the wind, which had blown the dust away, had blown them away, too.

  Bobby tried desperately to hold on to his anger so he wouldn't feel the hole their words had left in him, but he couldn't do it. Because he knew what they had said was true.

  The sprawling two-story Spanish ranch house swam into the Caddy's lights, materializing into the Marlboro Man's wet dream, all stucco and adobe on the outside, leather couches, fake Western macho decorations of cowhide and steer horns on the inside. Bobby hated it. Many times as a kid he had dreamed of burning it down.

  Once, after a particularly savage beating, he had almost found the guts to do the job. That had been years ago, a sweaty July night. After his first rodeo. He had been eleven at the time, scared to death, and he had peed his pants during the calf riding, embarrassing his dad.