by Mike Walsh
There was a rail halfway back and across to the wall, splitting a quarter of the pool hall away from the rest. Molly explained that the larger area was open pool where beer was allowed. The smaller area was for pros and tournaments – no drinks allowed. That was the serious side of pool playing.
• • •
Around 3:30 p.m. or so, the factories changed shifts and the guys started coming in. All white guys in work clothes heading first to the bar to grab a beer then signing out a rack of balls at the cage. Groups of two or more headed for tables. A bunch of guys – rackers – had straggled in earlier and got table assignments. There were usually four in a square with a post in the middle holding the coin boxes and game boards. They started to brush down their tables.
Michael watched everything they did and did the same. Most just ignored him. There was little banter or joking among them. Once the place filled up, the rack boys, mostly old men, really got to hustling. Many of the players knew each other and there were challenges going on between tables. Everyone was enjoying themselves. The rack boys had a sign over the coin boxes that said, “We rack for tips only.” But Molly had told Michael they got a penny from each nickel dropped in the box. When the players started straggling out at dinner time, Michael saw the rack boys taking nickels, dimes, and quarters for their efforts. Most of the rack boys, the older ones, seemed to know the games and gave a few coaching tips, which in turn, generated bigger monetary tips.
Michael’s table stood empty as he racked, broke the balls, and racked again. He had to run around the table to get the balls out of the leather pockets, since his table had no ball return. Molly was a long way off but Michael noticed him point four teenagers his way with an empty rack tray. They must be coming to him since he already had balls at his table. When they got closer, he saw they had thin blue bands on their wrists. No beer – under aged. Michael was still excited with his first customers. He couldn’t imagine getting a tip from these young guys, but he would give them his best anyway.
“Eight ball, gents?” His very best confident tone.
“Uh, yeah. I guess,” one guy said.
“You ever play before?” Michael asked.
“Well, no, not really. Not in a real place like this, anyway. Molly, that guy back there, said you would help us.”
Michael, never having played a game of eight ball, nor any other pool game, showed them where to drop their nickels. They would play partners so all four could play together, and Michael proceeded to explain the game and get them started. Having watched the players at adjoining tables, he showed them how to hold the stick. He showed them how to chalk up and powder their hands. After two hours, they were having a great time and Michael had a box full of nickels, dimes and quarters, having to make change for them. When they left, they each gave Michael a dollar. He was ecstatic and flushed with pride. He knew he could do this and he really liked it. He put the balls in the rack and took them over to the cage.
“Did pretty good, huh kid?”
“I made four dollars, Molly. Are those kids rich or what?”
“Yeah, white kids from across town, like to slum a little, have some fun. Word gets around, they stop in here once in awhile. Spend a few bucks. Like it down here, you know? Always leave before dark, though. Can’t be too brave and courageous.” A belly laugh from deep down.
• • •
He hung out with Molly as most of the shift workers left for home and supper. Michael watched the cage while Molly went to take a piss, and then he asked if he could sweep up the floors. He knew how to keep the dust down and not get in anyone’s way. Work around them subtle-like. Molly told him to go ahead, since the old Negro guy that cleans up for him had the arthritis and other ailments so bad he hardly ever showed up. The late crowd and the pros would be drifting in after nine and it would look good to have the place clean.
“And bring out some more beer from the back and fill the coolers.” There was only one kind of beer – Molly said he didn’t want to get his place burned down – and it was kept in a locked storeroom in back. Cases of bottled beer were carried to the ice coolers on the side in a separate area from the tables. When you wanted a beer, you dropped your quarter in the box, pulled the ice-cold bottle from the cooler, popped off the cap with the church-key on the string and sat on the long bench to drink. If you were up and had to leave your beer, there was a thin shelf above the benches with a chalkboard backing. You took a piece of chalk, wrote your name, and set your beer in front of it. It was always there when you got back.
• • •
After sweeping up and loading the beer coolers, Michael wet-wiped down the chalk board and the shelf. Then he carried the boxes of empties back to the storeroom. This was a mess. So he moved things around, straightening out and cleaning up the room. He found all kinds of stuff to clean in the rest rooms and attacked them next. Up front by the covered tournament table facing the front of the building he found another small storeroom with pool table equipment, boxes of balls, and stuff to fix the cue sticks, with a door going into a small room with a toilet and sink. Molly’s private bath. He cleaned that up too, and rigged up a small area behind the door in the storeroom with bundles of felt to make a fairly comfortable bed.
When he went up to Molly at the cage, Molly looked at him, one side of his lips turned up in partial smile and said, “What are you doing, kid? The place looks great, but...”
“I know, Molly, thanks, and what I’d like, you know, if I could sleep in that storeroom over there for a night or so, just till I find a place, you know. I fixed up a bed and it would be okay, OK?”
Molly crooked up that slight smile and nodded. Michael had a place to stay.
Michael ran out for Molly and the others to get food, cigarettes or whatever. He learned all the games and got pretty good at racking and encouraging tips. He also heard talk of a big game coming up. They called it a Tournament, but it was really just some big pros coming in to play for some big money. He asked Molly, who just said, “We’ll see, we’ll see. There’s lots of competition for the play.” Whatever that meant.
• • •
Michael had been there three weeks when the tournament table was finally uncovered and cleaned. The bleachers were scrubbed down and some big, bad-looking guys came in and looked the place over. Guys like that came in every week and took an envelope from Molly, but these guys – they looked serious, looking down at everything through slit eyes. They scared the hell out of Michael.
One morning, Molly sent Michael out front with a sign to tape over the front door, “Closed Today. Private Party.” Caterers came by in the afternoon and set up a table by the bleachers with a big coffee urn and covered food containers. That evening they came back with the food.
Molly told Michael he could leave the storeroom door open and sit in a chair in the doorway. Probably the best seat in the house. But he was not to come out or make any noise. At the breaks, the players or maybe some of the spectators in the bleachers may want to use the john. Michael was to move his chair outside and stay right there.
This was great, he would see the whole thing. Michael had spent the afternoon and early evening spiffing the place up, making sure the floors were clean, the chalkboard freshly scrubbed and the johns clean with plenty of toilet paper and towels. All the beer coolers were full, and he even polished the front door till you could see your reflection.
Michael took up his station that evening and pretty soon people in classy clothes started to drift in. They hung around the bleachers, sipping from flasks and waiting. Soon, a portly man with black curly hair came in and walked over to the table, now recovered. He wore a shiny dark suit and bow tie, and even though it was warm out, he had a white silk scarf around his neck, open at the front. He went up to the table and started peeling back the cover. Rodney, the old guy assigned to rack for that night’s event did not move to help him. When the cover was rolled back to the end, it fell to the floor. Rodney moved to retrieve it and handed it to Michael, who folde
d it in half and put it behind him in the storeroom. The large man, not fat, but with a big gut, ran his soft rather slim fingers over the felt. He took a ball from the pocket and rolled it around the table. He said very softly, you could hardly hear, “rack, please.”
As Rodney was collecting the balls from the leather pockets, more people kept arriving. And still now one took a seat in the bleachers. They seemed to be waiting for someone while moving around nervously.
Suddenly everyone turned their head to watch someone come through the half door, left open by Molly. One dapperly dressed over-sized brick of a man and four very serious looking men – two Michael had seen checking out the place earlier – marched across the floor. One stayed back by the front, one peeled off and went to the rear, and the other two remained on each side of the important man. Molly was standing in front of Michael in a tuxedo and bow tie, looking like a bowling ball.
Michael whispered, “Who’s that, Molly?”
Molly turned his head and whispered back, “That’s Mr. Mosconi, now shut up, it ain’t healthy to ask questions.”
Michael shut up and figured out what was up. Back in Providence, a bomb blew up a restaurant on Broad Street and some guys got killed. Everyone talked about it for weeks, even though the papers had nothing in them about the bombing. They said you had to get a New York paper to find out what the mob was doing in Providence. He figured these were mob guys and this Mosconi was the boss.
Mosconi stepped up onto the bleacher to the third row and sat near the end, leaving room for the other guys, his bodyguards obviously, to sit on either side. Other people started to climb and sit in the seats but none on the top row and none directly in front of the mob guys. Looking at the rest of the people, Michael speculated they were other low level mobsters, gamblers of different backgrounds, and some politicians. They all looked important. Mr. Mosconi reminded Michael of Mr. Harmon, the enforcer at Sockanosset.
Another man came into the pool hall carrying a stick box and swaggered over to the table. He was tall, skinny and sleazy looking. He greeted the guy with the gut saying, “Hey, Fats, how’s it doing?”
The man called Fats had been dropping balls into the pockets with a shiny pool cue he had taken from a leather case. He straightened up, put chalk on the tip, set the chalk down and looked at the younger man. Very softly, “Ten games, five hundred, two hundred a game.”
The younger man, being the challenger, did not get to call the game or wager.
“OK, I’ve got that covered. Molly, hold this for me. Two grand. Let’s shoot pool.” Another man handed some money to Molly, and Rodney racked the balls.
They were playing straight pool, five hundred points per game, and Fats was winning every game. The younger guy, called Donny, was getting nervous and sloppy, being psyched out by Fats. Michael stood up to stretch, the game exciting at first, now a little embarrassing for Donny, who stuck to the contract for ten games.
Michael went into the john and closed the door to take a leak. He was standing there looking out the window, grimy on the outside with heavy wire crisscrossed for security, when a big black car pulled into the alley. He watched as four men got out, one from each door, carrying either machine guns or shotguns. They were looking around the alley. It dead-ended to right where Michael was standing. He didn’t move, afraid to be seen. They slipped the guns under overcoats, unusual looking in this warm weather, and headed for the front of the building. Michael shook himself out of his shock and opened the bathroom door. The game was still going on. The gambling activity had slowed down on the bleachers. Mr. Mosconi looked like he wanted to leave, fidgeting and leaning forward, elbows on knees, slapping a paper into his hand.
Molly was on the other side of the table now, and gave Michael’s beckoning just a hard stare. Stop that, it said. Molly looked away, dismissing him. Michael assessed the game. Almost over and time for a break. He eased himself past the doorway to the storeroom and down the wall until he was even with the front of the bleachers. The bodyguard on the end gave him a glance but didn’t seem too concerned about his movement, having seen him for several hours now. Michael stared at the end guy, willing him to look his way. Finally, it was Mr. Mosconi who looked over. He looked at Michael with disinterest that turned to curiosity when Michael moved his head a little and rolled his eyes to the right towards the storeroom.
Mosconi elbowed his bodyguard and whispered to go see what the kid wanted. The guy stepped down and ambled over. “What’s up kid? The boss says you got a problem.”
Michael tugged his sleeve and walked back into the storeroom to the bathroom window. The light coming from the street shined on the car. He pointed out the window and got back so the guy could see. Another guy came in to see what was going on. Michael said “four men with guns.” That’s all they needed. They both rushed out and over to their boss. The game was over and Fats came into the bathroom to wash his hands. What was going on did not faze him a bit. Michael handed him a clean towel and said there might be trouble. Fats nodded his head and said quietly, “There always is.”
Michael heard from the pool room “everybody sit tight.” He stepped out and saw one of the bodyguards by the cage on the pay phone. He came back and sat back down. The pool players started another game.
About a half hour later, Michael had been beckoned over to stand next to the end bodyguard, and as he did, a guy came in the front and said something to the bodyguard by the cage. He came over to the end guy and whispered that all was cleared up. The end guy nodded, looked at Mosconi and nodded to him and that was that. Michael was given a little shove and he left for the storeroom. When he looked out the window, the car was gone.
• • •
When the games were over, Donny didn’t look too good. It was morning and he was tired and pissed that he had lost all the games. But he went over to Fats and thanked him for the game. Fats just nodded and Donny took off. Mr. Mosconi was talking to Molly and money changed hands. Fats put on his scarf and walked out with several people following him. Michael was helping Rodney cover the table after brushing it down when Mr. Mosconi walked over and took him aside.
“That was a good thing you did, kid. I appreciate it and I owe you one.” He tucked a hundred dollar bill into Michael’s shirt.
“I can’t take that, sir,” Michael said, pulling the bill out of his shirt. “No one will take it. I can’t spend it.”
“Just take it to Molly, kid. He’ll break it down for you. It’s the smallest I got. And kid, listen close to what I’m telling you. You ever get into big trouble, you need someone or something real bad, no matter where, you call the Baltimore telephone operator, give them your name and tell them you need to talk to me, Mister Mosconi, and hang on. Anywhere, anytime. They’ll find me. You got that kid? Ask for Mr. Mosconi, they’ll find me. Now you got to hit the road. Molly told me about you. One of these freaks in here is sure to tell someone what you did, and that’s not good. See Molly and cash out. Tony over there by the door will drive you out of town, west to the state line if you want. OK, kid? And thanks.”
• • •
Michael found himself on the road again. A small bag with a few things, and over a hundred dollars spread around his body. Molly was real nice, looking like he was sad that Michael was leaving. He gave him mostly fives and singles and another ten for the work he had done. He wished him luck and told him to keep his head down. Michael walked out of the pool hall and into a big black car. The driver said nothing all the way to the edge of the city. He just stopped and nodded to Michael that he was to get out, and made a U-turn back into town. The sun was shining and he was glad to be outside. It was a fun four weeks and the August heat felt good.
Chapter 5 – Akron
Michael had walked all night and most of the next day. He was standing on the middle of a bridge over a river looking at all the smoke stacks spewing out black shit into the air. He never saw so many factories in one place, although he was sure there were plenty of other places like this. Like Pittsbu
rgh or other big cities.
But this place, looking from the top of the bridge where you could see east and west and nothing but factories, well, it was awesome. He was dead tired and needed some sleep. From his vantage point he could see a couple of small parks with lots of trees and bushes. He picked the closest, probably a mile away and started off in that direction. The smell up here was making him a little sick.
Michael walked to the center of the park, and found a large patch of bushes to climb into. It was still light out and he could see the trash the park guys couldn’t get to left by former occupants. The dirt was soft and smooth and brushed off his clothes easily. Pushing aside the trash, he made himself a bed and lay down. He was fast asleep in minutes, dreaming of times gone by.
The first time he met Georgie Cohen he was a Jew – not that he wasn’t a Jew now. He just didn’t wear the beanie and run around shouting Shuska anymore. Obviously, you could tell Georgie, Michael, and Teddy McMahon were best friends. They played together every day.