Chick said.
“Toddy taught me that one. I seen him use it on nasty drunks two or three times.”
“All the same it was clever, and dangerous, with that knife and all. You never know what crazy people will do. It was clever.”
“I’m a clever son of a bitch,” Billy said, and he reached for Chick’s check and pocketed it. One up on you, Chick, you sarcastic prick. “Doughnuts are on me,
Chick.”
“Why thanks, Billy, thanks. Take care of yourself.”
Tod came around the counter with two coffees in one mitt and Billy’s western in the other. He sat down.
“You play a nice game of coffee.”
“I had a good teacher. You call Harvey?”
“Yeah. He’ll be down at Louie’s.” Tod looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes from now. Damn, I wish I didn’t have to work. I love to see old Harvey in action.
He makes me feel smart.”
“Listen, you know what I heard? Charlie McCall was snatched.”
“No. No shit?”
“And I just saw him last night. He backed Scotty against me in this match.”
“That’ll teach him.”
“They must’ve grabbed him after he left the alleys.”
“Wow, that’s a ballbuster. Broadway’ll be hot tonight.”
“Too bad I gotta play cards. Be fun just floatin’ tonight.” Billy finished his coffee and then gave both his own and Chick’s food checks to Tod, who knew how to make them
disappear. “Now I gotta go get fresh money.”
When Billy walked into Louie’s pool room on Broadway across from Union Station, Daddy Big, wearing his change apron and eyeshade, was leaning on a cue watching Doc Fay,
the band leader, run a rack. Tomorrow night, Billy would likely face the Doc here in the finals of a six-week-old round robin. There were four players left and Billy and the Doc could beat the
other two left-handed. But Billy and the Doc were also near equals in skill. They beat each other as often as they were beaten: Doc, a flashy shooter; Billy, great control through position and safe
shots. Doc, as usual, was playing in his vest. Billy watched him mount the table with one leg, flatten out, stretch his left arm as far as it would take him, with the intention of dropping the
fourteen ball into the far corner, a double combination shot he’d never try in a match unless he was drunk, or grandstanding. Ridiculous shot, really, but zlonk! He sank it. Sassy shooter,
the Doc, no pushover.
Only one of the other ten tables was busy, Harvey Hess at that one, revving up his sucker suction. Billy could feel it pulling him, but he resisted, walked over to Daddy Big, whose straight name
was Louis Dugan, known from his early hustling days because of his willingness to overextend the risk factor in any given hustle—once sporting a mark eighty-four points in a game of one
hundred—as Daddy Big Ones, which time shortened to Daddy Big. He’d grown old and wide, grown also a cataract on one eye that he wouldn’t let anybody cut away. The eye was all but
blind, and so focusing on the thin edge of a master shot was no longer possible for him, which meant that Daddy Big no longer hustled. Now he racked for other hustlers and their fish, for the
would-bes, the semi-pros, the amateurs who passed through the magically dismal dust of Louie’s parlor.
Daddy Big had run Louie’s since the week he came out of Comstock after doing two for a post-office holdup flubbed by Georgie Fox, a sad, syphilitic freak with mange on his soul. Because
Fox had lifted Daddy Big’s registered pistol to pull the job, then dropped it in a scuffle at the scene, Daddy ended up doing the two instead of Georgie, whom the police never connected to
the job. But Bindy McCall, Daddy’s cousin, made the connection, and sent out the word: Mark Fox lousy; which swiftly denied Georgie the Syph access to all the places the Broadway crowd
patronized: the gin mills, the card games, the gambling joints, the pool rooms, the restaurants, the nightclubs, even the two-bit whorehouses Georgie had never learned to live
“Toddy taught me that one. I seen him use it on nasty drunks two or three times.”
“All the same it was clever, and dangerous, with that knife and all. You never know what crazy people will do. It was clever.”
“I’m a clever son of a bitch,” Billy said, and he reached for Chick’s check and pocketed it. One up on you, Chick, you sarcastic prick. “Doughnuts are on me,
Chick.”
“Why thanks, Billy, thanks. Take care of yourself.”
Tod came around the counter with two coffees in one mitt and Billy’s western in the other. He sat down.
“You play a nice game of coffee.”
“I had a good teacher. You call Harvey?”
“Yeah. He’ll be down at Louie’s.” Tod looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes from now. Damn, I wish I didn’t have to work. I love to see old Harvey in action.
He makes me feel smart.”
“Listen, you know what I heard? Charlie McCall was snatched.”
“No. No shit?”
“And I just saw him last night. He backed Scotty against me in this match.”
“That’ll teach him.”
“They must’ve grabbed him after he left the alleys.”
“Wow, that’s a ballbuster. Broadway’ll be hot tonight.”
“Too bad I gotta play cards. Be fun just floatin’ tonight.” Billy finished his coffee and then gave both his own and Chick’s food checks to Tod, who knew how to make them
disappear. “Now I gotta go get fresh money.”
When Billy walked into Louie’s pool room on Broadway across from Union Station, Daddy Big, wearing his change apron and eyeshade, was leaning on a cue watching Doc Fay,
the band leader, run a rack. Tomorrow night, Billy would likely face the Doc here in the finals of a six-week-old round robin. There were four players left and Billy and the Doc could beat the
other two left-handed. But Billy and the Doc were also near equals in skill. They beat each other as often as they were beaten: Doc, a flashy shooter; Billy, great control through position and safe
shots. Doc, as usual, was playing in his vest. Billy watched him mount the table with one leg, flatten out, stretch his left arm as far as it would take him, with the intention of dropping the
fourteen ball into the far corner, a double combination shot he’d never try in a match unless he was drunk, or grandstanding. Ridiculous shot, really, but zlonk! He sank it. Sassy shooter,
the Doc, no pushover.
Only one of the other ten tables was busy, Harvey Hess at that one, revving up his sucker suction. Billy could feel it pulling him, but he resisted, walked over to Daddy Big, whose straight name
was Louis Dugan, known from his early hustling days because of his willingness to overextend the risk factor in any given hustle—once sporting a mark eighty-four points in a game of one
hundred—as Daddy Big Ones, which time shortened to Daddy Big. He’d grown old and wide, grown also a cataract on one eye that he wouldn’t let anybody cut away. The eye was all but
blind, and so focusing on the thin edge of a master shot was no longer possible for him, which meant that Daddy Big no longer hustled. Now he racked for other hustlers and their fish, for the
would-bes, the semi-pros, the amateurs who passed through the magically dismal dust of Louie’s parlor.
Daddy Big had run Louie’s since the week he came out of Comstock after doing two for a post-office holdup flubbed by Georgie Fox, a sad, syphilitic freak with mange on his soul. Because
Fox had lifted Daddy Big’s registered pistol to pull the job, then dropped it in a scuffle at the scene, Daddy ended up doing the two instead of Georgie, whom the police never connected to
the job. But Bindy McCall, Daddy’s cousin, made the connection, and sent out the word: Mark Fox lousy; which swiftly denied Georgie the Syph access to all the places the Broadway crowd
patronized: the gin mills, the card games, the gambling joints, the pool rooms, the restaurants, the nightclubs, even the two-bit whorehouses Georgie had never learned to live
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