rested against a wall. She needed to size them up.
One young man stood across from her with a beer in hand. His friendly face was youthful and unlined. The soft curl of his lip and clear rose-colored cheeks made him seem untroubled, unchallenged. He watched the game intently. The other two, one short, the other with glasses, played pool. The short guy was muscular. She suspected in time he’d grow fat if he wasn’t careful. His opponent, the one with glasses, already had the inkling of thinning hair. It appeared to be a semi-serious game, no talking about sports or women. After each shot, the players straightened and watched the path of the cue ball. The short muscular one was about to win and took time to configure his shot. After a few walks around the table, he leaned down and took aim. He misfired, hitting the cue ball too low and off center. It spun and grazed the black ball at an angle. Still, it was a winning shot and the eight ball fell into the pocket. Sometimes just being in the ballpark was enough.
The short guy picked up his two buck winnings. The lanky man who’d been watching slapped down two more. A fleeting, silent glance passed among them. The short, muscular man racked up the balls and the innocent one made the break shot. Another game was underway.
Paloma sipped her drink, contemplating her approach.
She waited, then sidled up to the man with glasses who’d just lost. “I used to play a lot of pool,” she said.
He turned and looked at her. “Oh, yeah?”
“I once came in second in a citywide competition,” she lied.
He nodded politely.
The stocky man was on a roll. Closing in he announced, “Twelve in center.”
She leaned into the guy who was watching. “Nine in the corner pocket should be his shot.”
The onlooker smiled.
The stocky kid walloped the cue ball. The twelve was hit too hard and overshot the pocket, bumping off the rail.
Paloma shook her head. “Shame.”
The man with glasses called out, “Hey, Frank, the lady here says you should have gone for the nine.”
Frank ignored the comment and told his opponent. “Your turn.”
The tall lanky kid took a shot and scratched.
Paloma stayed quiet, watching. Clearly Frank was the best player of the three. He evaluated his next shot.
Paloma coughed, then said aloud. “Nine corner. Twelve center.”
This grabbed his attention. “Excuse me?”
“Two for the price of one.”
“You think so, huh?”
She nodded.
He walked over and handed Paloma the cue stick. “Your shot.”
Paloma took the stick. She walked to the table and laid a few diagonals, placing the cue stick this way and that. She then positioned herself behind the cue ball in the opposite direction of the two balls, angled the stick and eyed down its shaft. Some of her moves were for real, most for show. She gave the three men a quick glance. Frank was grinning ear to ear.
She chewed the inside of her cheek.
“Having second thoughts?” said Frank.
Paloma stepped over to her bag, pulled out five ones, and laid them on the table. “Piece of cake.”
Frank went for his wallet and slammed down a ten spot. He looked at his friends. “You guys in?”
They planted down five bucks each.
Paloma, confident they’d never find out she couldn’t make the bet, tossed in the rest of her money. She returned to the opposite side of the table and chalked up. She took a different stance and reminded herself of the golden rule she’d learned from the Black Widow: Prepare, Decide, Picture and Trust. Hunkering down with her chin to the cue stick, she spread her two fingers, crooked her thumb and took aim. Slowly she reeled back the stick, then hit hard, dead on center. The kick shot was solid and smooth. It bounced off the rail then careened across the felt, first sinking the nine, then the twelve.
Straightening up, she looked at the three young men. Their snickering faces suddenly dried up.
Frank stepped forward. “Lucky shot.”
“Double or
One young man stood across from her with a beer in hand. His friendly face was youthful and unlined. The soft curl of his lip and clear rose-colored cheeks made him seem untroubled, unchallenged. He watched the game intently. The other two, one short, the other with glasses, played pool. The short guy was muscular. She suspected in time he’d grow fat if he wasn’t careful. His opponent, the one with glasses, already had the inkling of thinning hair. It appeared to be a semi-serious game, no talking about sports or women. After each shot, the players straightened and watched the path of the cue ball. The short muscular one was about to win and took time to configure his shot. After a few walks around the table, he leaned down and took aim. He misfired, hitting the cue ball too low and off center. It spun and grazed the black ball at an angle. Still, it was a winning shot and the eight ball fell into the pocket. Sometimes just being in the ballpark was enough.
The short guy picked up his two buck winnings. The lanky man who’d been watching slapped down two more. A fleeting, silent glance passed among them. The short, muscular man racked up the balls and the innocent one made the break shot. Another game was underway.
Paloma sipped her drink, contemplating her approach.
She waited, then sidled up to the man with glasses who’d just lost. “I used to play a lot of pool,” she said.
He turned and looked at her. “Oh, yeah?”
“I once came in second in a citywide competition,” she lied.
He nodded politely.
The stocky man was on a roll. Closing in he announced, “Twelve in center.”
She leaned into the guy who was watching. “Nine in the corner pocket should be his shot.”
The onlooker smiled.
The stocky kid walloped the cue ball. The twelve was hit too hard and overshot the pocket, bumping off the rail.
Paloma shook her head. “Shame.”
The man with glasses called out, “Hey, Frank, the lady here says you should have gone for the nine.”
Frank ignored the comment and told his opponent. “Your turn.”
The tall lanky kid took a shot and scratched.
Paloma stayed quiet, watching. Clearly Frank was the best player of the three. He evaluated his next shot.
Paloma coughed, then said aloud. “Nine corner. Twelve center.”
This grabbed his attention. “Excuse me?”
“Two for the price of one.”
“You think so, huh?”
She nodded.
He walked over and handed Paloma the cue stick. “Your shot.”
Paloma took the stick. She walked to the table and laid a few diagonals, placing the cue stick this way and that. She then positioned herself behind the cue ball in the opposite direction of the two balls, angled the stick and eyed down its shaft. Some of her moves were for real, most for show. She gave the three men a quick glance. Frank was grinning ear to ear.
She chewed the inside of her cheek.
“Having second thoughts?” said Frank.
Paloma stepped over to her bag, pulled out five ones, and laid them on the table. “Piece of cake.”
Frank went for his wallet and slammed down a ten spot. He looked at his friends. “You guys in?”
They planted down five bucks each.
Paloma, confident they’d never find out she couldn’t make the bet, tossed in the rest of her money. She returned to the opposite side of the table and chalked up. She took a different stance and reminded herself of the golden rule she’d learned from the Black Widow: Prepare, Decide, Picture and Trust. Hunkering down with her chin to the cue stick, she spread her two fingers, crooked her thumb and took aim. Slowly she reeled back the stick, then hit hard, dead on center. The kick shot was solid and smooth. It bounced off the rail then careened across the felt, first sinking the nine, then the twelve.
Straightening up, she looked at the three young men. Their snickering faces suddenly dried up.
Frank stepped forward. “Lucky shot.”
“Double or
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