Trick Baby by Iceberg Slim Page A

stood next to a glass cigar case near the door. For almost an hour I watched a slender black man run one rack of balls after another. He controlled the cue ball like he had it on an invisible string.
    I turned to an old man standing beside me. He had clucked his praise of the thin wizard’s skill. I whispered, “I wish I could shoot pool like that guy. I could sure get rich in a hurry.”
    He whispered, “White boy, if wishes were cars, damn fools wouldride. He is one of the best big-buck pool players in the country. I wish he’d play me. But he won’t. Since you just wishing, wish for his feet. Them slick dogs of his done made him more dollars than Carter is got pills. That’s Bill Bojangles Robinson in the livin’ meat.”
    The wizard telescoped his stick. He slipped it into a leather case. The crowd moved away.
    I said, “Listen, Mister, I’m not a white boy. I’m colored like you. Honest, I’m really colored. My mother is about your color.”
    A very black zoot-suited kid strutted and stood in front of us on his way out the door. He ignored me.
    He said to the old man beside me, “One Pocket, ain’t life a mother-fucker? My old lady must of fucked hundreds of peckerwoods for three bucks a hump.
    â€œDidn’t one of them silky-haired, straight-nosed bastards knock her up. Hell no, the blackest, kinkiest-haired, ugliest trick on Thirty-first Street rammed me up her ass.
    â€œNow, Pocket, I ain’t hip to a white trick baby so square he’s passing for a Nigger. I just ain’t never heard of it, Pocket. Shit, a dumb bastard like that oughta’ have his ass kicked to the top of his stupid head. And by me.”
    I slugged my fist into the side of his jaw. I heard a flat crack like a bat against a baseball. I felt the shuddery shock of it to my elbow. He fell backwards and bounced hard. He lay flat on his back moaning. A snake of mustard vomit wiggled across his cheek.
    Through a red haze of fury I went to the wall rack for a cue stick. He had driven me out of my mind with his wise crack about Phala.
    I stood over him and raised the lead-loaded butt of the cue stick high over my head. I was going to crush his ugly face into a blob of black jelly. I drew a deep breath for the downward slam.
    Then something locked my upraised arms to the sides of my head. I felt myself pulled away from the terrified eyes on the floor.
    There wasn’t a sound in the crowded poolroom. I half-twisted my head around. It was One Pocket holding me. That Irish in me wasraging. I was screaming, “Let me go! I’m going to murder that signifying sonuvabitch.”
    One Pocket had one hell of a time holding me until after the wise apple had struggled to his feet and fled to safety.
    I walked through the door and stood on the sidewalk. One Pocket came out and stood beside me. I kept my eyes on the sidewalk. He was sweating and panting like a thirsty pooch. I was ashamed that I had lost my temper.
    He said, “Goddamn, it took a lotta’ muscle to stop you from playing the murder game. I got a sucker’s tender ticker. I couldn’t stand to see even that rat croaked.
    â€œWhat the hell, you didn’t need to waste him to convince him your old lady wasn’t no whore. Besides, you’re lucky those scufflers in there didn’t stomp you to death. I guess they hate that rat stool pigeon worse than your white skin.”
    I said, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m glad I didn’t kill him. I don’t know what happened to me in there. I’ve never been that mad in my life. Thanks for stopping me, One Pocket.”

9
FLAT-JOINT FLIMFLAM
    A tomato-red Cadillac glided to the curb in front of us. A tall heavyset guy in a white shimmery tropical suit got out. I’d seen him a hundred times going into the Du Sable Hotel on Oakwood near Thirty-ninth Street.
    His processed black hair glittered like a satin skullcap in the sun. A