Trick Baby by Iceberg Slim Page B

monstrous rock on his ebony right hand flashed like a hunk of rainbow.
    I said, “Who is the rich guy?”
    Pocket said, “He’s Blue Howard.”
    He came across the sidewalk towards us. One Pocket took a step to meet him and said, “Well, Blue, what’s in the barnyard for a hawk?”
    The giant grinned down at One Pocket. In a very soft voice, he said, “I’m flat-jointing with an outfit operation on Lake Street. I fired all of my thieving boost last night. Pocket, I could use you on the outside to feed the belly-sticks and to heckle the marks for the usual ten percent of the box. Don’t worry, you’ll make a buck. Do I have to tell you that the dagos don’t play in bad locations? Well?”
    One Pocket threw his hands into the air palms up. He said, “Blue, I ain’t played nothing but funny pool in a week. My rep has all the hustlers scared shitless. I gotta wait for chumps who ain’theard of me to get a game. I’ll rib marks and handle the sticks for you. How many sticks you using?”
    Blue looked over Pocket’s head and said, “I need three. How about your young white friend? Maybe he’d like to pick up a sawbuck or so. He’d give the joint inviting flavor for any white marks over there.”
    Pocket said, “Blue, the kid ain’t white. He’s a boot. But it’s the same difference ain’t it? Blue, I like him. You should have seen him punch the puke outta Double-crossing Sammy.”
    Then he glanced over his shoulder at me. He said, “Kid, you want a job?”
    I said, “Sure, but I don’t know anything about it.”
    Blue said, “You’re the whitest spade I’ve ever seen. Kid, there isn’t a helluva lot a belly-stick has to know. All you do is keep your belly against the joint counter and let me make you lucky on the wheel. Pocket will give you a rundown on the scratch and the feed. You get paid every night.”
    I said, “I learn fast. I’ll be the best stick you ever saw.”
    Pocket turned and went to the poolroom doorway. He shouted, “First and last call for two sober belly-sticks in clean clothes. It’s a Westside spot, there and back in a brand new Cadillac.”
    A half dozen prospects galloped to the sidewalk. They stood in slouched attention like a squad of bedraggled soldiers waiting for a pass from no man’s land.
    Pocket eyed them from head to toe. Finally he said, “I want Precious Jimmy and Old Man Mule. The rest of you ain’t in the shape like you could have the measly scratch to blow on a wheel.”
    Precious was a tall handsome light brown-skinned fellow about twenty-two years old. Mule was old, black and ugly, with the longest ears I’d ever seen except on a mule.
    The turndowns dragged back into the poolroom. We all got into the Cadillac. Pocket sat in the front seat with Blue. The Caddie leaped from the curb like a red jackrabbit.
    I closed my eyes and leaned back in the plush seat between Precious and Mule. It was like floating on air. It felt a little like the train ride Phala and I took from Kansas City to Chicago, long ago. This ride was smoother and I didn’t feel so tiny and afraid like on the train.
    Blue said, “What’s your name, kid?”
    I opened my eyes. They met his in the rear-view mirror. I said, “Johnny O’Brien.”
    He said, “That’s no name at all for a young hustler. You’ve got to have a street moniker that’s jazzy and proper. How about ‘White Folks?’ It’s a natural for you, just like ‘Blue’ for me because I’m so black.”
    I said, “I don’t like that one. I don’t want people hating me because they think I’m bragging I’m white. If I’m going to have a moniker it ought to brag that I’m a Nigger.”
    Blue said, “I’m glad you said that. That’s just what that moniker does for you. It’s