Somewhere along the Idaho and Nevada border, Coulter found himself on a deserted stretch of road in the middle of a small, dusty town.
“What a shit hole,” he muttered, lighting a cigarette.
The bus ticket out of Idaho had gotten him this far. Now he just had to decide whether to head south to Vegas or west to San Francisco and farther on to L.A. He didn’t have a particular destination in mind. He never did. Not since that sunny Tennessee day his mother claimed raising a son was cramping her lifestyle and kicked him out of the double wide. He’d been fifteen.
With no family to speak of and not wanting to end up in foster care, Coulter took off. In the beginning, he worked odd jobs, barely living off what he earned, but then one day the carnival came to Chattanooga. He decided to try his luck at knocking down three milk bottles stacked in a triangle. His first three shots just glanced off the bottles and failed to knock down a single one. Annoyed, he purchased three more balls and failed twice more.
By this time Coulter figured out that even a hurricane blowing through the lot wouldn’t knock over a damn bottle. Thoroughly ticked at getting conned, his anger grew. He felt the pull in his gut and hurled his last ball at the target. Not only did the ball knock down the milk bottles but the shelf of prizes behind it as well, and tore a hole in the tent. Coulter walked off with a good chunk of the carny’s money, and a whole new career was born.
God smiled down on Coulter Marshall that day.
He hadn’t heard from the Man since.
Eleven years later, he was still drifting.
Only now he was looking for bigger game, higher stakes. The kind of score he could coast on for months instead of days. He needed a big city for that. But first he needed a drink.
And like every other crap-hole town in blessed America that didn’t possess a hospital, library, or ethnic diversity, this one had a bar.
He stubbed out his cigarette, pushed open the door, and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. When he noticed the three men playing pool in the corner, his lips curved in a smile and his gaze took on a predatory gleam.
He’d have his drink and make a few bucks in the process.
Coulter walked up to the bar and sat down. He took off his Stetson, laid it on the counter, and ran his fingers through his blond hair.
The bartender was a woman in her early forties, he guessed. Who the hell knew a woman’s age these days anyway? You had sixty-year-old women Botoxed to look thirty and sixteen-year-olds dolled up to look twenty-five.
The woman tossed her unnaturally bright red hair and surveyed him with a hand on her hip. “Hey there, cowboy, haven’t seen anyone as handsome as you walk through that door before.”
“Today’s your lucky day, Red.”
“Name’s Loretta. What’ll you have?”
“Whiskey. Straight up.”
She set the glass before him. “We don’t get too many strangers here. Where you from?”
Coulter took a swallow of his drink before answering. He’d spun so many lies upon lies that even the simplest question took careful thought. He decided that in this case the truth couldn’t hurt. “Tennessee.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Passing through.”
Loretta smiled and took the hint, turning away to polish a row of shot glasses. Coulter focused his attention back to the pool players.
He could hardly tell them apart, what with their scruffy beards, greasy hair, and bad teeth.
Coulter caught Loretta’s eye and angled his head toward the men. “What’s up with the cast from Deliverance? Locals?”
She nodded. “They work over at the gypsum mine. Act like a bunch of drunken sailors. Come in every Friday and blow their paycheck. Naturally”—she grinned—“I’m not complaining.”
Today was Friday.
Well bless their hearts, Coulter thought. Piss drunk with a paycheck. Just the way he liked ’em.
Downing his whiskey, he headed over to the pool table. “How about a game?”
One of the men smirked. “You don’t look strong enough to lift a cue stick, pretty boy.” The other two snickered and elbowed each other.
“I can do more than lift it, Cletus. Care to wager?”
Cletus scowled. “You any good?”
“Yeah,” Coulter lied.
“You tryin’ to hustle us?”
Coulter shrugged. “Well now, that all depends on whether I win or not.”
The three men looked at one another and then back at him.
“If you’d rather not venture,” Coulter said, “seein’ as how you’d probably lose your money to me anyway.” He turned to leave.
“Let Goldilocks play a game,” one of the men said.
Coulter turned back and took off his denim jacket, tossing it onto a bar stool. He held out his hand for a cue stick. “Rack ’em and crack ’em, boys.”
Unlike most pool sharks, Coulter had the unique distinction of being truly terrible at the game.
That was the idea.
Playing honestly and as skillfully as he could, he lost the first two games.
In between roaring with laughter and calling Coulter names, the men continued to pound beers.
Coulter ordered another whiskey and placed his remaining money on the table. “One more match,” he said. “Double or nothin’.”
Loretta walked over with his drink. “You sure, hon?”
He tipped the contents into his mouth and handed her the empty glass. “It’ll be just fine.”
Once again the table was racked. This time Coulter broke.
Concentrating, he felt the familiar pull in his gut and guided the seven and five balls straight into the pocket.
No need to overdo it. Telekinesis required a fine touch.
Unconcerned, Cletus took his shot, eyes widening as the ball veered slightly off course.
Coulter almost laughed.
For the remainder of the game, each of Cletus’s shots just barely missed the pocket. In one case, the ball stopped right before the pocket and rolled back.
So Coulter didn’t always exercise a fine touch; sometimes he just had fun.
The third game went to him.
Cletus demanded a rematch. “Hell if that wasn’t just dumb luck on your side. Double or nothin’.”
Coulter chalked his cue stick. “Always happy to oblige.”
He won the next game as well.
Cletus kicked the wall. “Goddamn it!”
Wallet sufficiently padded, Coulter decided to hit the road. “Nice playin’ with you, boys,” he called out and grabbed his Stetson. Arms folded across her chest, Loretta smiled at him. He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and slapped it on the bar. “Thanks for the drinks, Red.”
Her smile widened. “Any time, gorgeous.”
Grinning, Coulter turned around and stopped as Cletus and his two hayseeds maneuvered themselves in front of the door. “You’re not thinkin’ of leavin’, are you, pretty boy?”
“You call me pretty boy one more time and I’ll start thinkin’ you’ve got a thing for me,” Coulter said.
Cletus glared. “Give us our money.”
Coulter didn’t bat a blue eye. “We had an honest wager, boys. Wouldn’t be gentlemanly of ya’ll to forget that.”
He’d dealt with this kind of thing before. People didn’t take kindly to parting with their money by honest or dishonest means. He scanned the room, looking for something he could use. Something with weight. The heavy fluorescent light fixture above the door caught his eye. He focused, and it began to sway.
Just then he heard an all-too-familiar sound. The bolt being pulled back on a shotgun. He stiffened.
Loretta stood behind the bar, shotgun raised in her hands. “The man won his money fair and square, boys. Now let him on his way.”
“Come on, Loretta, that’s our money for the rest of the week,” Cletus whined.
Loretta’s hands were steady on the rifle. “Then I bet you feel real stupid now, don’t ya?” she said.
Grumbling, all three men stepped away from the door.
Coulter was sure the surprise showed on his face. No one had ever defended him before. There was a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t like it.
Tasted like guilt.
Loretta cocked her head toward the door. “Go on now. I hope it was worth it.”
With a final wave, Coulter walked out into the evening sky. Staring up at the orange and purple clouds, he thought about the money in his pocket.
Was it worth it?
For the first time, he didn’t think it was.