Chapter Twenty

Newly flush and stoned on Vikes, Johnny Z had been playing pool at Manny's basement joint on Francisco Street for two hours and had whipped everyone in the house. He'd knocked off a couple of weirdo St. Johnnie's students in eight ball, and he'd beaten a guy down on vacation from New York who thought he was hot shit. Used a lot of street language, and when he made a shot he said, “ Bada bing,” which Johnny was certain he'd gotten from reruns of The Sopranos. Ultra lame.

His Vikes were running down a little and he was about to leave when he heard a cultivated voice speaking to him from behind.

“Would you care to play a game of eight ball, my boy?”

Johnny turned and saw a skinny, older man with white hair and pale blue veins in his temples. He was dressed in some kind of Western hipster outfit circa 1958, with a black vest and a skinny white tie with a silver bull bolo at the top. His pants were black and tapered and on his feet he wore black patent shoes with Cuban heels at least a half-inch high.

The guy's arms were stick thin but his hands were large and his fingers surprisingly long and elegant.

There was something about him that got your attention, Johnny thought, but hell, it was all superficial. The guy was pushing eighty. How good could he be?

“Sure, I'll play,” Johnny said. “ Wanna lay fifty on it? You know, just to make it interesting.”

“Why, that sounds like a splendid idea,” the old man said. “ By the way, my name is Marty. Marty Millwood.”

“Johnny Z.” He snapped off the Z in an ultra cool manner.

“Whoa, a pool player's name if ever I heard one. Wouldn't you say so, Millie?”

Marty had turned and spoken to an older, heart-shaped-sunglass-wearing, red-headed woman who stood by his side.

“Oh, yes, I would,” she laughed. A deep, throaty, actressy laugh. Yeah, Johnny thought, probably played some rep company somewhere once, dreamed of being a star but didn't have the talent to pull it off. He looked her up and down. In her seventies he bet, but still quite slim and had a nice pair of breasts and a kind of sexy wide mouth. She must have been a looker in her day, back in the 1800s, Johnny thought.

“This is my wife, Millie,” Marty said.

“The Millie and Marty Show,” Millie introduced them, doing a Betty Boop bow.

They both laughed as though they were pleased by their own ineffable wit. Johnny took fifty dollars from his wallet.

“Lag for break?” he asked.

“Excellent,” Marty responded.

This forced, fake, colloquial speech was really annoying the hell out of Johnny. Who the fuck did the guy think he was, anyway? Henry the fucking Eighth?

“Here's my dough,” Johnny said, handing the fifty to Millie to show what a trusting guy he was.

“And here's mine,” Marty said. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a bankroll as thick as a brick. Johnny's eyes opened wide. Why, there must be a couple of grand or even more there. The old geezer was loaded!

Marty handed his fifty to Millie, who smiled and held the bills tight.

Oh, man, Johnny thought, he was going to enjoy beating the hell out of the old dude. And maybe there was a way to get some more of that roll.

Unfortunately for Johnny, the beating had to be postponed. Marty won the lag, and then knocked in two striped balls on the break. He proceeded to knock in two more before he missed.

He wasn't bad, Johnny thought. He had control of the cue ball, and he had a clean, true stroke. But by the fourth ball his stick wavered a little. Probably some old fuck's palsy or something. Millie watched silently, sucking in her breath once or twice when her husband made a shot.

But now it was Johnny's turn, He had a clear run in front of him. In fact, Marty had done him a favor, clearing away all the blocking balls. It would be a snap to hit the four, roll a little way to the left of the five, then put a little topspin on the cue ball and head down the rail for the three.

It would be easy as hell.

But then Johnny got a notion. The old man was here to bet, but if he lost... he might walk away. Now was the time to play the hustle. Johnny was certain of it. And he knew exactly how he'd do it.

He'd be the wiseass kid who talks a better game than he shoots. He'd play Mr. Overconfidence, and watch old Marty swell up when he beat the young gun.

Johnny laughed and pointed at the table.

“Shouldn't have missed, Marty,” he said. “You left me a clear run. And you know I ain't about to blow it.”

He gave a blowhard's smile and leaned over for his first shot. Bang, the four went right in the corner pocket. He watched as his cue ball settled in front of the five, an easy duck. He stroked it beautifully, ran the cue ball down the rail and was nicely set up for the three. He looked at Marty with a supercocky grimace, then sized up the angle, picked up the stick, and shot. Too hard. Just barely too hard, but too hard, nonetheless. Not only did he miss but he'd set Marty up for his run. Three balls in a row and an easy shot on the eight ball, which Marty hit gently into the side pocket.

Johnny made a point of being a bad sport.

“Nice game but you know you were damned lucky, old man. Why, if I hadn't missed that duck, you know I was going to run right out.”

“Yes,” Marty Millwood said, picking up his cash. “ There is no doubt whatsoever about that. Wouldn't you say so, Millie?”

“Absolutely, I would,” Millie said. “ If he hadn't missed that one he had a clear table. The only thing is ... he did miss. That's the difference sometimes.”

Johnny looked at her with a hostile sneer.

“The difference between what?”

“Between those who talk it, and those who walk it,” Millie said.

Now Johnny didn't have to act. A violent sensation shot through his brain. How he was going to enjoy this . . . the old hag!

“Well,” he said, “ if you guys think Marty is so hot, maybe you'd like to play again?”

“I don't see why not, young man,” Marty agreed. “ Do you have objections, my dear?”

“None at all,” Millie said. “ In fact, I look forward to another contest between the young and the . . . how shall we say it?”

“The seasoned, Mill,” Marty said. “The young and the seasoned.”

Johnny felt like wrapping his cue around Marty's veiny neck. The young and the seasoned. He couldn't wait to whip up on this old son of a bitch. Reminded him of his old man, Woody, the hippie car thief and junkie. Always ragging on the kids, always putting him down. Well, he'd shown him, put his hands right around his neck and squeeeeeeezed.

Like he would with Millwood, the pretentious old fart.

But not just yet.

They played the next game for a hundred bucks, “just to make it interesting,” Millwood said, using Johnny's own words against him. Johnny played like an overeager lunatic, as though rage had taken over his mind and he couldn't tell one shot from the next.

He really was angry, furious even, but he easily could have reined it in and beaten Millwood.

It was too soon, though. There was big money here; he just knew it. A good hustler always knows precisely when to strike, and Johnny Z had always been one of the best.

He was the man, wasn't he? You know he was, and he was going to bring down this old white-haired asshole and his goofy wannabe Lolita bitch, once and for all.

But not yet. Not in game two, and not in game three, which they played for another yard, and which Johnny lost again.

“Okay,” he said. “ You got me for two fifty. That's a lot of cabbage. I want a shot at winning it back. I'll play you one game for a grand. I'll show you. You'll see.”

He slammed his hand down on the table in a parody of barely controlled rage.

The older man watched and rubbed his jaw.

“A thousand,” he said. “Why, that's quite a hefty sum, John.”

“Hey, you've already beaten me twice. It's not much of a man who doesn't give his opponent a shot to win it back.”

“I don't know,” Marty said. “What do you think, Mill?”

Millie looked at Marty and took a sip of her Negro Modelo.

“That is a real head of lettuce,” she said. “But I think you should give Johnny Z here a shot, Mart. The only thing is we can't do it today. You have to lead the council at five and it's four twenty now.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Marty said. “ I'm afraid we have to go, Mr. Z.”

“Hey,” Johnny said, feeling a little panicky, “you some kinda hustler or something?”

“Me?” Marty admonished. “Heck, no. Tell you what, give me your number and I'll call you soon and then we can play again. At my place.”

“Your place?” Johnny asked, suspicious.

“Why not?” Marty countered. “ I have one of the best rooms around, and a table like you've never seen. I think you'll find it a unique experience.”

He smiled at Johnny in such an affable way that he couldn't be denied.

“Okay, then,” Johnny said. “Where do you live?”

“The Blue Wolf,” Marty said. “ Bungalow five. You know the place?”

“Sure I do,” Johnny said. “No problem.” He looked at Marty suspiciously, but finally gave him his cell phone number.

“Perfect,” Millie said, blowing Johnny a kiss. “I'll make us a nice dinner. You're gonna love it, Johnny. Trust me.”

Johnny nodded but felt funny inside. What the fuck was going on? Were they blowing him off, hustling his ass? These two old creeps?

He'd like to follow them outside and grab that bankroll. But maybe . . . maybe this way would be better. He'd get inside their home. No telling what kind of valuable stuff they'd have in there. Artwork and rugs, all kinds of stuff he could boost. Yeah, this could be just the beginning.

It was going to work out fine.

“I trust you both,” he said. “Just make sure you call me.”

“Fine, John,” Marty said. “We both look forward to it. Bye now.”

The two oldsters smiled and headed out of the pool room. Johnny

smiled, then hit the cue ball into the eight and drove it deep into the

corner pocket.

Just like the ace he was.