Chapter Thirty-one

Johnny had to admit that the game room was awesome, all oak and brass. And the table was terrific, deep green felt that looked like a summer lawn on a great estate.

Johnny could scarcely believe his luck. It was as though the table had been invented expressly for him.

All his fears of losing to the old crock vanished and he played the best games of his life.

Playing straight pool he ran the first ten balls, and when Marty missed on a tough corner shot, he ran fifteen more. Marty stood by sort of clucking to himself like an old rooster. “Well, well, my boy. Quite a good shot. Didn’t play quite this way last time, sonny.” Etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam.

He reduced the old goof to babblemania in no time. The wizened old bird seemed to have lost all his confidence as he missed shot after shot.

Within an hour or so Johnny had won back all he had lost and was pressing on with his bets.

“Let’s move it up to five Benjamins,” Johnny said.

“That’s steep, John,” Marty responded.

“Can’t handle it, Martman?”

Johnny laughed and downed his fourth Chopin vodka, felt it kick in with the Vicodin he’d just swallowed. A fine mixture. He was a well-tuned Porsche 911, and he was cruising down a twisty road but he couldn’t crash if he tried. He was in the groove, baby. He was the man!

“Okay,” Marty said. “I’ll give her a whirl.”

Johnny laughed out loud. The guy sounded like some old prospector now. A Model T? I’ll give her a whirl? Yep, by crackie. I mean, who was this dude? Mr. Europe, or some old gulch rat? Johnny laughed as he shot and made another amazing banker.

“How’d you like that one, Martkowski?”

“Loved it, son. Bet you can handle just about anything.”

“You got that right,” Johnny said.

“‘Ceptin’ women, I bet,” Marty said.

“Women? No problem. I take what I want from ‘em, and ditch ‘em. End of story!”

“Really?” Marty said. “What about children? You ever have any kids, John?”

“Nah. Well, let me amend that: maybe, but I walked right out on ‘em. Bye-bye, baby, bye-bye.”

“So you have no children and no wife?”

“I got me,” Johnny said. “Me and my wits.”

“Must be lonely, John,” Marty said, missing an easy shot. “Don’t you worry about getting old and being all alone?”

Johnny chalked his cue.

“Tell you the truth, Mart—no offense—but before I’d get as old and fucked up as you and your council in there, man, I’d take a handful of Vikes, drink a half gallon of vodka, and kiss this sad world good-bye.”

“You might change your mind, son, when you get up to our ages. People all sound brave when they’re young. But when you see that cold hand of death coming for you, most folks will do anything rather than shake it.”

Johnny made a nice cushion shot and looked hard at Marty Millwood.

“Let me tell you, Mart. I’ve seen enough of this world, and when my time comes I’ll spit right in death’s ugly old face. Now can we lose the inquisition here and play some pool?”

“By all means, John,” Marty said. “I meant no offense, son.”

“None taken,” Johnny said. “Now rack ‘em up, Martburger.”

They played five more games and though Marty had a good run in the first one, he was no match for Johnny, who was red hot. There was no beating him. He made banks, impossible combinations, and had total control of the cue ball. Every lie he got was better than the last, and most of his shots were easy ones.

By the end of the night he had won over two thousand dollars of Marty’s money.

Marty looked ancient, dilapidated, crushed. Which is just how Johnny liked the old goat.

“Time to pay up, Martini,” Johnny said.

Marty nodded.

“Yep,” he said. “I am plumb tuckered out.”

Johnny laughed. Marty was finished. In fact, all of those old farts in the other room were finished, too. He was the king. That was one of the best things about picking on old people. What could they do about it? Nada. He could go right into the other room this second and start smashing their old bones apart and what could they possibly do? Nothing whatsoever.

They were the deadsters and he was their king.

He saw Marty go to the end of the room and move aside a cornball painting of an Indian on a pinto horse looking into the sun. Behind the picture was a safe. How interesting. Johnny cruised down to that end of the room and looked over Marty’s shoulder.

The safe was filled with money, tons and tons of money. Big stacks of bills. Why, the money he’d just won from Marty was nothing compared to this. And it was there for the taking!

Marty turned with a few paltry bills in his trembling old hand.

“Here you are, son,” he said. “Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“How generous of you,” Johnny said. “But I think I’ll have a little more, if it’s all the same to you?”

“What do you mean, John?” Marty asked, in a shocked falsetto.

“I mean all of it,” Johnny said. “I’m taking every cent in the safe. And here’s the deal: if you say one word to the cops I’ll come back here and strip the skin off you and the fair Millie. You dig?”

Johnny was using his toughest, lowest, most terrifying voice, the one that worked on oldsters all over California and Arizona. It was easy to scare the living shit out of the deadsters, because they were already afraid of everything anyway. Crime, war, terrorism, hurricanes, snakes, spiders, heart attacks, dogs, cats, worms, snails. They were helpless and they knew it. A guy like Marty Millwood had no shot against a jungle cat like the cooking Johnny Z.

So how come the old dude wasn’t shaking in fear, wetting himself, crapping his pants?

Instead, Marty did something that sent a chill through what was left of Johnny’s immortal soul.

He smiled. A small, subtle grin.

What the hell? Why?

“What’s so fucking funny, Marty?”

“Nothing. It’s more ironic than funny.”

“Yeah, well, fuck your irony. You take off that smoking jacket and wrap all the money in it. Then we’re going to march right through the front room and I’m outta here. And don’t think you can call a cop to hunt me down before I get back to you. Because even if they catch me and lock me up, I have plenty of friends who will finish the job for me. Get it?”

“Oh, yessir,” said Marty, in a mocking way. “I get it, all right.”

But Johnny didn’t get it. Why was this old turd laughing at him when he was cleaning him out? Ah, who cared? The old guy was just trying to pretend he wasn’t bothered, to save face. That had to be it. In a few minutes Johnny would be gone like a cool breeze.

Marty Millwood turned back around, smiled a little wider, and sprayed something horrible into Johnny’s face. God, it burned so bad. His eyeballs were on fire. He groped forward and screamed, “My eyes. You son of a bitch!”

Then he felt a bony old knee crush his testicles and he fell to the floor, screaming.

“You bastard. I’ll kill you.”

“Good night, John,” Marty said. He smashed Johnny on the head with the cue ball. Things got very hazy and he tried to stand up but he couldn’t quite pull it off. Behind Marty he could see the door opening and all the guests streaming in to look down at him.

“Help me,” he said. “Help . . .”

But from the little he could still see, not one of them had a helpful look on his or her face.

He tried to get up again but this time Millie picked up the eight ball and bashed him in the head. Her shot was even harder than Marty’s.

“One for good luck, creep,” she said.

Johnny Z felt an explosion in his head, heard some old folks chuckling, and fell back onto the rug into darkness.