mean homesick
. He laughed aloud, but it was a sick laugh, fake and unconvincing.
He had been in Ben Fenne’s an hour, practicing straight pool, when Denny and Jack Levitt came in. Looking at Denny’s bland Irish face, Billy wondered if he had been in on the hustle the day before. He
did
look tore-up and unshaved, as if he had spent a wild night on somebody’s money, and that was enough to make Billy suspicious of him, even though he came right over to Billy and laughed and said good morning, and introduced his friend Jack Levitt. This one was
something else
, too, the meanest-looking kid Billy had ever seen, with cold dead blue eyes, a head too large for his already large muscular body, blond curly hair, ruddy skin—just plain mean-looking, that was all. Billy shook his hand and felt his stubby fingers take a good hold on his own, and yet not squeeze too hard like a man trying to impress people. Billy decided he was afraid of Jack Levitt, and would do his best to have nothing to do with him.
“What’s on the fire this morning?” Denny asked him. “You want to run up to Rialto and make some gold?”
“I’ll play you, here and now,” Billy said.
“I’m broke,” Denny said. “Anyway, you’re too good for me.”
“I don’t go up to no Rialto for a while,” Billy said definitely. “You know what happened to me up there. Don’t you?”
“Sure,” Denny grinned, “you got your ass waxed. So what? There’s plenty of guys up there you can beat.”
“What’s in it for you?” Billy asked. “Why you bein so
kind
to me?”
“We make side bets on you, man. You win, we win.”
Billy had to laugh. “On your
guts?
Against your own
friends?
”
“Money’s money, baby. We need all the loot we can get.”
“Well, I found a home, you know? And I’m gonna hang around here for a while; see if I can’t get up an
honest
game.”
“You’re chickenshit,” Levitt said shortly.
Billy went back to his practice, turning his back on the other two. It made the skin on the back of his neck crawl to do it, but he had no choice. He shot carefully, and had to concentrate to keep his fingers from shaking. He heard them talking behind him, and then finally they went away.
It was Saturday, and toward noon the poolhall began filling up. Many of the customers were in their teens, and these congregated around the two small snooker tables in the back, playing pink-wild snooker or sitting in the theater seats and making side bets, or just sitting watching. The keno game had four players, all men in middle age, and the rest of the tables and the bar were crowded. There were two horse-pinball machines behind the telephone booths at the inner end of the bar, and both had players and circles of watchers around them. The radio was on to a baseball game, adding to the babble of voices, clicking balls, the electric clunking of the pinballs, and the noise of the ventilating fan. The long dark room was blue with smoke and moist with humidity. Billy saw that men coming in from outside were wet, although it hadn’t been raining an hour before. Rain, that was one thing he hadn’t gotten away from; it rained in Portland almost as much as in Seattle. Of course to Billy rain was interesting for only one thing: it slowed down the cloth, and he had to shoot a little harder than usual to get the balls to perform properly.
After a while, John the houseman came up to Billy and said, “You got to get off the table now.”
A pang of fear ran through him, and a split-second afterward embarrassment and anger; he knew he wasn’t being kicked off the table because of race, but because there were players waiting, and it was policy to kick off practicers when there were two- or three-handed games waiting. But he could not help feeling that first reaction, and when he turned to John and shrugged, he saw in his eyes an expression of understanding, almost wariness. John said quickly, “Players waitin.”
“Yeah,” Billy said. He paid his
. He laughed aloud, but it was a sick laugh, fake and unconvincing.
He had been in Ben Fenne’s an hour, practicing straight pool, when Denny and Jack Levitt came in. Looking at Denny’s bland Irish face, Billy wondered if he had been in on the hustle the day before. He
did
look tore-up and unshaved, as if he had spent a wild night on somebody’s money, and that was enough to make Billy suspicious of him, even though he came right over to Billy and laughed and said good morning, and introduced his friend Jack Levitt. This one was
something else
, too, the meanest-looking kid Billy had ever seen, with cold dead blue eyes, a head too large for his already large muscular body, blond curly hair, ruddy skin—just plain mean-looking, that was all. Billy shook his hand and felt his stubby fingers take a good hold on his own, and yet not squeeze too hard like a man trying to impress people. Billy decided he was afraid of Jack Levitt, and would do his best to have nothing to do with him.
“What’s on the fire this morning?” Denny asked him. “You want to run up to Rialto and make some gold?”
“I’ll play you, here and now,” Billy said.
“I’m broke,” Denny said. “Anyway, you’re too good for me.”
“I don’t go up to no Rialto for a while,” Billy said definitely. “You know what happened to me up there. Don’t you?”
“Sure,” Denny grinned, “you got your ass waxed. So what? There’s plenty of guys up there you can beat.”
“What’s in it for you?” Billy asked. “Why you bein so
kind
to me?”
“We make side bets on you, man. You win, we win.”
Billy had to laugh. “On your
guts?
Against your own
friends?
”
“Money’s money, baby. We need all the loot we can get.”
“Well, I found a home, you know? And I’m gonna hang around here for a while; see if I can’t get up an
honest
game.”
“You’re chickenshit,” Levitt said shortly.
Billy went back to his practice, turning his back on the other two. It made the skin on the back of his neck crawl to do it, but he had no choice. He shot carefully, and had to concentrate to keep his fingers from shaking. He heard them talking behind him, and then finally they went away.
It was Saturday, and toward noon the poolhall began filling up. Many of the customers were in their teens, and these congregated around the two small snooker tables in the back, playing pink-wild snooker or sitting in the theater seats and making side bets, or just sitting watching. The keno game had four players, all men in middle age, and the rest of the tables and the bar were crowded. There were two horse-pinball machines behind the telephone booths at the inner end of the bar, and both had players and circles of watchers around them. The radio was on to a baseball game, adding to the babble of voices, clicking balls, the electric clunking of the pinballs, and the noise of the ventilating fan. The long dark room was blue with smoke and moist with humidity. Billy saw that men coming in from outside were wet, although it hadn’t been raining an hour before. Rain, that was one thing he hadn’t gotten away from; it rained in Portland almost as much as in Seattle. Of course to Billy rain was interesting for only one thing: it slowed down the cloth, and he had to shoot a little harder than usual to get the balls to perform properly.
After a while, John the houseman came up to Billy and said, “You got to get off the table now.”
A pang of fear ran through him, and a split-second afterward embarrassment and anger; he knew he wasn’t being kicked off the table because of race, but because there were players waiting, and it was policy to kick off practicers when there were two- or three-handed games waiting. But he could not help feeling that first reaction, and when he turned to John and shrugged, he saw in his eyes an expression of understanding, almost wariness. John said quickly, “Players waitin.”
“Yeah,” Billy said. He paid his
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