Hustle
Found in Five O'Clock Bar
By Chris Owen
A fresh cold one in hand, Leo took himself back
to the wall and resumed his position, watching as Dustin Lep class="stdp"ay
bent way over and took a shot to sink the nine in the side pocket.
It was a tricky shot, but he did it and Leo saw the kid's shoulders
relax a bit.
Leo knew what that meant: this wasn't the game where the hustle
would kick in. But Leo would lay a bet himself that the kid
played better this game than he had all night, losing when it
was close. And Leo knew Dustin well enough to know that he'd
decline to keep the table; it was about time he headed out to
the bar to watch the TV with Craig and a few others before he
headed home to his fella who was getting off work from an evening
shift.
So Leo drank from his bottle and kept the fingers of his free
hand in his pocket so they wouldn't twitch and did some math.
It wasn't about the game this time, not for him. It wasn't the
hustle and it wasn't righteous indignation over Craig's bar
playing host to a player in frayed jeans and a worn leather
jacket.
It was about the hunger in the kid's eyes. Leo never could resist
hunger. The math worked out, the way Leo figured it would, and
when Dustin inevitably won and shook hands, then declined to
keep the table, Leo stepped up.
"I'll take a shot," he said, already picking up a
cue.
"Cool. You can p class="stdp"eak." The balls were already rattling
to the end of the table, the kid's quarters feeding the machine.
Leo nodded and waited as the balls were racked up. "My
name's Leo." He took another long pull from his bottle
and set it aside.
"Zane."
"For real?"
Zane rolled his eyes but didn't look terribly pissed, or even
surprised. "My daddy was a fan. Ready to play?"
"Uh-huh." Leo moved around the table, placed the cue
ball and lined up his shot. When he looked down the long, straight
line of the stick to his fingers he had to consciously remind
himself that he wasn't going to win, he wasn't going to try
to win and he wasn't going to get lost in the thrill of sinking
ball after ball after ball. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could
win if he tried his best, anymore. He was just going to manipulate
things a little, that was all.
Still. When the balls went skittering and rolling all over the
place and three went plop plunk plip, he could feel it in his
dick. "Solids," he said, already lining up his next
shot.
"Nice p class="stdp"eak." Zane was watching, leaning on a pulled
up bar stool and looking far more casual than Leo knew he had
to be. His legs and arms were loose and a smile played around
the corners of his mouth.
Leo nodded his thanks and blew his hair out of his eyes. Damn,
it was time for a trim. Zane's hair was short, almost military,
but not quite. Maybe Leo should try that for a change. Maybe
he should just take his shot before he wasted any more time
checking out Zane's jeans, or his hair, or his eyes, or his
leather jacket. "Where are you from, Zane?" Leo called
his shot, took it and missed.
"South." Zane walked around the table to get to the
far side and took his shot, neatly sinking a ball in the corner
pocket. Leo didn't pay enough attention to see what number.
"Actually, just across into Oklahoma."
Leo nodded and wondered when the come on was going to start,
when the hustle would become the point instead of pushing balls
around with sticks. Zane had been working it far too long to
let it play out much longer. "You're not drinking."
It was an observation, not a question.
"Nah, can't play pool for shit if I'm drunk. I'll have
a beer later, maybe." Zane took another shot and another
ball went softly into a pocket. "Want to make this more
fun?" |
