That Was Then, This Is Now

"Kid, have I ever given you a dirty deal?" I said, winking at Mark.

"No," M&M said, and went back to his magazine. I never could figure that kid out. I liked him though, partly because he was Cathy's brother, partly because he was a good kid, and partly because he had lived to a nice old age in our neighborhood--for a sucker.

Mark had given him back his peace symbol. It hung around his neck on the rawhide string, and M&M kept twisting it absent-mindedly. I wondered if his father still gave him a bad time because of his hair.

We decided to hit Charlie's place first. Charlie grinned and waved at us when we came in, so I figured he was over his bad mood about being drafted.

"Guess what?" he said, just like a kid. It was the first time I'd ever seen him act like a kid. "They're not goin' to take me."

"How come?" Mark asked, plopping down at the bar. "Bad knee from playing football?"

Charlie shook his head. "Naw, because of my police record."

"You got a record?" I said. "I didn't know that. What'dya do?"

"When I was twelve years old I cut a guy's throat. You in here to play pool?"

I still don't know if Charlie was telling the truth or just kidding us, sort of telling us that it was none of our business what his police record was for. Either was possible.

"Yeah, we're here to play pool. Any possibilities?"

Charlie nodded toward the poolroom. "There's a couple of guys in there. I watched them a little; you can take them."

"Good enough," I said, sliding off the stool.

"Hey, wait a minute," Charlie said. We turned. "Would it do any good to tell you to be careful?"

"Nope," said Mark bluntly.

Charlie kind of laughed and sighed at the same time. "I didn't think so."

We played pool until twelve o'clock that night. The two guys we played against were tough characters, out-of-towners from Texas. At first we played partners, me and Mark losing by a couple of balls. Then Mark started his routine about wanting to go home--"Come on, Bryon, you lost all the money you can spare"--while I played the eager kid--"I know I can win the next game." Then we played singles. I played the better of the two, a weather-beaten guy in his twenties who looked like an ex-con; for all I know he was. I don't know where else he could have picked up his lingo, because he used the worst language I've ever heard, and I've heard plenty.

I was careful not to win at first, and then, when I did start winning, I only made it by a few balls so it'd look like an accident. But once I started winning I didn't quit. By midnight I had twenty-five dollars and fifty cents.

"You're a darn good pool player," Dirty Dave said--he'd told us that was his name--or words to that effect. His friend, who had been standing around drinking beer for the last three hours, mumbled something about being "too good for his own good," but Dirty Dave shut him up.

"Closing time," Charlie said. He didn't have any other customers but us by that time; he had been watching the game for the last hour and a half.

"We're leavin'." Mark was sitting on the table of a booth and drinking a beer. I don't know where he got it, and from the surprised look Charlie gave him, Charlie didn't know where he got it either.

"See ya 'round, kids," the Texans said as they sauntered out. I was busy counting my money and Mark was stretching his legs.

"So the hustler strikes again," Charlie said. "How much did ya get?"

"Enough. Can I borrow your car again some time?"

"I guess so, just as long as you buy gas. Come on, beat it. I got some work to do. Next time you sneak a beer, Golden Boy, you're going to get stomped on."

"I didn't sneak nothing. I simply walked over and drew a beer. I can't help it if you didn't see it. I left a quarter on the cash register."

"You are good at bein' invisible, man, because anybody gets within ten feet of that cash register, I know it."

"You're gettin' blind in your old age," Mark said, apparently not caring if he got stomped on or not. I gave him a warning look, and he obediently shut up. I wasn't taking any chances--we left as soon as we could.

We didn't get far. Two dark shapes stepped out of the alley next to Charlie's and a voice drawled, "Step right into the alley, kiddies."

I froze, because the voice was Dirty Dave's. I thought about making a run for it, but the voice said, "I gotta gun," so I decided not to. I still didn't move. Mark suddenly said, "We don't want to see the alley, we seen it before," and he sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

"We're gonna give you a lesson on why not to hustle pool. Just step into the alley. Now."

I glanced at Mark over my shoulder. He shrugged, like he was saying "What else can we do?" So we walked past the Texans into the alley. I was beginning to shake. I was having visions of my thumbs being chopped off or my arms being broken--things like that happen to hustlers. When we reached the dead end of the alley, we turned and faced the Texans--the one guy was holding a gun on us while Dirty Dave was putting on some brass knuckles. I could just picture what my face was going to look like when he got through with me. I suddenly remembered Mark, who hadn't done anything but get me started. "Let Mark go," I said, and my voice was steady. I was surprised--I thought it would be shaking as bad as I was. "He didn't do nothin'."

Mark said quietly, "I'm not goin' anywhere," and Dave said, "You'd better believe it. You were settin' him up, and when I get through with hustler here, I'm goin' to give you a lesson too."

"Brass knuckles, guns, or whatever," Mark said in a voice I couldn't even recognize as Mark's, "you'll know you been in a fight if you tangle with me."

"I'm really scared, kid," he said. My eyes were used to the dim light by now; I could see past the Texans into the street. I was praying for a police car, something I never thought I'd ever do. Dave took a step toward me. I backed up against the alley wall. I was afraid that if I moved to grab up something to fight with, the other guy would shoot me.

Just at that moment somebody stepped into the other end of the alley and a voice said, "Drop the gun and freeze--I got a sawed-off shotgun here and I'd hate to scatter dirt all over this nice clean alley."

It was Charlie. I never thought I'd be so glad to see anyone.

"Bryon, Mark, come on out of there."

We couldn't resist smirking a little as we walked past the Texans. Even in the dark I could see the anger contorting their faces. It should have warned me, but it didn't.

"Thanks, Charlie," Mark said as we reached him. "You're a real pal."

"I hope you two learned something from this," Charlie began, but before we knew what was happening one of the Texans made a dive for the gun and fired at us. Charlie slammed both of us to the ground, but in an instant Mark freed himself, grabbed up the shotgun Charlie had dropped, and fired back at the Texans, who were scrambling over the alley wall. It all happened so quickly that I was trying to figure out what I was doing on the ground with my ears ringing from the blast before I realized what had taken place.

Mark was swearing and in the dim light he didn't even look like Mark. He looked perfectly capable of murder; his only regret was that he had missed. I didn't have any similar regrets; if he had missed, well, so had they. You can't feel too bad when you could have been dead but aren't.

"You can get off me now, Charlie," I said. Charlie didn't move. I rolled out from under him. "Hey, man, come on," I said. Then, in the white, sickly light from the street lights I saw that there was a neat, perfect hole above Charlie's left eye. He was dead.

*