He’d taken a few minutes to shave, scraping the old safety razor across his cheeks, the scraping echoing in the small bathroom. Despite the butterflies in his stomach, he’d taken his time getting into his last good suit. He’d carefully polished his shoes the night before. The Hamburg he’d picked up in Philly. The two-grand roll went into his suit pocket, a few bucks for food and booze went into the pants. Hand on the knob, he noticed a smudge of something white and powdery—probably plaster—on his slim leather case so he stopped, walked over to the sink, and carefully cleaned the faded leather with the corner of a towel.

He walked. He didn’t want to be late, but being early was just as bad. Late would have been rude, but almost expected from a damned good player: it meant he was too good to bother looking at his watch before a game. Early, though…early meant he was wet behind the ears, and he’d be admitting to jittery nerves. So he walked, feeling the day cool into night, watching Baltimore’s lights hum and flicker to life.

He didn’t know where he was, but he knew where the hall was. Tevis’s Pool & Billiards was four blocks forward, four to the left.

From the heavy shadows of a narrow alley, the spook’s voice was soft, musical. “Hey, hey, hey—” until Stanley turned toward him.

“Yeah? What the fuck you want?” Stanley said, tone more bored or distracted than threatening. He’d taken and given more than his fair share since riding out from Oakland. His knee still hurt when it got real cold, a memory of when a couple of crackers in Memphis had got him with a five iron. He didn’t need to see the guy to know he could handle him if he needed to.

“Hey, mister! Got a buck, mister?”

He wasn’t as old as he sounded. Not a kid, but not gray and hunched either. Maybe as tall as Stanley, but a lot of meals less in size. Hair cut real close, probably only a week out of stir. Eyes brown. Skin like the faded leather on Stanley’s shoes, till last night when he’d sponged on the dark polish. He had a stink, like booze—but also like a lot of spooks Stanley had known, so he knew he might not have been drunk.

“Come on, brother. All I’s want is a spot or two for a couple of longnecks and a room.”

Stanley’s hand was in his pocket, the crackle of the bills making the spook’s eyes brighten. Normally, Stanley would have told him to fuck off, but not tonight. Tonight was too bright, too clear: it was a game night. A big game night—probably his biggest—and he was just feeling too good to get pissed off.

Then the guy offered to blow him for five. It was so smooth, so quick that at first Stanley didn’t pick it up, thought it was just a different melody in his concert of panhandling. Stanley had thought of rounding up a whore the night before, but somehow it hadn’t felt right. He’d spent it instead having a good steak and potatoes in the Blue Ewe on Mason, then back to his room to try and relax enough to read the paper. Besides, he didn’t know Carson well enough to know how he’d react to his imported shooter getting laid the night before the big game.

His cock was hard, surprising Stanley. He’d played it both ways, both before he’d hopped the rails and his few times in stir, but always preferred cunt to cock. But still, his cock was hard. His nerves were buzzing like too many cups of black coffee, and a bright burst of fear ran up his back and into his brain. In an flash, he saw his fine white hands shake, felt the green felt slide under his unsteady fingers. That’s all it would take.

“You’re on, brother; just better be damned worth it.”

The wino grinned, showing gaps, an old picket-fence smile as Stanley walked past him into the alley. “I’m worth it, brother. Oh, yeah, ol’ Richie’s worth it. An arteest, I am. Got the best fucking lips in Joliet, they say about ol’ Richie. Take the white right off your fucking dick, I will.”

Stanley popped his belt and dropped his fly, metal teeth surprisingly loud in the narrow space. “Just get sucking, okay?” he said, tugging his hard cock out of his BVDs.

Richie slowly lowered himself down: one knee, then the other. The rotten, almost-fingerless gloves he wore came off carefully, to be stuffed in a pocket. He clapped once, like a shot bouncing off the brickwork, and rubbed his hands together in front of Stanley’s hard dick.

Then he stopped, looking up at Stanley past his cock. “Fuck me. I know you, right? Baltimore, right, the shooter that took down Legs Elmwood, right? Eight hours, wasn’t it? Eight hours at the table. Stan, right? ‘Fast’ Stan…fuck me, if it isn’t you.”

And fuck if Stanley doesn’t smile, looking down at this black punk who he’d regular have kicked the shit out of, told to fuck off and die—and fuck if Stanley didn’t even blush, the red burning his cheeks. “Got me, bro. Got me clean and neat.”

“Fuck me—” Richie said, staring up at him with his Jesus-seen-in-church look, his one dark hand absently stroking Stanley’s hard dick. “You’re something man. You’re really something.”

Stanley didn’t know what to say, words not even leaving his brain, let alone getting caught in his throat.

Richie smiled one more time, showing that weathered fence of cracked porcelain again, then dropped his mouth down to Stanley’s never-dipping dick.

Stanley was feeling so big and important, it took a few minutes longer than normal for the sensation of Richie’s mouth on his dick to work its way through his mind; but when it did, when he actually started to feel those soft lips and hard-sucking mouth on his cock, Stanley had to actually think: He’s fucking good.

His legs felt weak, so he leaned back, absently realizing his last good suit was getting filthy from the grimy alley wall; Stanley was all but uncaring on the high he was riding.

Richie worked his dick, sucking, licking, even kissing the fat head—never had Stanley had such a good job done on him. Gals, guys—no one. It was scary, in a way, how good the little creep was. It wasn’t right. Not that he was getting sucked off by him, but that he was too damned good. But Stanley didn’t do anything about it, and even the little voice in the back of his skull wasn’t loud enough to bring his hand down to his dick, to Richie’s face and push him away.

“My treat, brother. I scored good off a ten-shot I put down in that game. Not that I don’t want the five, you know what I mean?” Richie said, smiling up at Stanley, spit and sticky cum on his fat lips.

Weak to near collapse, Stanley could do nothing but smile and start to say, “Put another ten down tonight—” when the little bum started to work his cock again, swallowing all the way down deep.

That was it. Stanley felt it down deep in his balls—the good ache, the quivering bolt of juice up and out of his so-hard cock and right into Richie’s slobbering mouth.

After his heart stopped hammering and his eyes cleared from the spots that’d flashed in front of them, Stanley pushed himself carefully away from the wall—suddenly self-conscious of how crappy his suit now looked. Then he pushed his still-hard cock into his shorts and hauled up his pants from where they’d fallen to his shoes. He gave the wino a twenty, the biggest bill he had that wasn’t on his roll.

With Richie thanking him over and over like a broken record behind him he walked the four blocks forward, four blocks up to Tevis’s Pool & Billiards and the game he was there to play.

*

“You ready, kid?” Carson said from his seat by the door as Stanley walked up the high flight of stairs to the hall. Carson was dressed the same as when Stanley had first met him three days before, in a bright white shirt, a thin black tie, and a simple black coat and pants. Stanley thought that he looked like a minister who should be leading his flock rather than making book. He smiled, wide and broad, friendly despite the money he had riding on the game—or at least he looked that way.