“I’m ready,” Stanley smiled back, strength in his voice. In his pants, his cock was still semi-hard from Richie’s sucking.

The hall was on the second floor above a dark little bar Stanley had never been in. He never drank that close to a hall or a game. The windows were dark from smoke. Against one wall was a narrow caged booth. In it was an elegantly dressed black man, as much the preacher as Carson. As Stanley walked across the hall he watched him like a cat casing a mouse.

Along the walls at the base of those heavy-smoked windows were the spectators’ seats. They were empty, red plush upholstery looking like a thick red river under the glass, except for three. In one was a kid maybe half Stanley’s age, in a white shirt and bright blue tie, sleeves rolled up to show blond hairs like a glow on his arms. His head, too, was bright blond, like polished brass. Next to him was some muscle, a dockyard worker or ex-fighter crammed into a wrinkled and musty suit that looked like something borrowed from a mortician brother. The muscle’s eyes were dark, like bricks missing from a wall, and hooded by thick brows and ridges. He was too far away, and his eyes too small, for Stanley to see if he was watching him—but Stanley felt him nonetheless. Just as Stanley had scoped the tables for faded velvet, obvious warps, or any shaking from the bar downstairs, he knew the muscle was sizing him up, deciding which bones he could break if he needed to.

Next to the muscle was the other side of Carson, the dark to his white. While Carson had dressed like a minister about to step in front of his flock, this guy was dressed for a club in a neat, pinstriped, double-breasted number with dark wingtips. Stanley had spent years crouched over a table, knocking the polished balls into black pits, listening to their clicks and clacks as if trying to decipher some secret language of balance and English. This guy had spent twice as long figuring out how to take money from people: sometimes by getting his muscle to break their fingers, sometimes by using people like Stanley. His face was dark. It wasn’t dusty black like Richie, and it wasn’t mahogany like the manager; it was like midnight, pitch, or a starless night. The only thing that shone from his face were his teeth when he smiled—and he was smiling—and his eyes, which were like gleaming scales judging Stanley’s worth.

Carson was suddenly next to Stanley, speaking to the hard darkness of his opposite. “Good evenin’, Portaphoi.”

“It is gonna ta be that, ain’t it, Mr. Carson,” Portaphoi said, his voice a deep lilt, “fer at least one ah us.” It didn’t seem possible, but he smiled even broader, showing a rear gold tooth in a flash that surpassed the glow from the boy standing next to him. “So dis be ya shooter from da west of the country, Mr. Carson?” He turned the brilliant white and gold to Stanley. “Ah be hearin’ good t’ings about you, mistah. I hear ya can shoot da moon straight inta da pocket.”

Stanley smiled, knowing he should be scared, shaking in his shoes, but he wasn’t. He was the shooter. The light was on him. The evening would be good for them if it was good for him, if he shot a good game of pool tonight. The question of him not shooting the moon into a pocket didn’t even occur to him. He smiled back at Portaphoi, not caring that his own teeth were piss-yellow from too many cigarettes. “—and I can do it straight off the break.”

“Ha ha!” Portaphoi’s laugh reminded Stanley of an empty barrel rolling down an alley, the growl of thunder after a big damned crash. “The boy does have spunk, he does. You be doin’ good, Mr. Carson, if he’s cue be as big as his dick, no?”

Stanley smiled right back, never dipping his eyes from Portaphoi’s deep brown pits.

“Dis here be my gun, and he always be shootin’ straight,” Portaphoi said, turning toward the golden boy with a nod. “Billie, this be Stanley. He be the man you gonna be beatin’ tonight.”

The boy didn’t move, didn’t smile. His face stayed polished bronze, but his hand slowly rose. Stanley took it, shook it coolly once. The rule was never to shake, it being too easy for a loser to squeeze too hard, try and throw a game. But then, there, now, Stanley knew he had to—Stanley showing he was going to shoot a straight game of pool, and Billie nodding right back.

“Let’s play some pool,” Carson said harshly, not being able to keep up with Portaphoi’s fancy steps. “Let’s make some money.”

But Portaphoi had one last word: “For only one ah us, Mr. Carson. Only one ah us.”

*

They rolled for break, Stanley barely losing. The kid leaned across the table, elbow on the wood, cue sliding neat and clean between his fingers. Watching him moving the pale white cue, Stanley remembered his cock in Richie’s hands, his mouth, and he smiled. Give the kid the break, give him a few balls, even a few games—but Stanley knew the night was his.

The eight danced away from the side pocket, spinning just enough to bounce free. Stanley stepped up, dusting the tip of his cue with pink chalk, seeing the movements of the balls even before he bent over the velvet. He’d heard other hustlers talk about that, about seeing the game before the first ball even moved, but hadn’t really felt it before; yet there it was, like seeing the end of a movie before seeing the start. He knew what was going to happen. The rest was just making the right movements.

The balls obeyed, sliding across the velvet in smooth, perfect tracks, their clacks and deep thunks as they fell into pockets like a lovely tune to Stanley. He called out the shots, his words feeling cool and distant because he was already two, three shots ahead. The table cleared in what felt like a single beat of his heart. Then the next, and the game after that.

Carson stood next to him as the old black man from the cage racked him. His hand was heavy and shockingly hot on Stanley’s shoulder. He passed him a longneck beer. “Goin’ good, Stan,” Carson said. “Goin’ good.”

But Billie wasn’t just a kid, and the next two games fell to him. His voice was strong, almost bored as he called out the shots. Every once in a while he’d look up at Stanley as the cue elegantly tapped the next ball and give him this look—a warm, smoky kind of look. The first time Stanley barely noticed, the second time he saw it, but the third and then the forth time Stanley looked for it. Then he was waiting for it. There: a slight smile on his pale face, a twitch of muscle, a sparkle in his pale blue eyes. The balls were almost secondary, just an excuse for the boy to look up at Stanley and smile.

Stanley put the bottle to his lips but it was empty, and he couldn’t remember taking even the first drink. For a second, he wanted to turn to Carson and demand why he’d given him an empty soldier, but then he felt that little pressure in his gut down near his pisser and he knew he’d drained it himself. Nodding just a little, he gestured to the old black guy for another.

The next two games went to the kid, but then a four banked too hard off a cushion and knocked an eight just short of the pocket. Stanley stepped up feeling good—and even better at not having to keep catching those looks from the kid. The edge was there, and his hands and the cue were magic. Ball after ball obeyed his will, spinning, clicking, sinking into the pockets. One game, two, three.

Then it slipped away for just a breath, giving the kid a chance to run the table. Stanley stepped back, looking for an excuse not to watch the kid shoot, and realized that his gut was aching. He glanced quickly down at his watch: fifteen after one. Catching the eye of the old black guy, he gave him five bucks and sent him to get an egg and cheese sandwich and some chips.

While he waited and while he ate, the kid ran the table twice more; but then he too must have felt his belly growl, because a three smacked into a pocket too hard, bouncing free.