“Hail a green gypsy cab with a foxtail on the antenna in front of the Bronx Criminal Court tonight at eleven-thirty. He’ll ask you if you want to go to the Waldorf.”

And that was the whole conversation. Time was running short-I could put off the business with Dandy, but I’d given the phony gunrunners a deadline. I put the Plymouth in gear and rolled.

WHEN YOU’RE RUNNING, you have to pace yourself. I hadn’t had a chance to see the morning papers yet and I wanted to study last night’s charts so I’d be able to give Max a good, solid excuse for the failure of our joint investment. I needed something to eat and a place where I could work out some of the angles in peace and quiet.

Since I had to meet Margot at noon I thought I’d run over to Pop’s basement, shoot a few racks, have a sandwich, and calm myself down. Nothing really to do until this evening. A man of leisure.

I parked, went downstairs, got a box of ivory balls from the guy in charge, carried it over to a back table, and went over to the private racks for my cue. When I took it down I unscrewed it at the joint in the middle, put both halves on the table and rolled them back and forth to see if the balance was still true. I unscrewed the cap at the butt to see if anyone had left a message for me-not this time. By then the old man who’s always there had the balls racked up for me. I gave him a buck, told him I was just going to be practicing, and he moved off. In a game for money the old man racks each round and the players throw him something each time. For a big match he gets paid a flat fee. Some of the cheapskates won’t pay him anything when they’re just going to practice. Stupid-who knows when the old man’s going to give you a bad rack when some money is on the line?

I tried a hard approach shot to the full rack, slamming into it from behind. The object was to bank the head ball off the left long rail into the short rail where I was standing and then into the right side pocket. I can make it sometimes-this wasn’t one of them. But my shot scattered the balls sufficiently and I gently nudged them around the table for a few minutes until my stroke came to me, then started working on sinking them. It was quiet, just the click of the balls and the occasional muttered curse from one of the other tables. The poolroom had a giant No Gambling sign over the entrance which was universally ignored, but the other rules were religiously observed: no loud talking, no fighting, no weapons, no drugs. If you wanted conversational pool, you could shoot down at one of the front tables near the door. The back tables were for money games or for practice, and they were in much, better shape.

Three tables down from me one of the professionals was practicing. The same shot each time-cue ball to the eight ball lying on the long rail into the corner pocket with the cue reversing the short rail and smacking into the area where the rack would be. Over and over. He tried dozens of variations on the cue ball, but the shot itself never varied. The black eight ball dropped in each time. Our eyes met and he raised his chin slightly to see if I was interested in losing some money. Not today. He went back to what he was doing. At a buck an hour you can practice for days at these tables without hurting yourself.

Pool is a fascinating game. I know a structural engineer who took years to figure out a way to make a shot if the cue ball was exactly in the spot where the head ball would be if there was a full rack. It looks damn near impossible, but he could do it every time. He’s been waiting years for the situation to come up in a game-when it does, he’ll be ready.

I dropped the balls in their pockets and they rolled down their runners to be collected at the head of the table. Like this caper-a whole lot of balls and a whole lot of pockets. I kept shooting, occasionally trying to imitate the subtle, relaxed stroke of the professional three tables down. It would never come to me. He had the technique perfect-he never looked up. Once you do you lose your concentration and you have to refocus your eyes. I can’t do that, can’t keep my eyes only on the table. Probably cost me a few games over the years, but I’ve won the ones that count. Every morning I wake up, I beat the system. And every morning I wake up and I’m not in jail, I beat the hell out of it.

I saw it was getting close to eleven-thirty so I called Mama’s from the pay phone and asked her to have Max drop by the poolroom later on. She said there were no calls for me so I had to assume Margot was still coming. If she was and if she wasn’t running a con, I’d need Max to move the cash for me. I told Pop I was expecting to do some business and I’d need the room. He said sure, but didn’t make a move. When the other person showed up he’d hand over the key, not before. Pop wasn’t going to be a concierge for anyone. I turned in the balls and paid for the table, then went into the lobby to wait for Margot, munching on a package of chocolate-chip cookies Pop had for sale at the counter. They weren’t any older than me, and not as sweet.

She was on time, carrying a big purse and wearing one of those huge floppy hats that belong in midtown. I gave Pop the money, took the key, and we went upstairs.

Margot couldn’t wait to open her mouth. “Burke, I’ve got to tell you this… Dandy said-”

“Have you got the money?”

“Sure. Now listen, I-”

“Where is it?”

She snapped open her purse, took out a wad of hundreds wrapped in a rubber band, tossed it over to me. “You want to count it?” She seemed unsurprised when I did. It was all there. On surface inspection, it was all good too. Used bills, but not ready for the shredder, no consecutive serial numbers, the right paper, clean inking, no engraving problems. Even if it was bogus I could move stuff this good without any problems.

I still checked it carefully though-some counterfeiters are lunatics and you never know what they’ll do. I was watching that TV show about Archie Bunker in a bar one night waiting for a client’s husband to come in and make a fool of himself with the go-go dancers, and they had this bit about funny money. Seems the counterfeiter had engraved “In Dog We Trust-instead of “In God We Trust.” Everybody watching thought that was hilarious, but the counterfeiter watching from the barstool next to me thought it was blasphemy. He muttered to me that the buffoon who’d done that job had no class. It was okay to do something on the front of a bill for a joke-a spit on the system-but the lame on TV was just a guy who couldn’t spell. I nodded like I understood, and the guy pulled out a beautiful twenty-dollar bill and asked me to look it over. The bill was real as far as I could tell, but instead of “In God We Trust,” it said “By God We Must.” Now that, the counterfeiter told me, was a genuine act of social commentary. I asked him how much he wanted for the bill and he said half face-value. I said that was too much, so he bet me the ten bucks he could shove the bad bill by the bartender even if I warned him.

As he paid the bartender I made some crack about a lot of queer twenties making the rounds. The bartender checked it over carefully, pronounced it perfect and shoved it in the till. So I paid up the ten bucks for the bet and another ten for one of the special twenties, fair and square. Later that night, I gave the twenty as change to the woman who’d hired me to check her husband. It’s not often you can get your money back after the race is over.

I pocketed Margot’s money. No problem doing that-with the coats I wear, I could make a lot more than that disappear. Now I’d listen. “Dandy said some old nigger came into the Player’s Lounge and told him he was the Prophet himself, right? And that Dandy should walk in the ways of righteousness or his offenses would rise up like a tidal wave to drown him.”