Pain Management

code I’d be expected to crack . . .

But when I finally took a look at it under the lamp over my chair, it turned out to be a plain white plastic disk with milled edges, lettered in black. Just “Ann O. Dyne,” with “Pain Management” underneath, like it was a specialty of the house. On the flip side: “cell/page/cyber,” with separate numbers for each.

I rolled the poker-chip business card between my fingers, trying to get something from it beyond the words. I knew a hundred ways to say S&M, but “pain management” was a new one on me. If that’s what it was . . . and I didn’t think so.

I might have asked Gem, but she wasn’t around.

The kid was small and slender, lady-killer handsome, with blond hair, big liquid brown eyes, and a gentle smile. He circled the table slowly and deliberately, eyeing the scattered balls like an I Ching hexagram he was decoding. “You’re done,” he said to a tall, scrawny guy in his twenties.

“You going to jump it in?” the scrawny guy sneered. “I don’t think so.”

I took a look. From where I was sitting, I could see the cue ball frozen to the short rail at the foot of the table. The green six ball was hanging on the pocket, but the black eight blocked the shot. The scrawny guy was right; the balls were too close together to jump the cue into the six.

“Masse,” the kid said.

“Right!”

“You don’t think so?” a man asked, echoing the scrawny guy’s words.

I turned to look at the speaker, a well-put-together man in his thirties with a shaved head, black-rimmed glasses, and a bright, shallow smile. He sat calmly against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

“No, I don’t fucking think so,” the scrawny guy responded.

“How sure are you about that?” the man challenged.

“Real sure.”

“A hundred bucks sure?”

“Oh yeah,” the scrawny guy assured him, affirming the side bet.

The man with the shaved head got up slowly, took a pair of fifties out of his pocket as if he’d been carrying them around just for such an occasion. He put them on the table at the other end from where the kid faced the shot. The scrawny guy came up with his ante. Everybody moved back to give the kid room.

He took one more look. Chalked his cue absently. A couple of teenage girls giggled together, sharing a secret. The kid stepped to the table, held his cue almost perpendicular to the green felt surface. He gripped it overhand as he stroked a couple of times to get the rhythm, then snapped it down and back as smooth as a punch press. The cue ball made a quick semicircle around the eight, gently nudged the six ball home, then reversed at the long rail to give the kid perfect position on the seven ball.

“Big A!” his backer congratulated him, offering a palm to slap.

The scrawny guy nodded his head, as if finally understanding something that had been explained to him many times.

The kid ran the seven, eight, and nine without drawing a breath. The scrawny guy didn’t stay for the finale.

The two teenage girls argued over who was going to rack the balls. I sat down next to the backer. “You taking on all comers?” I asked him.

“Someday we will,” the backer said. “Not today.”

“Why not today?”

“Big A’s not ready. Another couple of years, yeah.”

“He looks ready to me.”

“He’s got the stroke,” the backer said. “And he’s got the eye. But he’s still learning the game. And stamina’s an issue, too—some of the pro games can go for hours, day after day.”

“That’s the plan, to turn him pro?”

“It is. He’s not old enough to play in tournaments yet. By the time he is, we’ll be ready.”

“You’re Clipper, right?”

“Uh-huh. And you’re . . . ?”

“B.B.”

“Oh yeah. I’ve heard about you.”

“Then you know what I’m looking for.”

“Runaway. At least, that’s what people say.”

“For once, then, word on the street’s true.”

“I’m a businessman,” he said. “Not a social worker.”

“Sure. That’s what I want, to do business.”

“You think I know where—?”

“No. But I’ve been here for a while, and I noticed a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like how your boy works with a house cue, very slick. And the way he pulls girls like a rock star.”

“He does,” Clipper said, proudly.

“So I figured I could maybe talk to him, show him this picture I’ve got of the—”

“Lots of people out here looking for runaways,” he interrupted.

“What’s your point?”

“I don’t know you, that’s my point.”

“Fair enough. But I’m not asking you to turn the girl over. Or even to tell me where she is. Just to get a message to her.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Money.”

“I’ve got enough money, pal.”

“All right, then. How about if I show you a crack in your boy’s game?”

“What kind of crack?”

“He’s still a kid.”

“So?”

“So let’s him and me play. Nine ball, like he’s been doing. A ten-spot per game. And I side-bet you a hundred I get him out of his rhythm before I drop the same amount.”

He leaned back in his chair and gave me a long look. “Big A doesn’t intimidate,” he said quietly. “Not with me around.”

“That’s not my style. What do you say?”

I refused to lag for break. It was his table; I figured I’d have a better chance with a coin toss.

“Rack them tight,” I told the chubby little girl in a Hard Looks T-shirt. She nodded, tongue protruding in concentration.

Instead of breaking from the far end and stroking low to stop the cue ball near the center, I came off the side rail slightly off-center, striking high. It was a sucker move—good chance I’d leave myself snookered even if I pocketed a ball. But it was the best way to swing for the fences.

The cue ball attacked the rack, driving deep, compressing the balls until the yellow-and-white-striped nine popped out like a mouse out of a hole and squirted into the left-hand corner.

The kid just chuckled.

For the next game, I went to a more professional break. This time, I pocketed the seven in the corner and the one in the side, leaving myself clear on the two at the other end. I dropped it home. Then passed up a fairly easy line on the three in favor of a long combo to the nine. It didn’t drop.

The kid chuckled again. Too quickly. I’d left him a no-look at the three. He went two rails for the hit, but he couldn’t pocket anything.

My turn. I lined up on the three, whacked it hard with enough draw to come all the way back down the table, and almost kissed the nine ball in.

“Stroooke!” one of the young guys watching barked.

The kid nodded his head, on to my game now. He ran the table, pulling us even.