So I wound up at Joe's. They had good beer priced cheap and a dinginess that yuppies avoided. When I pushed open the door, I wasn't assaulted by industrial dance music. Just the clackety-clack of pool balls and an occasional laugh or swearword.
My kind of place.
I went up to the bar, resting my forearms on the cigarette-scarred counter and propping a foot on the brass railing. A fat bartender took my beer order, which set me back a whopping two bucks, with tip.
I pulled off the bottle and took in the surroundings, searching for an open table through the dim lighting and the cigar smoke.
All twelve were occupied, all but two with doubles action.
Of the singles, one was being worked by an elderly black man who was having a heated discussion with himself. At the other table was a bald guy in jeans and a white T-shirt. He was a few years my junior and looked vaguely familiar.
I picked up a cue from a nearby rack and walked over.
He was hunched over the table, his stick gliding on the solid bridge of his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the cue ball with intense concentration.
'This may sound like a come-on, but haven't I seen you somewhere before?'
He took the shot without looking up, banking the three ball into a side pocket. Then he righted himself and squinted at me, and I suddenly knew who he was.
'You arrested me six years ago.'
That's one of the dangers of being a cop. People you think you remember from high school turn out to be felons.
'Phineas Troutt, right? Tough to forget a name like that.'
He nodded.
'And your name had something to do with booze. Detective Jose Cuervo?'
His face was blank, and I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
'Jack Daniels. I'm a lieutenant now.'
I noted his body language. His blue eyes were steady, and he held himself in a relaxed stance. I didn't feel threatened by him, but at the same time I was aware I'd left my gun at home.
'You had brown hair before,' I said. 'Long, in a ponytail.'
'Chemo. Pancreatic cancer.' He pointed his chin at my cue. 'Can you use that thing, or do you hold it for some Freudian reason?'
That seemed like a challenge to me, and I was feeling a bit reckless. I recalled the bust vividly, because it had been the easiest arrest of my career. It had been an 818 -- gang fight in progress. When we arrived on the scene, Phineas dropped to his knees and laced his hands behind his head without even being asked. Strewn around him were four unconscious gang-bangers in need of medical attention. Phin claimed they jumped him, but since he was the only one without anything broken, we had to bring him in.
'Loser racks and buys the beers.'
'Fair enough.'
We played eight ball, calling shots, putting the eight in the last pocket called. He beat me an average of two games to one, so I wound up paying for most of the games and buying most of the drinks. We hardly talked, but the silence was companionable, and the competition was good-natured.
By the eighth game, the alcohol was starting to affect me, so I switched to diet cola. Phin, as he preferred to be called, stuck with beer, and it didn't seem to affect him at all. Even after I'd sobered up, he continued to whup my butt.
I liked it that way; it made me play better.
Day became night, and Joe's began to fill up. Lines formed at all the tables, forcing us to relinquish ours.
I thought about asking Phin if he wanted to get a cup of coffee, but it sounded too much like a date, and I didn't want to give the wrong impression. Instead, I offered my hand.
'Thanks for the games.'
His grip was warm, dry.
'Thank you, Lieutenant. It's nice to have some quality competition. Maybe we'll have a chance to do this again?'
I smiled. 'Damn right. Bring your wallet, because next time you'll be buying most of the beers.'
He smiled, briefly, and we went our separate ways. I made a mental note to check outstanding warrants on him. If he was wanted for something, I wasn't quite sure what I would do. I liked the guy, even if he did have a rap sheet. These days it was rare for me to like anything. Could I arrest a pool buddy, especially one dying of cancer?
Unfortunately, yes.
Once home, my bed was uncomfortable, my mind refused to relax, and the clock mocked me with each passing minute.
I was tired, exhausted actually, but thoughts kept flashing through my skull and wouldn't let me be. They weren't even profound thoughts; just random flotsam.
