Lush Life: An Artie Deemer Mystery (6 page)

“Those same guys?”

“No, never the same. It’s hard to know in New York whether you’re being followed or not. Whenever I do something to be sure, like make a lot of turns, they disappear, so it’s probably nothing. But I’m getting sick of making all those turns.”

I didn’t think any more about that because after one more turn, we had arrived at Golden Hours Billiards. It was situated on the ground floor in a block-long strip of two-story shops all sharing the same mansard roof. There was a Chinese restaurant called Wu Fat’s on one side and an H&R Block on the other.

Two little old ladies built like fire hydrants and dressed in black from top to toe, despite the heat, greeted Crystal in heavy Italian accents as we entered the Golden Hours.

I stood in a short line with other cue-toting competitors to pay my $20 entry fee, collected by a bleachy teenager whose jaw dropped when she got a load of the celebrated dog at my heels. There were thirty or so tables, all occupied. The players warming up and the spectators standing around waved or called to Crystal. She called some by name, returned a few quick quips, and I realized how at home she was here. Most everybody gave me the once-over.

Then things changed, as I’ve seen them do so often when folks spot Jellyroll. First a thin ripple of recognition passed through the room. It began at the nearest tables and quickly crested in the center. People nudged each other and pointed. Play stopped.

“Naww,” I heard someone say, “couldn’t be.”

“No, it is,” another insisted. “Look at him smile.”

I motioned for Jellyroll to sit in a naked demonstration that he belonged with me as I forked over my twenty. I had brought my own ringer. He’d blow their concentration entirely.

The room was dim, even in broad daylight, except for hot puddles of light over the tables. I liked that. That’s how poolrooms should be. The Jellyroll stir was bolstering my confidence. Even if I didn’t play well, I was still the guy with Jellyroll
and
Crystal.

What I feared was humiliation. Pool can, in my case often does, humiliate. At a certain level—after you learn how to stroke, not hit, the cue ball, after you learn how to control the ball in order to get position for the next shot, and the next, after you learn the moves—the game steps up onto a mental plane, and that’s where my problem lies. Mentally, I’m lemonade. I think like a loser. But now Jellyroll was helping. While he brought the room to a standstill, I wasn’t thinking like a loser, not a winner yet, but at least not like a fall-down loser.

“Come and meet Uncle Billy,” said Crystal. “Then I’ve got to go change before the neighbors start whispering about
promiscuity in Manhattan.” She took my hand and held it while she introduced me to her uncle.

Billy was sitting on a stool near a glass case displaying pool paraphernalia, boxes of balls, tip tampers, a row of cues, and novelty items like nine balls on key chains. He was a long, gangly man with a prominent Adam’s apple that seemed to bob up and down of its own free will. Though he appeared about seventy, he was spry, sporting a full head of wild black hair. He stood up and took my hand in both of his.

“Maybe you’d tell me something, Mr. Deemer?”

“Artie.”

“Artie. What’s it like, Artie, to be around the R-r-ruff Dog all day long?”

“It’s happy. He’s like a clown in a dog suit.”

“Wow. A dog like that could break your heart.”

“I know what you mean.” I did, too. I whistled for him, and he trotted over. He had been off working the room. “Jellyroll, meet Uncle Billy.”

Billy’s knees cracked about four separate times as he knelt to Jellyroll’s level. They nuzzled each other for a while. Then Billy said, “This is about my favorite dog in the world.”

Crystal squeezed my hand and said excuse me. On her way up the stairs, she gave Billy a peck on the forehead.

Billy looked left, then right as if for eavesdroppers, then said, “Listen, I don’t mean to be a buttinski, but let me give you a piece of advice—don’t play her for money.”

I said that sounded like good advice to me.

Crystal made a fast change. Ten minutes later, wearing jeans with a frilly blouse, she stood on a chair and asked for the players’ attention. “Billy and I are glad to see you here. We have a big turnout today, so the winner will get $300, second $100, and third $75. We’ll play five-game matches, single elimination. Tournament rules apply: one foul—you get ball-in-hand. You’re allowed one push-out after the break, but you must call it. Those
players with a spot—remember, you don’t get it wild. You must call it. And if you make your spot on the break, it comes back up immediately. If you play it off a combination, you have to call it before you shoot. And today we’re starting a new rule the pros are using: if an object ball leaves the table, that’s a foul. The ball spots, and the other player gets cue ball in hand. What else? Oh, if your opponent faces a questionable hit, call me over before he shoots, and I’ll act as referee. Any questions?…No? Well, thanks for coming, it’s nice to see you all here. Have fun and good luck.”

We drew numbers from a bowl to determine who would play whom in the first match. I drew a heavy fellow with a face that had been around the block a time or two.

“Hello, I’m Greek,” he said. I had to give Greek the eight ball. He flipped a quarter for the break. I lost. He broke—and made three balls. Great, it was going to be one of those sessions.

Greek was the kind of player who didn’t aim, didn’t really get into position. He just leaned down and shot fast, but he knew what he was doing. Balls kept going in. He pocketed everything up to the six, and I was already counting myself out, the way losers do.

But then he screwed up his position on the seven ball. Stroking it too hard, he parked the cue ball directly behind the eight, no chance for a shot. He turned red as he glared at the off ending white ball. Without pausing to line up the angle, he kicked the cue off the side rail, but he missed the seven by a foot.

That was a foul. I could place the cue ball anywhere I wanted, and I had to make only three balls to win the game. With ball in hand, a child could get out from here. If I only had a child…I made the seven, eight, and then the nine, to win game one.

I broke solidly. The nine went directly into the corner pocket. I’d won again. I was up two games already. There is nothing like making the nine on the break to bolster confidence. I noticed that Greek had started to wilt. I won game three off the break as well. I didn’t pocket the nine, but I left it, through sheer luck,
two inches from the far corner pocket. I made the two and the three and left myself an easy combination off the four. I made the combination to go up three games to none. Gee, this was fun.

We seesawed back and forth in game four—the balls were lying hard, frozen against their friends or against rails. We both played good safeties, and we both escaped cleverly from them. But then Greek played a bad safety, leaving me an easy shot on the five. I ran out from there. I needed one game to win the set and eliminate Greek. I won it. Greek looked sad, but he shook my hand like a gentleman.

Jellyroll and I waited by the desk for our next match, and Uncle Billy walked over to join us.

“Win?” he asked.

“Yes. I played Greek.”

Billy nodded. “Poor old Greek, he’s a shortstop. First time he misses, he folds up and goes home.”

“Who’s tough?” I asked.

“Anthony. That Latin kid on table two.” He nodded at Anthony, who had eyes like an underfed predator. “And Bird. It’ll be Anthony and Bird battling it out in the finals. That is unless Mr. Artie Deemer slips right in there. I’m rootin’ for you.”

“Thank you, Billy.”

“I just want you to be good to Crystal. She’s like a daughter to me.”

“Don’t worry about that, Billy.”

Crystal called me for the second match, and Jellyroll and I strode toward the table she indicated. My heart sank. My opponent was Bird. Tall and slim with piercing black eyes, this bird was a raptor. We shook hands. His was bony…

Well, I beat Bird five games to four. It was close all the way; he’d win one, I’d win the next. A crowd gathered to watch. He was a better player than I. That was clear from his stroke and by the way his cue ball took English. He did things with the cue ball I couldn’t do, but I was playing well, making the hard shots, and
I got two lucky rolls, which, I admit, made the difference. Bird knew he was the better player, and he didn’t like those lucky rolls one bit. After it was over, he shook my hand and walked away without looking me in the eye. Crystal had been watching. She made a small nod my way.

I felt high, flushed with victory. I was moving up in this tournament. My next opponent, named Vic, was about seventeen years old. He was a veritable beginner. He had the six for a spot. I cautioned myself against overconfidence, but I was counting on a win. I played well. They were going in like they had eyes. I didn’t try to do anything fancy with the cue ball, just play the natural angles and use speed of stroke to put me where I wanted to be. And then I happened to glance into the faces standing around the table. Thus far I had avoided doing that. I don’t know if unconsciously my mind’s eye had taken him in or whether I chanced to look up right into his face.

It was Trammell Weems. The jaunty bastard stood with his hands in his chinos pockets and grinned at me. I tried not to see him, but what could I do? There he was. I missed the nine by a half a foot. The stroke was so bad, I was lucky I didn’t hurt myself. Vic, reprieved, leapt to his feet, his eyes shining like an eight-year-old’s on Christmas morning. He pounded it in.

Trammell strolled up in his floppy boat shoes. “What say, counselor?”

I was speechless.

“It would have been best if you’d made that nine ball. I think this kid has heart. Actually, I’m a little surprised to see you’re still at this vulgar game, a man of your standing in the legal community.”

“Hello, Trammell.”

“I hear you’re brazenly escorting my wife about town.”

“Yeah, I figured it was all right, because she’s not your wife anymore and because she doesn’t like you very much.”

“How about putting in a good word for me? She’ll listen to you.”

I didn’t see Crystal until she was upon us. Her jaw was fixed, and her eyes were hard. “What are you doing here, Trammell?”

“I’m watching my old schoolmate dog the pay ball.” He leaned over as if to give her a peck on the cheek.

She bobbed away like a boxer. “Get out, Trammell. And leave my uncle alone. He doesn’t need your shit.”

“He’s the only one in the Spivey family who’ll give me the time of day.”

“I’ll give you this cue in the head, I’m not kidding.”

“Okay, okay.” Still grinning his charming grin, he headed for the door.

He looked good, I thought with some regret. I tried to get Crystal to see me, but she just glared at the back of his head.

I was finished in this tournament.

I should have conceded, walked out. Vic stomped me five to two. I couldn’t shoot the cue ball in the hole. The kid couldn’t believe his luck.

After I absorbed that dreadful drubbing, put my cue back in its case, I wandered over near the desk. Crystal was giving Billy hell. “Did you give him his money back?” she asked.

“I couldn’t, Crystal. We already made a deal. That would be welshing. I couldn’t welsh.” His voice cracked. I thought for a moment he was going to cry.

Crystal softened her voice. “He hurts people, Billy. That’s his career in life. He’ll hurt you.”

“I’m sorry, Crystal.”

“Okay.”

“But I couldn’t welsh.”

“Okay, but let this be it. Stay away from Trammell.”

“I understand.”

Crystal went away to referee a hit, and I walked over to Billy, calling Jellyroll with me. He has a knack for making humans feel
better. He sat and peered up at Billy, whose knees cracked as he lowered himself to my dog’s level.

“Crystal’s mad at me.”

“She probably won’t stay mad.”

“No…Are you out?”

“Yep.”

“Well, you probably lost concentration.”

“I sure did.”

Crystal returned. She kissed Billy on the cheek. “I think we’re gonna go, Uncle Billy.”

“Sure, you go on. I can handle things from here.”

“It was nice meeting you, Billy.”

He said he hoped we wouldn’t be strangers, and I assured him we wouldn’t, though I was very glad to get out of there. Trammell’s presence had always changed the complexion of a room.

Crystal and I were passing Coney Island before she spoke. “I saw how you were playing before he showed up.”

“Pretty good, huh? What did he want from Uncle Billy?”

“His boat.”

“His boat?”

“Yeah, Billy has an old fishing boat. He and Trammell, and sometimes Bruce, go fishing in it. They’re pals, Billy and Trammell. He paid Billy seven hundred dollars to use the boat.”

“Seven hundred dollars seems like a lot.”

“Yeah, but it probably isn’t.”

I didn’t want to talk about Trammell Weems anymore.

FIVE

I
 TOOK HER TO dinner at an alsatian restaurant I like on West Nineteenth, and before we’d finished a light first course, we weren’t thinking much about Trammell. At least, I wasn’t, and since the glimmer had returned to her black eyes when she smiled, I assumed Crystal wasn’t either. It felt, in fact, as though Crystal and I had weathered a small piece of adversity together and were stronger for it. Hell, this was
real relationship
stuff.

We made love with Thelonious Sphere Monk doing his work, but gently, in the background. I felt like a teenager who’d never felt sex and love together before. Maybe I hadn’t. Damp, we lay together listening. I watched her breasts rise and fall with her breathing.

“Artie—”

“Humm?” I had orally occupied myself with the nearest nipple.

“Artie, I have to go.”

“Noooo.”

“I have that tournament.”

“Could you mail it in?”

“That would be unprofessional.”

“What’s first place pay?”

“Eight grand.”

“Jellyroll will pay you ten to stay.”

“Do you want to go with me?”