UNDER THE RESTAURANT
Operating a pool hall is a lazy man's business. That particular afternoon, I was sitting behind the counter with the sports page after lunch, hoping the Mets could pull off a miracle against Baltimore. I use a reading lamp because the basement room is dark. Dome lamps over the twelve tables are lit only for play. I’ve got three pinball machines in an alcove, but it’s the pool tables that pay the rent. Brushed clean and immaculate, I think of them as green altars awaiting the faithful. This is where the best come to play.
It was quiet, a few customers were playing casual games on four of the tables. I had pushed the paper aside to watch Larry practice on table one. He held his ivory inlaid cue with one hand, and then the other, to roll up the sleeves of his tailored silk shirt, his predator eyes were scrutinizing a rack of balls strewn across the felt. Chalking his cue, he leaned over the rail of the table and stroked the cue through the perfectly formed bridge of his left hand. Stroking, calculating, seeing it before it happens, slowly stroking. He sank the five ball in a side pocket and left the cue ball in perfect position for the next shot. He had a soft touch, a hard edge and a smooth, sure stroke. He was one of the best hustlers in the world. Maybe he was the best.
He showed up once or twice a year. This was home, my place is where he got started. He had arrived the day before driving a Lincoln Continental with Tennessee plates. This is Connecticut. Word would get out. Others would come. The quiet exchange of many hundred dollar bills would be made, the offerings of those in search of a little truth.
I had looked out the narrow, barred windows at a level with the parking lot. A Mustang pulled in, a guy got out. Hippie. Long dirty blond hair. Purple long-sleeve pullover shirt open at the neck. Beads, dilapidated jeans, sandals. An attractive woman got out on the other side of the car. Sunglasses, leather jacket, white blouse and black slacks. Nice clothes. What was a good looking woman doing with this guy? Jesus Christ, I thought to myself, he's coming here. The country is getting its ass kicked around all over Southeast Asia, and I've got a hippie coming into my place. Thank God it was early, this wouldn't sit well with the regulars. The hippie and his girlfriend opened the big steel door and walked over to the counter.
"Cool place," he said.
"Like a table?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, and looked around.
I handed him a tray of balls. "Table three."
I punched an empty time card into my machine while the hippie and his girlfriend walked to their table. He said something to Larry. They started talking. Larry and the hippie. They were talking.
"Ray," Larry said. "I'm going to play on three for a while."
The girlfriend sat on the bench against the wall. The hippie talked while he racked. Larry
talked, laughed. It made me wonder what Larry was into. Well. Who knew what he was into? He was the best, that's all I needed to know. They played straight pool. First player to sink one hundred balls is the winner. Loser pays the time.I browsed the newspaper until I felt Larry's game coming to an end. The hippie paid him cash. Serious cash. I'll be damned, I thought, and suddenly I didn't care if the Russians did launch a nuclear strike, as long as it didn't interfere.
Another game. The hippie paid. His girlfriend watched. She didn't seem interested. She didn't seem bored. The hippie needed a spot. The trick is to try to get enough to make the game competitive. Larry and the hippie talked. They were friendly, but that was part of the game.
They played, end of game. The hippie paid, complained. Welcome to the big leagues, kid. After a few hours, I figured the hippie was down about two grand. Where does a hippie get two grand? It wasn’t my business.