William Kennedy - Billy Phelan's Greatest Game

“Charlie?”

“That somebody put the snatch on him.”

“What the hell you say?” said Daddy, near to full volume. “What, what?”

“It’s what I hear, a rumor. More than that I don’t know.”

“Who told you?”

“What am I, a storyteller? I heard it.”

“I didn’t hear that. I know Bindy good as any man. You hear anything like that, Doc?”

The Doc gave a small shake of his head and listened.

“It’s all I know,” Billy said.

“I don’t believe it. Sounds like goatshit,” Daddy said. “If that happens, I’d know about it. I’ll call Bindy.”

“Let me know,” Billy said.

“Hey, Billy,” Harvey called across the empty table. “You gonna play pool or you gonna talk?”

Billy looked at the Doc and said under his breath: “Fish get hungry, too.” He clapped the Doc on the shoulder and watched Daddy Big waddling toward the pay phone. Then he went over to Harvey’s table to reel in the catch.

Harvey Hess, a dude who wore good suits but fucked them up with noisy neckties and loud socks, had bitten the hook one night eight, ten months back when he saw Billy playing in Louie’s and asked for a game. Billy recognized him immediately as a sucker. Billy recognized suckers the way he recognized cats. Harvey almost won that first game. The games were for a deuce after the first free one, and on subsequent days went up to five. Hearing rumors of Billy’s talent did not put Harvey off. He merely asked for a spot. Ten points, then fifteen, and lately twenty, which made Harvey almost win.

Billy watched Harvey show off for him, finishing off two balls, both easy pickin’s. Then Daddy Big came over to rack the balls, mark down the time, and give Billy the word that Bindy’s line was busy. Harvey spoke up: “Give me thirty-five points and I’ll play you for twenty-five bucks.”

“Who the hell you think I am?” Billy said. “You think I’m Daddy Big here, giving the game away?”

“Thirty-five,” said hard-hearted Harvey.

“Thirty,” Billy said. “I never sported anybody thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Thirty-two I give you, for thirty-two bucks, buck a point.”

“You’re on,” said Harv, and Billy felt the sweet pressure on the way. Harvey almost won, but it was Billy, finally, one hundred to ninety-two, winging it with a run of thirty-two in mid-game to come from behind twenty points. Daddy Big came back and told Billy: “I knew that was goatshit about Charlie Boy. Bindy said he heard the rumor, too, and to kill it. He talked to Charlie in New York an hour ago.”

“What’s this about Charlie?” Harvey asked. “I sold him a gray sharkskin last week.”

“It’s nothin’,” said Daddy. “Billy here’s spreading the news he was kidnapped, but I just talked to Bindy and he says it’s goatshit.”

“I took the third degree at the K. of C. with him,” Harvey said.

“I’ll tell you why I bought it,” Billy said, shrugging. “I heard a rumor last summer Bindy was going to be snatched, so the Charlie thing made sense to me.”

“Who snatched? I never heard nothing like that,” said Daddy.

“It was all over Broadway.”

“So was I, but I never heard it.”

“I heard it.”

“I never heard it either,” Harvey said.

“So you bums don’t get around. What’re we doing here, playing pool or strollin’ down memory lane?”

“I’ll play you one more, Billy, but I want forty points now. You’re hot tonight. I never saw anybody run thirty-two before. You ran my whole spot. That’s hot in my book.”

“I got to admit I’m feeling good,” Billy said. “But if the spot goes to forty, so does the bet.”

“Thirty-five,” said Harv. “I’m getting low.”

“All right,” Billy said, and he broke with a deliberately bad safe shot, giving Harvey an opening target. Harv ran four and left an open table. Billy ran ten, re-racked, ran four more, and missed on purpose, fourteen to four, and said: “Harv, I’m on. What can I say? I’ll even it up some and give you eight more points, forty-eight spot.”

“You give me eight more?”

“For another eight bucks.”

Harvey checked his roll, studied the table.

“No, no bet. I got a feelin’ I ain’t gonna lose this one, even though you got the lead, Billy. I’m feelin’ good, too. I’m gettin’ limber. Keep the bet where it is. You can’t stay lucky forever.”

Lucky The line blew up in Billy’s head. He wanted the rest of Harvey’s roll, but time was running. Nick’s card game at nine-thirty with big money possible, and Billy wanted a cold beer before that. Yet you can’t call Billy lucky, just lucky, and get away with it. Billy’s impulse was to throw the game, double the bet, clean out Harvey’s wallet entirely, take away his savings account, his life insurance, his mortgage money, his piggy bank. But you don’t give them that edge even once: I beat Billy Phelan last week. No edge for bums.

Harvey faced the table. The seven ball hung on the lip, but was cushioned, and the cue ball sat on the other side of the bunch, where Billy, you clever dog, left it. No shots, Harv, except safe. Sad about that seven ball, Harv. But wait. Is Harv lining up to break the bunch? Can it be? He’ll smash it? Not possible.

“What’re you doing?”

“Playing the seven.”

Billy laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Depth bomb it. The four will kiss the seven and the bunch’ll scatter.”

“Harv, are you really calling that, the four to the seven?”

“I call the seven, that’s enough.”

“But you can’t hit it.” Billy laughed again. He looked again at the bunch, studying the angle the four would come off the end. No matter where you hit the bunch, the four would not kiss the seven the right way. Not possible. And Harvey hesitated.

“You don’t want me to play this shot, do you, Billy? Because you see it’s a sure thing and then I’ll have the bunch broken, a table full of shots. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Billy closed his eyes and Harvey disappeared. Who could believe such bedbugs lived in a civilized town? Billy opened his eyes at the sound of Harvey breaking the bunch. The four kissed the seven, but kissed it head on. The seven did not go into the corner pocket. The rest scattered, leaving an abundant kindergarten challenge for Billy.

“You do nice work, Harv.”

“It almost worked,” said Harv, but the arrogance was draining from his face like a poached egg with a slow leak.

“Why didn’t you play a safe shot?”

“When I’ve got a real shot?”

“A real shot? Willie Hoppe wouldn’t try that one.”

“I saw you break a bunch and kiss one in.”

“You never saw me try a shot like that, Harv.”

“If you can do it, I can do it too, sooner or later.”

Billy felt it rising. The sucker. Lowlife of Billy’s world. Never finish last, never be a sucker. Don’t let them humiliate you. Chick’s face grinned out of Harvey’s skull. Going to work, Billy? Lowlife. Humiliate the bastard.

“Harv, you got to play safe even when you’re ahead. Didn’t you learn anything playing against me?”

“I learned plenty.”

“You didn’t learn enough.”

And Billy leaned into the action and ran the table and broke a new rack and ran that and part of another. He missed a tough one and Harv sank eight and then Billy got at it and finished it off, a hundred to Harvey’s twelve, which, with his forty-point spot was still only fifty-two. Billy put his cue in the rack, feeling he’d done his duty. Suckers demand humiliation and it is the duty of people like Billy to answer their demand. Suckers must be stomped for their love of ignorance, for expecting too much from life. Suckers do not realize that a man like Billy spent six hours a day at pool tables all over Albany for years learning how to shed his ignorance.