Everybody Pays (25 page)

“Because . . . ?” Ace leaned forward.

“Because it’s on the line now,” Cross told his crew. “This deal the fed told us about? We either take it . . . or we take off.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” the tall, slender man with pianist’s hands said over his left shoulder. He was looking down through the plate-glass window of the second floor at two men who had just exited a large anonymous sedan parked across the street. The car was a mottled gray-and-black color. It seemed to disappear into . . . no, the tall man thought to himself, to
become
a shadow. Two men were crossing the street. Slightly in front was a short, pudgy individual wearing an Army jacket over a baggy pair of cargo pants, a long, narrow black case in one hand. Just behind his right shoulder was a man so huge that his bulk riveted the eye. At least six seven, the slender man mused to himself. And he had to weigh three seventy-five, minimum. Hard to tell for sure—the monster was wearing a shapeless rust-colored jumpsuit. His hands were empty.

“No, Billy Ray, I kid you not,” a man dressed in a conventional business suit answered. He was maybe ten, fifteen years older and definitely several inches shorter than Billy Ray. “That’s Rhino, in the flesh.”

“Kee-rist. How’s he even gonna
hold
a cue? I mean, I heard he was big, but that guy’s just . . . humongous.”

“That’s not your problem,” the man in the suit said. “You’re problem is beating him, remember?”

“I beat everyone,” the slender man said, a hurt tone buried somewhere beneath the coldness of his voice.

“You’re the best,” the other man agreed. “Best I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been backing games since before you were born. There’s no way he can beat you. No way anyone can beat you. Just stay cool.”

“I’m always—”

“Thing is,” the man in the suit said, as if the other hadn’t spoken, “you don’t want to trash-talk those guys. In fact, you don’t want to fuck with them at all. You just want to put the balls in the holes, you understand what I’m saying?”

“I know—”

“—because you’re not going to rattle those guys. You’re not going to make them nervous. They’re not going to talk to you. And if you beat Rhino, there won’t be any beef. But if one of those
boys
of yours gets silly,” he warned, eye-sweeping the poolroom, “it would be a mistake.”

“You think I’m a fucking idiot? That guy, he looks like he could tear down a house with his hands.”

“Rhino? Sure. It’s not him you have to worry about.”

“Huh?”

“See the little fat one? Buddha, that’s his name. He’s the money man.”

“So?”

“So, number one: No way Rhino plays pool for money. Buddha, he’ll do
anything
for money, but not Rhino. Number two: They’re both part of the Cross crew.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t want to know,” the businessman said emphatically. “Just hope that . . .
Fuck!
”

“What’s the problem, Manny?” the slender man, asked, looking down. “That’s only one of those bikers. They come by all the time. There’s a strip joint right down the block. It doesn’t—”

“When’s the last time you saw a biker wearing makeup and perfume?” the businessman asked.

“What? What’s wrong with—?”

“Me? Nothing. Just wait, you’ll see soon enough.”

As the two men crossing the street disappeared into the building below them, the two men watching saw a shocking-pink Harley dock next to the shadow the big sedan had become. The rider was not only without a helmet, he was without hair entirely, his shaven skull gleaming in the neon wash from the strip joint. Even at that distance, the slender man could see the hypermuscled torso of the biker, who was wearing only a leather vest despite Chicago’s September-night chill.

“That’s the—?”

“That’s fucking Princess,” the businessman said, his voice that of a man resigned to his own doom.

The door to the second-story poolroom opened. Buddha entered first, Rhino holding the same position he had crossing the street, just off the pudgy man’s right shoulder. While Buddha stepped forward toward the businessman, Rhino remained in place, his massive bulk merging with the faded nicotine-colored wall.

“Ready to do business, Manny?” Buddha asked.

“Me, I’m always ready,” the businessman replied. “But you didn’t tell me the maniac was coming along.”

“Princess? He’s not gonna bother anybody.”

As Buddha spoke, the biker strolled into the poolroom. And conversation stopped. The biker’s face was outrageously made up: Lipstick, rouge, eyeshadow. He reeked of perfume. And dangling from one ear was a miniature wrecking ball on a heavy chain. The biker’s face was open and friendly, split by a child’s wide smile.
“Awwwrrright!”
he yelled, spotting Rhino and throwing a high-five that made the watchers wince at the vicious crack when their palms met.

“When are you gonna—?” Princess asked. But Rhino held one finger to his lips, gesturing for silence. The finger’s missing tip was burnished as smoothly as if it had been designed that way.

“Well, I brought my guy,” Buddha said briskly. “This one yours?”

“My name’s Billy Ray,” the slender man said, stepping forward but not offering his hand.

“Sure,” Buddha replied, indifferent. “Whatever you want.” He turned to the businessman: “You know how it works, right? Nobody starts nothing with Princess. He’s just a big dumb kid, wants to have fun. Anyone don’t understand that should . . .”

“Give me a minute,” the businessman said. He walked over to where the poolroom watchers had gathered in a silent clot, spoke urgently in a low voice for a couple of minutes, then returned. “Okay,” he said to Buddha. “They get the joke.”

“Good for them. You got the money?”

“Over there,” the businessman said, gesturing toward a man leaning against one of the tables, an attaché case at his elbow.

“For Chrissakes.” Buddha laughed. “You got a fucking
bodyguard
now, Manny?”

“It’s a lot of money,” the businessman said, defensively.

“And you think I came here to hijack it?” Buddha sneered.

The businessman spread his hands wide in a placating gesture. “Of course not, Buddha. I know you guys wouldn’t ever pull a—”

“You’re a real smart guy, Manny,” Buddha said, cutting him off. “Real funny, too.” The pudgy man pulled a thick brown envelope from his jacket pocket and tossed it on the green felt. It didn’t bounce. “Want to count it?”

“Yeah. I fucking
do
want to count it. And you want to count mine, right?”

“Nah, Manny. I trust you. You got a stupid mouth, but your mind ain’t broke. No way you gonna die for twenty large.”

The slender man watched his backer’s face blanch. Billy Ray prided himself on the steadiness of his hands and the calmness of his face. He was there to do a job. A pro. All this bluff-and-bullshit stuff didn’t interest him. He knew he was being watched, but never as closely as he watched himself.

From the first time he’d held a cue in his hands, he’d known. It was part of him, even then. And it hadn’t taken so long after that. Obsession doesn’t wait to rule. He played every night and slept every day. He didn’t ramble the way some of the players did. Never left his home base. Where he started. Sure, in the beginning, he’d had to travel a bit. Being the best in Uptown wasn’t
that
much . . . not after a while. He had to try the West Side. And the South. After that, almost three years on the circuit: St. Louis to Cincinnati to Atlanta to Miami to New Orleans to . . .
Ah, what difference?
the slender man thought to himself. Now he never moved. This was his place. People wanted to try him, they came here. That’s the way it worked.

Sure, it gave him an edge, some said. He knew the tables. They’d be strange surfaces to anyone else. There was a story about a black kid years and years ago. A legend, maybe. The kid’s name was Cowboy and he played at some joint in the worst part of Cleveland. Hough, it was called. Anyway, the place had these old wood-base tables—not slate, like they used in
real
tables. And the kid was unbeatable on them. Knew every groove, every slant, every drop. But get him off those tables, he was nothing special. Good, not great. The slender man didn’t know if the story was true, but he could see how it could be. And how they could say sort of the same thing about him.

But not really. Not since the all-in tournament at Huron’s five years ago. Eleven straight days and nights. All comers. The slender man didn’t go near the one-pocket guys or any of the other trick-game specialists. And he stayed on the standard tables, too. No three-cushion, no snooker. He played nine-ball and straight pool only. Won both categories. And the best part of a quarter-million. He didn’t have to travel anymore. Every so often, some wise kid would think he had what it took, and they’d tell him, go to Chicago, find Billy Ray’s place, and try your luck.

No problem.

There was something else about home-court advantage, too. Not one of those cow-pie “intangibles” sportswriters were always jabbering about. The real thing. And if these crazy guys really wanted to go through with what Manny told him, they’d see it, soon enough.

“One game of nine-ball, right?” Buddha asked, getting the terms clear.

“One game, twenty grand,” Manny replied. “That’s the deal. You lose—and you
will
lose, Buddha—you come back when you got another twenty. But one game at a time, understand? I don’t care you walk in here with a hundred, that don’t get you five games. One game, one time, period. And you agreed.”

“I did,” Buddha said placidly.

The slender man didn’t like this, couldn’t figure out why Manny had wanted to do it this way. The longer the match, the better his chances, that’s the way Billy Ray figured it. Always had been that way. This was too much like flipping a damn coin. Nine-ball, it could be over on the break. Dumb luck, and twenty grand flies. Ah, what the hell. Wasn’t
his
twenty. Manny puts it up, fifty-fifty on the win. Couldn’t get a better deal than that anywhere.

“Let’s do it,” Buddha said, opening the black leather case.

As Rhino and Princess approached the table, Buddha assembled the two-piece cue he took from its case. Billy Ray watched closely, but he didn’t see anything exotic. No graphite, no fancy inlays along the thicker butt portion, which was wrapped in black electrician’s tape. Just a professional’s working tool—one that looked as if it had seen plenty of work. But it
was
the thickest cue Billy Ray had ever seen.
Looks like the damn thing weighs sixty ounces,
he thought. A lot of guys used heavier cues on the break playing nine-ball, putting power over accuracy, then switched to lighter ones for the rest of the game. But he’d never seen one this size . . . and it seemed to be the only one the monster had brought with him.

Billy Ray worked the odds in his head. He knew them as well as any poker player.
Only difference is,
Billy Ray thought,
me, I make my own odds. And they only work for me. Cards, they work for anyone.
So Billy Ray knew it down to a mathematical certainty: He was going to win about 85 percent of all games played if he got to break the balls. If the other guy broke, the percentage dropped to around 70. And, over time, that combination would guarantee a victory. But if Billy Ray
pocketed
a ball on the break—and
that
he did a little better than 90 percent of the time—the odds on him winning
that
particular game went up to the
high
nineties. All that kept it from being a sure thing after he pocketed a ball on the break was when a bad bounce gave him no look at the next ball up. That didn’t happen often enough to worry about.

Besides, it was the element of luck that kept the suckers coming.

Billy Ray knew that the odds he’d painstakingly computed over the years were only valid for the long haul—you couldn’t count on them for any one game. Still, he was better than even money against anyone who ever played the game, no matter who broke. The home tables didn’t matter much once the cue ball cracked into the rack. But getting to go first, getting the break, that was the big edge in nine-ball. And on his home court, he had more than one way to do that.

A little Asian guy in a Cubs baseball hat worn backward stepped to the head of the table. It would be his job to rack the balls into the nine-ball diamond, the yellow-and-white-striped money ball in its precise center. But he didn’t move, awaiting the order.

“He racks them now,” Buddha said. “
Before
we see who breaks.”

All right, that one was shot to hell, Billy Ray thought. But he was neither surprised nor unnerved. Any fool would know that a loose rack would inhibit the movement of the balls, making a successful break highly unlikely. If Rhino had won the coin toss for who breaks first, a loose rack would have been his reward. Now, without knowing who was going to win first shot, the little man had to rack them right. Right and tight.

Manny took a silver dollar out of his pocket. Held it on top of his fist, supported by his thumb. “Call it in the air,” he said to Buddha.

“Nah,” the pudgy man said. “Let’s lag for the break.”