Текст книги "Rough Trade "

Автор книги: Todd Gregory

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Frisco

Greg Wharton

My name is Joshua Clark II, Josh to my friends and clients. I volunteer on Fridays at the Brighton Retirement Home, a low-income old-age residency on Nob Hill, donating my time and services to some of the old guys who will end their days living there.

My favorite Friday friend is Manny Freed, also known as Frisco. He’s always my first visit. He’s seventy years young. His body’s not too sound anymore, but his mind is sharp. No known family. Lonely. But quite a character. And an amusing past. I never really know whether I should believe the tales he tells or not, but they’re certainly colorful, and he gets so excited when he spins them he lights up.

I’m running late today, thanks to a lengthy call from my mom, and after checking in with my supervisor, Nurse Wretched, I find Frisco in the TV lounge, on the couch, his big feet on the coffee table in front of him, a can of Fresca in one gnarly hand and a More cigarette in the other. His attention is firmly focused on a rap video he is watching, and the More’s ash is way too long, just barely holding on, ready to fall into his lap at any moment.

“Frisco!” I scream, probably louder than I should. “I thought you were supposed to cut down on those.”

The ash breaks off, bouncing down the front of his robe, then falling between the spots and white hair of his bare legs to the tiled floor, still in one piece.

“Josh, my boy. Glad you came. You’re late. Verna here isn’t being very sociable today. I can use the company.” With that, he pokes his bony fingers and prissy cigarette at the little round lady with blue hair wearing pink chiffon seated in one of the other chairs, also watching the video. She doesn’t react to me being there, or to her name being mentioned. “Let’s go to my room.”

He puts his cigarette out in the ridiculously large and horrid ceramic horoscope ashtray, and I help him to stand up. We slowly walk down the hall, arm in arm, like best friends, or lovers, to his room, him carrying his Fresca, and me with my brown paper bag of gifts and windbreaker.

“Did you know I once knew Andy Warhol?” he asks once we get to his room and sit down in the two chairs at the foot of his bed.

“Why no, Frisco, I didn’t.”

“Do you know who he is? You might be too young.”

He’s a big butterball of flattery, that Frisco. I am too young! But should I be insulted that he thinks I don’t know my pop and art history?

“Yes, I do,” I respond.

“It was through him that I first met Joe Dallesandro. Ever seen any of his films?” He sounds so serious, and he has a very funny look on his face, like extreme gas, or maybe love. He smiles thinly, then takes a sip of his Fresca.

“I have. He’s a babe, Frisco. Very foxy. He was in those Warhol flicks Flesh and Trash, right? I saw them last year at the Castro during Warhol week. Oh, yeah, and Heat. I loved Heat ! Do you really know him?”

“Paul Morrissey? The director? Yes, I knew him.”

“No, Joe.”

Frisco yawns. His pale blue eyes look tired, watery and red. I glance at the clock on his bedside table: 2:30. Oh, I really am running late today. Too bad. Frisco’s usually napping by now, and I should already be onto my next visit down the hall, with Mr. Kasner.

“Frisco, it’s past your naptime. Let’s get you in bed.” His hair is all messed up. I reach over and comb the thinning wisps of white to one side with my fingers, then pad the cowlick down in the back. “There, better.”

“I’m not a baby, damn it!” he snaps, then gives me a look that could kill. I give him one right back that lets him know he shouldn’t fuck with me. “Fine, help me up, then.”

I get up and close his door for more privacy, then help to lift him up. We shuffle over to his bedside, and his good mood returns. “Aren’t you gonna ask me about Joe Dallesandro, Josh?”

“Sure. Sure, Frisco.” I pull the thin cotton robe off his shoulders and lay it down in one of the chairs. I pull back his bedsheet and tap his bed with my palm as an invitation. “How’d you meet him?”

“He was in love with me, actually. We met at the Factory—”

“Here, Frisco…” I interrupt, peeling his baggy undershorts down, helping him sit on the bed, then pulling them off each leg. I put my arm over his shoulders and lay him on his back, lifting each leg up and onto the bed. Frisco is naked except for his dirty stretched out T-shirt and his black socks. “How’d you meet?”

“…you wouldn’t know it now, but I was once a good-lookin’ guy…”

Unlike the rest of Frisco’s body, which has aged and looked as though it was on its last stretch, his cock showed no sign of aging or willingness to slow down. Despite being framed in brittle white hair, it’s a beautiful sight to behold: perfectly sculpted, with a smooth pale shaft and thick blue veins and a huge tawny brown mushroom head, and when hard, like now, it’s extremely large and impressive. Downright mouthwatering.

I pull two Trojan Magnum XL condoms from my gift bag. I buy them just for Frisco since he’s so big. He’s worth the extra investment.

“…and once he tasted me, he was hooked. He fell in love with me, Josh, but…”

I quickly walk to the door and slip the lock on, just in case Nurse Wretched decides to check in on us, then hurry over to his side. His eyes are closed and he is still spinning his yarn like we were having tea together in some bistro. But his cock knows different. It’s ready for action.

“…Paul was there and he took movies of Joe and me naked, doin’ it right on the couch with Andy watching…”

I open each condom from its foil and roll first one, then another for good measure, better safe than sorry ’s my motto, over his trembling monster cock. I lean over and lick his hairy balls. He smells really good: a mix of piss and sweat and skin, but sweet, kind of like a baby. I lick the length of his cock. I then grip it firmly in my fist so it stands straight up and swallow as much as I can in one gulp.

“Little Joe…oh, Joe. Yes…”

I suck him hard, giving his cock my undying focus, long full strokes while clamping my lips and tongue as hard around him as I can, using my fist to jerk it at the same time. I’m good at what I do and I know he’ll shoot pretty quickly.

“Joe!”

Frisco’s hands pull at the back of my head and he bucks against my face. I keep one hand firmly grasping the bottom half of his cock so I won’t choke. He’s pretty frisky and this baby’s a bit too huge to chance it without a handguard.

“Joe! Oh, Joe! I’m going to come!”

And he does, thrusting himself hard up into my mouth. I feel his entire cock convulse, the underside pumping and the head spitting, pumping and spitting, pumping and spitting, spitting cum into the tip of Trojan #1.

“Joooeeewww !”

I almost wish he wasn’t jimmied so I could taste him. I’m sure it would be an impressive and tasty mouthful. I suck for another minute, then pull my head free and lay his arms down at his sides.

Frisco is still except for his chest slowly rising and falling. I peel both condoms off and tuck them in the plastic baggie I brought, then back into the gift bag so no one will find them. When I turn back, he’s sleeping, a soft snore coming from his damp liver-spotted lips. I grab a baby wipe from the bathroom and dab at his cock, still hard, still beautiful, and hopefully happy enough to hold him until next week, then toss the wipe in his waste bucket.

“Sleep tight, sweetie,” I say and kiss him on his cheek. I grab my bag and windbreaker, and pull out the newest copy of Bound & Gagged magazine that I’ve brought for him. I slide it—with two travel packets of Glide lubricant—under his pillow and head as a surprise for later, then pull the bedsheet over his sleeping naked body. Don’t want Nurse Wretched to get too excited if she finds him that way!

I check myself in the mirror in his bathroom. I smile and ruffle my hair up a bit. I look good: healthy and happy. Sunshine on my cheeks, bright eyes, and a dazzling Dream Date smile. I’m fortunate. That’s why I like to donate my time and talent to others who are in need and lonely, to share what I can.

Blowing a kiss to Frisco, I unlock the door and prop it open, then head down the hall to Mr. Kasner’s room. He promised me pictures of his grandchildren, and I promised him a new Bel Ami video to sneak late at night. He won’t take too long. He doesn’t like to tell many stories, just likes to stick it in and get it over with wham-bam like. But he’s sweet. I should be back on schedule then.

Volunteering is such satisfying work.

The Hard Way

M. Christian

A half dozen blocks from the hall, a bum offered to blow him for a dollar.

Stanley’d left the hotel on Flood Street in the afternoon. That morning at two or so he’d stripped down to his BVDs and T-shirt and stretched out on the stiff sheets, the yellow-stained window shade tap-tap-tapping against the sill from a steady breeze. At first he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, but despite the humming of his nerves and the sound of the shade on the sill he closed his eyes once, twice—and opened them again at five.

He’d taken a few minutes to shave, scraping the old safety razor across his cheeks, the scraping echoing in the small bathroom. Despite the butterflies in his stomach, he’d taken his time getting into his last good suit. He’d carefully polished his shoes the night before. The Hamburg he’d picked up in Philly. The two-grand roll went into his suit pocket, a few bucks for food and booze went into the pants. Hand on the knob, he noticed a smudge of something white and powdery—probably plaster—on his slim leather case so he stopped, walked over to the sink, and carefully cleaned the faded leather with the corner of a towel.

He walked. He didn’t want to be late, but being early was just as bad. Late would have been rude, but almost expected from a damned good player: it meant he was too good to bother looking at his watch before a game. Early, though…early meant he was wet behind the ears, and he’d be admitting to jittery nerves. So he walked, feeling the day cool into night, watching Baltimore’s lights hum and flicker to life.

He didn’t know where he was, but he knew where the hall was. Tevis’s Pool & Billiards was four blocks forward, four to the left.

From the heavy shadows of a narrow alley, the spook’s voice was soft, musical. “Hey, hey, hey—” until Stanley turned toward him.

“Yeah? What the fuck you want?” Stanley said, tone more bored or distracted than threatening. He’d taken and given more than his fair share since riding out from Oakland. His knee still hurt when it got real cold, a memory of when a couple of crackers in Memphis had got him with a five iron. He didn’t need to see the guy to know he could handle him if he needed to.

“Hey, mister! Got a buck, mister?”

He wasn’t as old as he sounded. Not a kid, but not gray and hunched either. Maybe as tall as Stanley, but a lot of meals less in size. Hair cut real close, probably only a week out of stir. Eyes brown. Skin like the faded leather on Stanley’s shoes, till last night when he’d sponged on the dark polish. He had a stink, like booze—but also like a lot of spooks Stanley had known, so he knew he might not have been drunk.

“Come on, brother. All I’s want is a spot or two for a couple of longnecks and a room.”

Stanley’s hand was in his pocket, the crackle of the bills making the spook’s eyes brighten. Normally, Stanley would have told him to fuck off, but not tonight. Tonight was too bright, too clear: it was a game night. A big game night—probably his biggest—and he was just feeling too good to get pissed off.

Then the guy offered to blow him for five. It was so smooth, so quick that at first Stanley didn’t pick it up, thought it was just a different melody in his concert of panhandling. Stanley had thought of rounding up a whore the night before, but somehow it hadn’t felt right. He’d spent it instead having a good steak and potatoes in the Blue Ewe on Mason, then back to his room to try and relax enough to read the paper. Besides, he didn’t know Carson well enough to know how he’d react to his imported shooter getting laid the night before the big game.

His cock was hard, surprising Stanley. He’d played it both ways, both before he’d hopped the rails and his few times in stir, but always preferred cunt to cock. But still, his cock was hard. His nerves were buzzing like too many cups of black coffee, and a bright burst of fear ran up his back and into his brain. In an flash, he saw his fine white hands shake, felt the green felt slide under his unsteady fingers. That’s all it would take.

“You’re on, brother; just better be damned worth it.”

The wino grinned, showing gaps, an old picket-fence smile as Stanley walked past him into the alley. “I’m worth it, brother. Oh, yeah, ol’ Richie’s worth it. An arteest, I am. Got the best fucking lips in Joliet, they say about ol’ Richie. Take the white right off your fucking dick, I will.”

Stanley popped his belt and dropped his fly, metal teeth surprisingly loud in the narrow space. “Just get sucking, okay?” he said, tugging his hard cock out of his BVDs.

Richie slowly lowered himself down: one knee, then the other. The rotten, almost-fingerless gloves he wore came off carefully, to be stuffed in a pocket. He clapped once, like a shot bouncing off the brickwork, and rubbed his hands together in front of Stanley’s hard dick.

Then he stopped, looking up at Stanley past his cock. “Fuck me. I know you, right? Baltimore, right, the shooter that took down Legs Elmwood, right? Eight hours, wasn’t it? Eight hours at the table. Stan, right? ‘Fast’ Stan…fuck me, if it isn’t you.”

And fuck if Stanley doesn’t smile, looking down at this black punk who he’d regular have kicked the shit out of, told to fuck off and die—and fuck if Stanley didn’t even blush, the red burning his cheeks. “Got me, bro. Got me clean and neat.”

“Fuck me—” Richie said, staring up at him with his Jesus-seen-in-church look, his one dark hand absently stroking Stanley’s hard dick. “You’re something man. You’re really something.”

Stanley didn’t know what to say, words not even leaving his brain, let alone getting caught in his throat.

Richie smiled one more time, showing that weathered fence of cracked porcelain again, then dropped his mouth down to Stanley’s never-dipping dick.

Stanley was feeling so big and important, it took a few minutes longer than normal for the sensation of Richie’s mouth on his dick to work its way through his mind; but when it did, when he actually started to feel those soft lips and hard-sucking mouth on his cock, Stanley had to actually think: He’s fucking good.

His legs felt weak, so he leaned back, absently realizing his last good suit was getting filthy from the grimy alley wall; Stanley was all but uncaring on the high he was riding.

Richie worked his dick, sucking, licking, even kissing the fat head—never had Stanley had such a good job done on him. Gals, guys—no one. It was scary, in a way, how good the little creep was. It wasn’t right. Not that he was getting sucked off by him, but that he was too damned good. But Stanley didn’t do anything about it, and even the little voice in the back of his skull wasn’t loud enough to bring his hand down to his dick, to Richie’s face and push him away.

“My treat, brother. I scored good off a ten-shot I put down in that game. Not that I don’t want the five, you know what I mean?” Richie said, smiling up at Stanley, spit and sticky cum on his fat lips.

Weak to near collapse, Stanley could do nothing but smile and start to say, “Put another ten down tonight—” when the little bum started to work his cock again, swallowing all the way down deep.

That was it. Stanley felt it down deep in his balls—the good ache, the quivering bolt of juice up and out of his so-hard cock and right into Richie’s slobbering mouth.

After his heart stopped hammering and his eyes cleared from the spots that’d flashed in front of them, Stanley pushed himself carefully away from the wall—suddenly self-conscious of how crappy his suit now looked. Then he pushed his still-hard cock into his shorts and hauled up his pants from where they’d fallen to his shoes. He gave the wino a twenty, the biggest bill he had that wasn’t on his roll.

With Richie thanking him over and over like a broken record behind him he walked the four blocks forward, four blocks up to Tevis’s Pool & Billiards and the game he was there to play.

*

“You ready, kid?” Carson said from his seat by the door as Stanley walked up the high flight of stairs to the hall. Carson was dressed the same as when Stanley had first met him three days before, in a bright white shirt, a thin black tie, and a simple black coat and pants. Stanley thought that he looked like a minister who should be leading his flock rather than making book. He smiled, wide and broad, friendly despite the money he had riding on the game—or at least he looked that way.

“I’m ready,” Stanley smiled back, strength in his voice. In his pants, his cock was still semi-hard from Richie’s sucking.

The hall was on the second floor above a dark little bar Stanley had never been in. He never drank that close to a hall or a game. The windows were dark from smoke. Against one wall was a narrow caged booth. In it was an elegantly dressed black man, as much the preacher as Carson. As Stanley walked across the hall he watched him like a cat casing a mouse.

Along the walls at the base of those heavy-smoked windows were the spectators’ seats. They were empty, red plush upholstery looking like a thick red river under the glass, except for three. In one was a kid maybe half Stanley’s age, in a white shirt and bright blue tie, sleeves rolled up to show blond hairs like a glow on his arms. His head, too, was bright blond, like polished brass. Next to him was some muscle, a dockyard worker or ex-fighter crammed into a wrinkled and musty suit that looked like something borrowed from a mortician brother. The muscle’s eyes were dark, like bricks missing from a wall, and hooded by thick brows and ridges. He was too far away, and his eyes too small, for Stanley to see if he was watching him—but Stanley felt him nonetheless. Just as Stanley had scoped the tables for faded velvet, obvious warps, or any shaking from the bar downstairs, he knew the muscle was sizing him up, deciding which bones he could break if he needed to.

Next to the muscle was the other side of Carson, the dark to his white. While Carson had dressed like a minister about to step in front of his flock, this guy was dressed for a club in a neat, pinstriped, double-breasted number with dark wingtips. Stanley had spent years crouched over a table, knocking the polished balls into black pits, listening to their clicks and clacks as if trying to decipher some secret language of balance and English. This guy had spent twice as long figuring out how to take money from people: sometimes by getting his muscle to break their fingers, sometimes by using people like Stanley. His face was dark. It wasn’t dusty black like Richie, and it wasn’t mahogany like the manager; it was like midnight, pitch, or a starless night. The only thing that shone from his face were his teeth when he smiled—and he was smiling—and his eyes, which were like gleaming scales judging Stanley’s worth.

Carson was suddenly next to Stanley, speaking to the hard darkness of his opposite. “Good evenin’, Portaphoi.”

“It is gonna ta be that, ain’t it, Mr. Carson,” Portaphoi said, his voice a deep lilt, “fer at least one ah us.” It didn’t seem possible, but he smiled even broader, showing a rear gold tooth in a flash that surpassed the glow from the boy standing next to him. “So dis be ya shooter from da west of the country, Mr. Carson?” He turned the brilliant white and gold to Stanley. “Ah be hearin’ good t’ings about you, mistah. I hear ya can shoot da moon straight inta da pocket.”

Stanley smiled, knowing he should be scared, shaking in his shoes, but he wasn’t. He was the shooter. The light was on him. The evening would be good for them if it was good for him, if he shot a good game of pool tonight. The question of him not shooting the moon into a pocket didn’t even occur to him. He smiled back at Portaphoi, not caring that his own teeth were piss-yellow from too many cigarettes. “—and I can do it straight off the break.”

“Ha ha!” Portaphoi’s laugh reminded Stanley of an empty barrel rolling down an alley, the growl of thunder after a big damned crash. “The boy does have spunk, he does. You be doin’ good, Mr. Carson, if he’s cue be as big as his dick, no?”

Stanley smiled right back, never dipping his eyes from Portaphoi’s deep brown pits.

“Dis here be my gun, and he always be shootin’ straight,” Portaphoi said, turning toward the golden boy with a nod. “Billie, this be Stanley. He be the man you gonna be beatin’ tonight.”

The boy didn’t move, didn’t smile. His face stayed polished bronze, but his hand slowly rose. Stanley took it, shook it coolly once. The rule was never to shake, it being too easy for a loser to squeeze too hard, try and throw a game. But then, there, now, Stanley knew he had to—Stanley showing he was going to shoot a straight game of pool, and Billie nodding right back.

“Let’s play some pool,” Carson said harshly, not being able to keep up with Portaphoi’s fancy steps. “Let’s make some money.”

But Portaphoi had one last word: “For only one ah us, Mr. Carson. Only one ah us.”

*

They rolled for break, Stanley barely losing. The kid leaned across the table, elbow on the wood, cue sliding neat and clean between his fingers. Watching him moving the pale white cue, Stanley remembered his cock in Richie’s hands, his mouth, and he smiled. Give the kid the break, give him a few balls, even a few games—but Stanley knew the night was his.

The eight danced away from the side pocket, spinning just enough to bounce free. Stanley stepped up, dusting the tip of his cue with pink chalk, seeing the movements of the balls even before he bent over the velvet. He’d heard other hustlers talk about that, about seeing the game before the first ball even moved, but hadn’t really felt it before; yet there it was, like seeing the end of a movie before seeing the start. He knew what was going to happen. The rest was just making the right movements.

The balls obeyed, sliding across the velvet in smooth, perfect tracks, their clacks and deep thunks as they fell into pockets like a lovely tune to Stanley. He called out the shots, his words feeling cool and distant because he was already two, three shots ahead. The table cleared in what felt like a single beat of his heart. Then the next, and the game after that.

Carson stood next to him as the old black man from the cage racked him. His hand was heavy and shockingly hot on Stanley’s shoulder. He passed him a longneck beer. “Goin’ good, Stan,” Carson said. “Goin’ good.”

But Billie wasn’t just a kid, and the next two games fell to him. His voice was strong, almost bored as he called out the shots. Every once in a while he’d look up at Stanley as the cue elegantly tapped the next ball and give him this look—a warm, smoky kind of look. The first time Stanley barely noticed, the second time he saw it, but the third and then the forth time Stanley looked for it. Then he was waiting for it. There: a slight smile on his pale face, a twitch of muscle, a sparkle in his pale blue eyes. The balls were almost secondary, just an excuse for the boy to look up at Stanley and smile.

Stanley put the bottle to his lips but it was empty, and he couldn’t remember taking even the first drink. For a second, he wanted to turn to Carson and demand why he’d given him an empty soldier, but then he felt that little pressure in his gut down near his pisser and he knew he’d drained it himself. Nodding just a little, he gestured to the old black guy for another.

The next two games went to the kid, but then a four banked too hard off a cushion and knocked an eight just short of the pocket. Stanley stepped up feeling good—and even better at not having to keep catching those looks from the kid. The edge was there, and his hands and the cue were magic. Ball after ball obeyed his will, spinning, clicking, sinking into the pockets. One game, two, three.

Then it slipped away for just a breath, giving the kid a chance to run the table. Stanley stepped back, looking for an excuse not to watch the kid shoot, and realized that his gut was aching. He glanced quickly down at his watch: fifteen after one. Catching the eye of the old black guy, he gave him five bucks and sent him to get an egg and cheese sandwich and some chips.

While he waited and while he ate, the kid ran the table twice more; but then he too must have felt his belly growl, because a three smacked into a pocket too hard, bouncing free.

“Da weather, it is wild tonight. Maybe it rain on me, maybe it rain on you. De clouds are busy, dey hard to read,” Portaphoi said, walking up to stand next to Stanley as he moved to shoot.

Stanley turned to smile up at him, seeing Carson out of the corner of his eye looking angry. “If I were you I’d buy a fuckin’ umbrella,” he said, breaking near and quick, sinking a four and a six neat and thick, the sounds of the balls in the pockets like belly punches.

That game, and the one after that. Somewhere along Stanley had tossed his coat onto one of the spectator seats, loosened his tie, and undone a couple of buttons. His belly was full, but now his eyes were starting to get tired. A quick look at his watch: 3:00 a.m. They were almost even, with Stanley just two games ahead. The night was young, but Stanley was feeling his age.

Then a ball betrayed him, touching the bumper before the pocket, spinning out into the middle of the table. The kid stepped up and cleared it—hard and neat, the fall of ball into pocket becoming punches into Stanley’s gut this time.

The looks continued, too. After every shot, Billie would stop and look up at him—his eyes gleaming ice, his lips hot and full. Despite his nerves, Stanley felt his cock start to get hard. Yeah, after all this, he’d get himself a whore—some babe with easy hips and hungry lips, or he’d walk that way again and see what Richie would do for a ten-spot.

Billie sank a seven, quick and sharp. Looking up at Stanley, he smiled and licked his lips. The next ball missed the pocket.

Stanley stepped up, walking stiff to hide his stiffening cock. But he felt the edge nonetheless. Even though his mind was foggy with dicks, assholes, cunts, and tits, he still felt it—there—the game spelled out before him. The balls still respected him and they did what he wanted. One game, two, then it slipped away. He felt like he woke up, and the dream wasn’t real life. The balls laughed at him, slipping and sliding away from each other and the pockets.

Angry at himself and his throbbing dick, he walked back to the seats. He called over the black guy and asked for some Daniel’s. As Billie cleared the table and won the game, he finished the bottle. As Billie cleared the next, putting them in a tie, Stanley put the bottle on the linoleum floor—and saw that his hands were shaking.

That was it. The kid was ahead by two and they only had three more games to play. He looked up at Carson and saw the anger in his eyes, the fury that comes when you realize that your sure thing isn’t going to deliver. Another glance, this time at Portaphoi, gave Stanley nothing but a cool shiver as the black-on-black fancy-dan was smiling again—a little too wide, showing even another gold tooth.

Stanley looked at Billie, and there was that smile. That hot, inviting smile. In a moment, Stanley hated that smile. Hated the fact that the kid was going to smoke him, that he was going to run the game, take home his cut, put another gold tooth in Portaphoi’s head and make Stanley a loser.

Then it happened. Portaphoi couldn’t have seen it, but Carson certainly did, just as he certainly placed a fat roll in the kid’s pocket—but that was something that Stanley didn’t figure till later, lying in his still hotel room bed and staring up at the fly-specked ceiling. Stanley only saw it because he knew what it was: a shift of balance, too much spin, too little strength in the hit: the kid was playing the game several moves ahead too, but not to win. The kid had thrown the game, he’d tossed it away. For Stanley, probably just a little bit; but mostly for the game that Carson had played with him—the game they’d played on Portaphoi: and won.

The eight skipped too far to the left, bounced against a hovering three. Billie swore, a short, sharp “fuck!” and moved away.

Stanley sat there in the spectators’ seats, more aware that the sun was rising behind him—slowly heating the pool room—than he was that he was up. It took Carson walking toward him to make him blink, stand, and grab his cue. The rest of the games were easy, and he could have shot them even if he wasn’t somewhere else, lost in that last game of the kid’s.

It was over, the last ball sank neat and clean. He stared at the velvet for a long moment, at the empty table, and at the pale, narrow shaft of his cue—which didn’t look anything like his dick, just a cheap stick of wood. He didn’t see Portaphoi leave, didn’t see the muscle go. He only looked up when Carson put a wad of bills in his shirt pocket, saying, “Fucking great, Stanley.” When he did look up, he saw the kid standing there in the doorway, an inviting look in his eyes. But Stanley didn’t agree or disagree; he just looked down at the velvet and shook his head.

*

The walk back to the hotel was longer than the walk there. His steps were shorter, the blocks were longer, and the air—even though the sun was up – was much cooler. He must have walked the same way back as he had going to the hall, because as he passed an alley he heard a voice, gruff and thick with phlegm, say “Hey, hey, hey—”

But Stanley didn’t reply, even as the voice changed: “Mister! Got a buck, mister? Hey, you—I’m talkin’ to you.”

One foot in front of the other. Small steps. “Fucking loser asshole,” the voice in the alley said as Stanley walked past.

Realizing suddenly that he’d been recognized—again—Stanley just kept on walking.