Prime Suspect by A.W. Gray

Author:A.W. Gray
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: AudioGO
Published: 2013-03-22T04:00:00+00:00

14

Frank Nichols was pretty sure that the seven would go. Just enough of the green seven was visible beyond the edge of the yellow nine so that if Frank missed the nine with the cue ball he’d get enough of the seven to cut it into the corner pocket. The five was a simple straight-in on the side, but Frank wanted to try the seven because, with just a little lefthand English, the cue ball would come off the rail and maybe knock in the nine as well. That was what Frank liked about Nine-Ball, the different ways to make the money shot. He placed his tongue near the roof of his mouth, whistling softly between his teeth as he chalked his cue, circling the table like a man stalking a deer, looking over the cut it would take to knock the deuce into the far corner, considering the backup action required to bring the cue ball back to the center for shape on the five. Nope. Nope. The seven was the shot. His mind made up, Frank returned to the end of the table, stretched his lanky body full-length and put one knee up on the rail, spread three fingers of his left hand on the felt, circled the cue with his thumb and index finger, drew the stick back and forth like the bow on a violin. “Touch shot, man,” Frank said. “Touch shot.”

“That’s what it is, man,” Rock Man Bentley said. “Only by the time you touch it the afternoon be over.” He beat on the floor impatiently with the butt end of his own cue stick. Rock Man wore a grimy white T-shirt and size 48 jeans, his gut overhanging his belt and his skin the color of bittersweet chocolate.

Frank grinned as he hit the shot, hit the cue ball hard with lefthand English, watched with a bland expression as the cue ball clipped the seven into the corner, rebounded from the rail with a soft thump. The English took hold; the cue ball curved slightly as it approached the nine, bumped the nine sideways. The yellow nine crept to the edge of the side pocket, teetered there, and finally tumbled out of sight with a muted rattle. “Afternoon ain’t over, man,” Frank said. “The game is, though. Pay me.”

Rock Man grimaced and dug in his pocket as Freeway approached from the front entrance. Freeway was around sixty, his kinky brown hair going to gray, slightly stooped as though he’d picked a lot of cotton. Which Freeway had, doing half of his life on TDC work farms. “Dude up front to see you,” he said to Frank. “White dude, don’t look like he’s no man. No law or nothin’.” Freeway picked up the cue ball from the table, looked it over as though inspecting for loaded dice, dropped the cue onto the felt where the ball thumped and rolled. “Never seen this dude,” Freeway said.

Frank took the bill from Rock Man and stuffed it in his own pocket as he squinted toward the front of the pool hall.

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