WEEKS WENT by like that. Slow, gray time. Like being inside. I stayed where I was, not even waiting. McGowan's partner took his shot too. Morales, a thickset Puerto Rican. He got right to it, bracing me in the basement poolroom. I was pushing the balls around the green felt by myself when he walked in. Took a seat and watched me for a while, not saying anything. The stick artists ignored him- the salesmen moved away from our area. There's rooms upstairs you can rent by the hour.
He tilted his hat back, small dark eyes like bullet holes in his head. Watching.
I stroked the bright orange five ball into the corner pocket. The cue ball reversed itself on the short rail and slapped into a cluster of balls, scattering them.
"Nice shot," Morales said.
I chalked my cue. Nudged the four ball into the same pocket.
"You're a good shooter, I hear."
I tapped the thirteen, sliding it toward the opposite corner. Chalked my cue again.
"Funny game, pool," he said. "You shoot a ball, you do it right, and it just disappears right off the table."
I banked the ten ball into the side pocket.
He got up, poked through the racks of standing cues, found one that suited him.
"Let's you and me play a game," he said, sweeping the loose balls together into the triangular rack. Nine balls.
"Five and ten?" I asked him.
He tilted his head toward a dirty hand-painted sign on the near wall. No Gambling.
"It wouldn't be," I told him.
His lips curled. He didn't pretend it was a smile. "One money ball- a dime on the nine?"
I nodded. He reached in his pocket for a coin, started to toss it on the table.
"Do it," I said, sitting down.
Morales broke the balls the way he'd like to break mine. With a hard, straight-ahead slash. Lots of power, no stroke. The balls scattered, running for cover. The three dropped in. He power-slammed the one ball, not even thinking about running the table. A slugger- no finesse. When the dust settled, there were still eight balls on the green cloth.
He sat down, watching. I tapped the one ball down the long rail, leaving myself a clear shot at the two. Dumped it in. I kissed the cue off the four ball into the nine. The yellow-and-white striped ball went home. Morales got up to rack the balls. I raised my eyebrows at him.
"Put it on my tab."
I flicked my eyes to the No Gambling sign.
His face went dark. He took a deep breath through his nose, remembering why he was there. Tossed a crumpled ten-spot on the table. I picked it up, smoothed it out. Left it lying on the rail.
I made the nine ball on the break.
Morales put another ten down on the rail. Racked the balls.
I broke again. Two balls dropped. I lined up on the one.
His voice was light, hard-cored. Honey-coated aluminum. "Upstate, when you come in on a homicide beef, you know what they say about you?"
"Tough luck?"
"They say you got a body. Nice, huh? Some punk snuffs an old lady for the Welfare check, he struts around the block saying, 'I got a body.' You ever hear that one?"
"No."
I ran the rest of the table. Morales put a twenty down, taking back one of the tens. He racked the balls. I chalked my cue. Lit a smoke.
"We met once before, remember?"
"No."
"You remember my name?"
I locked his eyes. "Something with an 'M,' right? Miranda?"
"Smart guy. You got a body, Burke?"
My eyes never left his face. "You guys have one?" I asked.
"See you soon," he said, walking away.
I put his money in my pocket. Went back to pushing the balls around the table.