Rack 'Em

Chapter 1

1

I jump awake in a cold sweat, confused and jittery. Where is this place? It's dark. Oh, yeah, the red shine of a clock – 7:35. My hotel room, Lexington, Kentucky. Fully dressed, I roll off the bedspread, trip over a chair, grab my cue case, and find my way downstairs to the Grand Ballroom. It's another dark place except for a flood of light in the very center. Encircled by a brass railing are the pool tables, twenty of them with two bright lamps hanging over each. This area is known as the pit. Some Straight Pool and One-Pocket going on, but mostly it's 9-Ball. The atmosphere is heavy, serious, oppressive. Light spills from the pit onto a few hotel guests, drop ins, and lone players quietly watching from wooden bleachers surrounding the railing. This is the perfect setting for the tournament. Competition begins tomorrow morning. Excited voices rise and fade in the aisles where small groups gather . . . and the pool balls are clicking.

"There you are, Jimmy. Thought you weren't comin'."

"I fell asleep, Dad."

"Still wanna shoot a few racks?"

A silent nod from me, and we start a game of Straight Pool. But my nerves are shot, I can hardly think. Dad seems more interested in what's going on at the other tables. A couple racks go by with neither of us concentrating. I watch him move around the table, searching for a shot.

"It's cold in here, Dad." No answer. He aims in and shoots the 8-ball. "Dad, remember when I was eight. . . ?"

He reaches for his nose and frowns, goes to the other end of the table. "I remember."

"Yeah, right? I used to have this nightmare. Been having it again since we got here. Funny it should show up now, huh?"

He looks at me. "Why? What's it about?"

"Me and some dude shooting 8-Ball in this creepy, red basement."

"What dude?"

"He's wearing a hood. Can't see his face. Shoots about as good as you, though."

Dad smiles. "Beat you that bad, did he?"

"Next time might be different, Dad."

He knows what I'm talking about, goes right on smiling and pockets the 12-ball. The score is something like his thirty to my eight or nine. I've lost count. After a few more racks, we leave, cross the lobby and stop in the restaurant. I set my cue case beside me and wrap my arms around myself, bouncing a leg under the table. The food comes, but I can't eat. Not Dad, though. Nothing seems to bother him. He sits there calmly, eating black-eyed peas, collards and ham. Then he starts to polish off the cornbread. Dry, no butter, elbows on the table, one slow, methodical bite after another. He's so casual about it, too, like he does it all the time. Finally, a swallow of iced tea, and his steady, dark-brown eyes fix on me.

"You still cold?"

"Freezing! Can we go?"

He points at my plate. "You haven't touched that."

I push the spaghetti aside. "Dad, how do you stay so calm?"

"The draw has you worried, does it?"

"Who, me?"

We both laugh at that. It relieves some of the tension that's making me so jumpy, but not enough. He slides out of the booth and we go into the lobby. Dad has a head full of black hair with a streak of gray above the ears. His face is slightly drawn, he's thin, forty-two and has more energy than me. Riding up in the elevator, we're eye to eye. He lays an arm over my shoulders.