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And then it happens.
Nick’s face flickers. It’s almost imperceptible; I can’t even really say what changed. All I know is that suddenly there’s the guy I’ve known for the past month. The man who intimidates his enemies and friends alike. The one who constantly keeps me guessing. And I realize in the split second before Nick shoots that we aren’t the ones getting hustled. They are.
Nick falls into position and rockets the ball across the felt with the force of a low-grade nuke. It smashes into the triangle of balls and they go flying up and down the length of the green felt. It’s the break of a professional. The Asshole’s jaw slackens. I barely suppress a whoop of glee.
The game goes quickly from there. Nick walks calmly around the table, not looking at anyone, only focusing on each solid-colored ball and sending it into a pocket with robotic consistency. He’s eviscerating his opponent, and it quickly becomes apparent that he’s on his way to landing every shot in one uninterrupted turn.
Is Nick normally able to run a perfect game or is his anger propelling him to new heights? As I watch him land shot after shot I can see the same drive that has made him one of the most successful businessmen in the city. Deep inside, there must be a pulsing anger that propels him just as strongly in his work.
I save the realization for later though, to unpack in the quiet of my apartment. For now, I obnoxiously hoot and clap with every ball that lands until it’s just Nick, the black eight ball, and a whole lot of striped ones.
The Asshole’s cocky expression has faded with every successful shot and, when Nick calls the pocket and sends the eight careening into the back corner, he looks rather ill.
Nick leans his cue against the table, turns to look the guy dead in the eye, and says without missing a beat, “Now I believe we had a bet.”
The Asshole wisely takes two steps back. “Hey, man,” he says. “That wasn’t a serious bet. I thought you knew that.”
“Not a serious bet?” Nick asks. He takes two steps closer. “Where I come from only shit-stains and pussies punk out on bets. So which fuckin’ one are you?”
I furrow my brow. Not so much at Nick’s words, but at the way he says them. For a second I think I detect a Jersey accent.
Unfortunately I can’t dwell on it long because the Asshole’s buddies have now all stood from the table.
But Nick is standing his ground, staring down the four of them like he’s ready to kick all of their asses, and I don’t doubt that he’d try. Personally though, I’d rather not leave this arcade in a cop car. Brent was always getting into stupid fights with guys at bars and I’ve never found it attractive.
I go over to Nick quickly and put a hand on his arm.
“Let’s just go,” I say. Nick’s proved his ability. None of this is worth getting hurt over.
Nick hesitates at my words, turns to me, frowning slightly. I see in his eyes that he’s going to listen to me, or at least I hope that’s what I see. But, once again, I never get to find out because I suddenly see a fist flying at the side of his turned head.
“Nick!” I shout, but Nick has already reacted, leaning his head back and letting the punch whiff by him.
The fist belongs to the Asshole. He tries to retreat into the pack now that his sucker punch failed, but he doesn’t get the chance.
Nick grabs him by the front of his white athletic shirt and slams his fist into the guy’s nose. It makes a sickening crack and blood spurts from both his nostrils. The room erupts into gasps from the people around us, finally noticing that something is going down.
The Asshole’s buddies rush forward, but Nick is still holding onto the guy’s shirt and he uses it to throw the bleeding man backward into his friends like a bowling ball. The ensuing scramble gives Nick just enough time to grab my hand and say, “We should go.”
I don’t argue.
We dash away, hand in hand. I don’t even risk a look behind me, but from the sounds of things, the hustled hustlers are beginning to give chase.
Unfortunately for them, it’s 11 o’clock now and that seems to be peak hour on St. Mark’s. The street is crammed with people, mostly drunk, enjoying their nights. It’s not hard for Nick and me to get lost in the crowd, but still we don’t slow down until we’ve left the street far behind.
Only then do we slow to a walk. We’re both panting, but now I can fully laugh, wheezing out, “Oh man, you even had me going back there.”
Nick’s eyes twinkle and he looks pleased, proud. “There’s a group of guys like that around practically every crummy pool table in this city,” he says. “They’re all the same. Lotta talk and bluster. Sure they have some skill on the table, but usually they get off on picking on people who barely play.”
“And that definitely isn’t you,” I say, remembering the skill with which he’d dominated the table. “When do you find time to play so much pool?” I ask.
“I don’t,” Nick admits. “Not anymore. But while you had Skee-Ball growing up, I had a pool table. And schoolbooks to buy.”
He’s still holding my hand as we walk. It’s warm and protective and I get a thrill just from touching him. The hard man I’ve worked with over the past weeks is finally letting his walls come down. I need to enjoy it while it lasts, before he clams up again. And so therefore I don’t ask further, even though I desperately want to know about his pool-hustling past.
Nick seems to have a destination in mind, and we cross a busy avenue, nearly getting run over by one of Mickey’s nemeses behind the wheel of a cab. It’s warm, the first time I’ve been out at night in the city where a spring chill hasn’t been in the air. It’s a beautiful evening, and despite those jerks (or maybe even because of them) it’s going better than I’d ever suspected it would when I left the club with Nick earlier.
The location on Nick’s mind is a park. At the center is a fountain by which a girl plays guitar and sings softly and sweetly into a microphone. Apart from her there are only a few people walking their dogs, and some couples relaxing against each other in the shadows of the tall trees, listening to the music.
