Page 42 of Dirty Pool

Well, his ties to the Vannozzos would be over. They were more trouble than they were worth, and Michel wasn’t a fucking idiot. He could see a problem from a mile away, and he wasn’t foolish enough to get closer to it.

Like this Irish thing.

He didn’t ask what the Italians did.

He didn’t want to know.

Were the streets tense?

Michel wouldn’t know.

He went to the clubs, dealt to anyone who came up with the right word to get their drugs, and then he went home. He didn’t seek out Sal, or the guy’s men. A part of him was hoping that if he kept a respectable distance from the rest of the Italians, then maybe the Irish would realize he wasn’t trying to antagonize them like the others were doing.

Simple, right?

Probably not.

Nothing ever was.

Michel sighed, and leaned on the pool cue as he stared at the clock across the bar telling him it was edging closer to ten at night. He liked this bar close to his place because they never asked for ID, and it was always quiet.

“It’s been your turn for two minutes, man.”

He glanced at the guy who decided to take him up on a game for a bet of fifty dollars. Change to Michel, really, but he was never one to turn down the opportunity to best someone at a game of pool.

A quick survey of the table told him he was about to win that fifty dollars, too. It wasn’t that the guy was bad at the game—pretty decent, all things considered. Michel was simply better.

He liked that.

Being better.

Michel set himself up at the far end of the table near the left pocket. Bending down over the edge, he rested his stick on the wooden side, and measured how far the last striped ball on the table was from the cue ball, and which pocket he wanted to choose for it. His bigger problem was the fact that the eight ball was in the way, and if he sunk that fucker on accident first before the striped nine ball, then he was going to lose.

Not a problem.

He settled on a trick shot that would have the cue ball spinning back around to crack the eight ball into a pocket after sinking the nine ball into the right side pocket.

Michel pointed his cue ball at the far left pocket he planned to sink the nine ball into, saying, “Game with this shot—left pocket for the nine.”

“No way you’re going to hit that.”

“All right,” Michel replied dryly.

He bent down again, aimed his pool cue, and took the shot without overthinking it. That’s when he always missed his shots, so he’d learned to just trust his instincts, and go with it. A lot like the rest of his life, honestly.

He wondered if Detroit was going to be the same.

Were his instincts about this place right?

Sure enough, the nine ball sunk into the far left pocket before the cue ball hit the corner, causing it to spin back around and crack right into the eight ball. He almost thought the eight wouldn’t sink into a pocket when it slowed near the middle, but it crawled its way home.

Michel stood from the pool table, turning to face his opponent. The guy wasn’t looking at him, though, but rather … at the woman coming their way.

Damn.

Michel’s mouth went dry.

She looked good in tight skinny jeans that seemed to be painted onto her legs, showing off the shape of her thighs and hips. Not to mention legs for days. God, yeah, he was such a fucking leg man. She’d let her loose, red curls down around her shoulders, and while she didn’t have a lot of makeup on, the red lipstick was more than enough to pop.