Dave’s Pool Room, 40th Street

Pickles of the cool gray Italian silk suits and the paten leather shoes and the abundant and wavy black hair and the sociopath’s brain, Pickles who apprenticed the gigolo trade from his uncle, Jumper Phillips, Pickles who courted and won the heart of all of the women in his life and who never gave anything of his true self. Pickles of the quick wit and charming patois and the nightclub ways and the gambler’s life, Pickles was in Dave’s pool room holding court. He had disappeared from the neighborhood for several weeks – jail? Chicanery? Who knew? He showed up with a white Cadillac convertible and a lady almost twice his age from Boston whose family owned a shoe manufacturing plant. Pickles, who was later to run off with the company payroll and leave the lady stranded in West Philadelphia, Pickles was playing Louie the Lug in a heavy stakes game of straight pool – first one to pocket fifty balls pocketed a goodly wad of money.

The Lug, as usual, bedecked in his khaki grease stained garage mechanic overalls, who quietly could run a rack or two, and on a good day, three had just played an elegant safe, leaving Pickles with the cue ball against the back rail and a virtually undisturbed rack of balls. Lug said nothing; his huge triangular shaped head topped off with wiry copper hair the color of his overalls was, as usual, held straight and tall from his broad shoulders. No one would ever call The Lug handsome, but formidable would fit nicely. Lug said little, or should I say just enough. He knew how to goad and he did so with a Spartan like mastery.

Pickles strutted around the table looking over the rack for a “dead shot”. -Now, a dead shot is a ball, which if the rack is struck properly, will fall into a pocket. - If a good shooter was fortunate enough to find a “dead one” he would call the ball and pocket, smack open the rack, make the dead ball and have an open table from which to pick his shots. Finding a “dead one” virtually assured a win with players at this skill level. Pickles holding his cue like a baton and strutting like a drum major perused the table. He circumnavigated it once looking at the rack from the angle of each of the six pockets, paused, looked again and declared that the five ball was “dead” for the right corner pocket. Even to my inexperienced eye it was a dangerous gamble. The five was in the middle of the pack and the rack would have to be struck with considerable force for the ball to have enough leg to roll into the corner pocket. The second problem was that since the five was in the middle, the force of the blow would send balls careening off the rails and one might bounce back and knock the five off its course. The third problem was that the cue ball was fast against the back rail and it was doubtful that the shot would be powerful enough to send the five ball into the pocket.

Prudence declared that Pickles play a safe. He assumed his shooting position, declared that he was playing a safe, and said in a stage whisper, “The five is dead”. He slowly drew his cue stick back to tap the cue ball softly and play his safe and said again, “The five is dead”. Lug, who had been quiet all this time said in a barely audible basso, “Can’t go.” Pickles stopped his stroke, picked up his cue stick and did another tour around the table. “The five’s dead” he declared, but got back into shooting position and declared he was playing a “safe”. Again, a barely audible, “Can’t go” came from the Lug’s throat. Pickles was unable to resist the challenge. “Five ball in the corner pocket” he said and laid a powerful cue shot at the rack. Balls went careening everywhere and the five, as if on string began its tortuous way towards the corner pocket, moving so slowly that it was easy to read the black 5 in the white spot painted on the orange surface of the ball. The five inched its way towards the center of the pocket. Pickles had been correct, the five was dead. But the Lug was more correct. The five stopped less than an inch from the pocket lip. The shot had failed. It was Lug’s turn to shoot, and with the rack busted wide open, he ran the table, making every ball, never relinquishing his turn to Pickles. Lug walked off with some of the Boston money and Pickles, unflustered, left the poolroom and went back to the well for more easy money. Losing never bothered Pickles. It usually wasn’t his money anyway and he got his pleasure from the thrill of the gamble. But he didn’t like being shown up. Louie The Lug showed him the door while pocketing his cash.