Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,11
play the flute.
“Just want to know if you like anyone.”
“I like her,” she said. “We’re different, and she doesn’t approve of me, but I like her.”
“Older or younger?”
“Older.”
Webster nodded, took another sip of beer. He’d been glancing around from time to time to see if he recognized anyone. His being there—fraternizing with a patient he’d recently worked on—was questionable at best, unethical at worst.
“What about you, Mr. EMT? You have any sisters or brothers hanging around?”
“No.”
“Only child,” she said, mulling it over. “And where’s your house?”
“I’m… ah… I’m living with my parents,” he said. “I’m saving up for a piece of land I want to buy.”
“Your parents. Wow.”
“You want to go?” he asked, looking around for a waiter to give him a check. He thought he’d had enough.
“No,” she said. “I want to shoot some pool.”
“You any good?”
“I’m great.”
“Next you’ll be telling me you’re a hustler.”
“You give me seventy-five, I can double it.”
He didn’t believe her. If he gave her seventy-five with those sharks, she’d go home empty-handed.
“Those guys back there?” he said, pointing his finger. “They’re good. They’ll take your money in five minutes.”
“Watch me,” she said.
He gave her the seventy-five.
She chalked the end of the cue as if she were coloring it. She sidled up to a skinny guy with a blond mullet and asked if she could get into a game. Webster could tell that she’d already blown Mullet’s concentration, but he wasn’t the guy with the clout. Mullet looked to a large man with a black zippered vest over a blue and gray flannel shirt. The man’s head was shaved, as if he’d just gotten out of the military.
“Luker, she OK?”
Luker took a long look at Sheila and nodded at Mullet. Webster could see that they both liked the way her jeans fit. A good-looking woman could always get a game. Sheila pretended to be more drunk than she was in a way that made Webster nervous. He could see that Mullet and Luker each thought he was going home with her. Two other men in their early twenties were at the table, too, but Luker was the boss. “Lower the pot to twenty-five,” he said. “Five bucks a piece. Race to three.”
Sheila held the cue like a novice. It was clear she was watching Mullet and imitating his every move, as if she were new to the game. Webster was surprised they didn’t throw her out then and there.
“Any house rules I should know about?” she asked in a voice Webster hadn’t heard before.
“Yeah, Sweetheart, it’s nine-ball.”
The Mullet guffawed as if Luker had made a terrific joke. Sheila was all concentration as the balls were racked. “I go first?” she asked.
“The table’s all yours,” Mullet said.
Sheila bent, took her time, made her shot, and knocked the cue ball off the table. She put a hand over her mouth.
“Scratched it,” Mullet said as he put the cue ball exactly where he wanted.
By the time the table was Sheila’s again, the game was hers for the taking. One of the other players hadn’t been able to sink the eight, but the setup made for easy shots. Sheila sank the eight but jawed the nine. If she were hustling, Webster thought, she was good.
“Nice one, Sweetheart,” Luker said. “Beginner’s bad luck.”
Sheila lost the first race and begged to be allowed to continue. “Look, I almost got it in,” she said, raising her left shoulder and then lowering the right in a sinuous move. She put a five on the table. “Let me win it back,” she begged.
She laughed with Mullet, but it was Luker she had her eye on. If Webster hadn’t known her better—and it occurred to him that he didn’t know her at all—he would have sworn she was after him.
“Race to three,” Luker said. “Ten bucks.”
“Dickhead’s shooting air balls,” Mullet complained, pointing to one of the other players. “He hasn’t got a dime left.”
“That true?” Luker asked.
The man shrugged, put his cue in the wall rack, and walked away.
“The pot is forty. We’ll spot Sweetheart the eight ball,” Luker announced.
On her first shot, Sheila hung the eight and relinquished her turn. On her second, she caromed the nine off the eight and sank the eight, jumping up into the air and clapping her hands. On her third, she ran the table to seven and appeared to be unable to sink the eight.
Careful, Webster thought, a good ten feet behind her.
“You making lemonade, Sugar?” Luker asked, pretending indifference.
Sheila turned to Mullet. “What’s he talking about?”
He shrugged.