Who's the mark?
A Chicago story.
To my fellow outlaws, outcasts and misfits,
Welcome to all the new folks from Granta. And welcome back to all the regulars.
Just a heads up, I have some outstanding guest writers coming up over the next couple months. A new story from I Can Only Give You Everything drops Sunday July 5th. And from Pete Kelly hits Sunday August 2nd.
But today, I am proud to present a new Chicago story.
So without further ado, away we go.
I had him on the hook. He was drunk, cocky, and losing, the best combination you can hope for when you’re hustling pool, trying to turn the mark upside down and shake his pockets loose.
We were at a dive bar in Rogers Park called Cheers, owned by a chain smoking Greek named George. The only thing George loved more than serving underage kids was hating Turks. There was a small pool table in the corner. You popped in a few quarters to play last game’s winner. If you won, you kept the table and played whoever put up the next quarters.
One night my cousin walked into Cheers with fifty cents, enough for one game of pool. We played for a pitcher, won the game, so we won the table and pitcher, kept that pitcher to play for another pitcher, and before we knew it, we had seven pitchers lined up and drank for free. That was what hustlers call “short money” or “dinner money.”
I was always on the hunt for “long money” or “real money.” Anything over a hundred was real money and it looked like some real money showed up.
The night started with pitchers. I was drunk but still playing well. When a kid around my age showed up with two of his friends. I seen him around. His Dad was a devout Sikh from Devon Avenue and came from money.
You have to put together your mark. The kid was dressed sharp. Pressed shirt. Nice pants. Belt. Shoes weren’t scuffed. Lot of product in the hair. Cologne. His friends all matched.
The way to play a cocky kid is to barely win, figuring out early the shots he can’t make, miss yours and leave him those, so that he misses, leaves you something, you put it in, so he feels like you didn’t beat him, he just missed his shots and keeps paying you off.
The next thing you have to do, is start subtly rubbing it in, so his ego goes into overdrive. Even better if there are women around to watch and hear. Losing in front of women will break him and I already had this kid down five pitchers.
“Fuck this playing for beer bullshit,” he said, which perked the ears up of his friends leaning against the wall and a few college girls posted up by the dart board, who came over to see why somebody was shouting.
“What do you want to play for?” I asked, letting him set his own hook.
“You’re the hotshot. You tell me?”
Interesting. He punted it back.
“I don’t know man, I don’t really play for money. I play for drinks, whatever. I dunno? Five bucks?”
“Let’s play for ten.”
Hook set.
“I guess. You rack.”
I won. Time to put the hook deeper.
With his friends and the girls still watching, I said, “I don’t want your money man. I just want to have fun. Who cares who wins or loses? You’re just having a bad night. I don't want to take advantage.”
“Bad night. Fuck you man. Let’s play for twenty.”
“Cool, so what if I win, you owe me thirty? And if you win I owe you ten?”
“Yeah, that’s how math works. Let’s just play.”
I won again, barely, both chasing the eight ball, which he scratched on.
His friends groaned. The girls watching squeaked. So close.
He took out a wrinkled twenty and ten and set it on the table.
“I’m done. Let me use this to buy you and your friends drinks for the rest of the night.”
“Fuck that bullshit. Let’s play one game for a hundred dollars.”
I had to untuck my shirt to hide the erection.
Slight miss here. Barely make it in there. And he lost.
He set a hundred dollar bill on the dirty green felt that shot more like a poorly kept putting green than a pool table.
“Now I’m really done,” I said, my grand total up to $130 for the night.
I let my words hang in the smoky loud room, all eyes on him, hoping he’d keep paying me off.
“Let’s play for real money. You go to the school?” He asked.
Loyola University was across the street. And technically I went there. I had just been kicked out of Campion Hall for punching a kid in the face for wearing Union Jack boxers in my room. They moved me across the street to Mertz Hall, with a kid named Jeff Kielbasa. My first day in I paid local neighborhood graffiti guys to come in and tag the room. I was on my way out of there for sure, but…
“Yeah, I go to Loyola. Why?”
”Let’s play for real money. Five hundred bucks.”
Now all eyes were on me, with the squeaks and groans.
“Yeah, that works for me. When and where?” I asked.
“Tomorrow. The pool room in Mertz. Four o’clock.”
“One game for five hundred?” I asked.
“Nah, let’s race to five,” he replied, which means first to win five wins the five hundred.
“Nine ball?” I offered, hoping he’d bite.
“I don’t care what game. Just bring the money.”
He left. I bought the bar drinks until the $130 ran out.
I came to the next day in my dorm room. It felt like a fat kid was sitting on my head playing the tuba. I lit a cigarette, drank half a warm Miller Lite then choked down a stale slice of Domino’s. The box would have tasted better. I glanced at the clock. It was 3. I only had an hour to puke, shower, hit the ATM, grab a fresh pack of Reds and a six pack for the game at 4.
I showed up a little before 4, innards freshly drained, ready to consume nicotine, booze and the tears of my opponent. And I brought my secret weapon, a gorgeous Meucci cue that my cousin and I traded depending on who was doing more work on the felt.
The room was empty except for Melanie playing pinball on the other side of the room. She was another freshman, from rural Arkansas, a direct descendant of pawpaw moonshine and fireflies, who lived on the floor above me. I always saw her wandering around alone, with her choppy long brown hair growing back over a bad blonde dye job. She had thick coke bottle glasses, an oversized Marvin The Martian shirt that draped over stone washed jeans hand cut around her knees and a pair of scuffed black eight hole Doc Martens.
Before I could say hello, the kid strutted in with twice the amount of friends he had the night before. He was also carrying a leather cue case.
“Let’s go,” he said, then popped open his case revealing a Schon R-12 cue, with beautiful ivory diamonds on the butt. I tried to hide my reaction but he caught it.
“Yeah motherfucker. Thought you were hustling me didn’t you?”
