"
Earl's Picks
, mister?" I asked, watching Frankie get in position outta the corner of my eye. "Best bet here at Golden Gate. Picked eight winners, yesterday. Two bucks. Whatta ya say—?"
He nodded, and that's when I noticed his strange hands, kinda delicate-like and real pale with these thin, long fingers—like a piana player's, you know.
Anyhow, he reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of bills. I took two dollars and he shoved the rest back in his duster. Then I leaned into him, flipping the pages of
Earl's Picks.
"This is a great race in the fifth, mister. Be sure and check out Earl's choice, New Samurai, he's a long shot—twelve to one. Should be even better odds by post-time."
He never said anything, just nodded, and I figured he was some kind of foreigner—didn't speak American too good. By then I saw that Frankie had made the dip, so I backed off, sending him on his way. "Thank you, sir. Tell 'em where ya got the winners." And I turned toward the last of the bus crowd, shouting, "Whose next?
Earl's Picks
."
Frankie gave me the high sign, and I couldn't help grinning. We'd done that one pretty slick. Foreigners were easy, cause they didn't suspect a scam in the good ole U.S. of A. Still, I figured we could work only one more busload, before heading out. The dipped marks would be finding a seat now, getting settled in, then wanting to buy something to eat or make their first bet at the windows—and Bam, no wallet! It'd take them a few more minutes to figure it backwards, working out where they seen their scoots last. So that first mark would be coming back out here to the gate anytime now, maybe even dragging along one of the track cops. Man, we didn't need any of that shit.
"Hey, Frankie," I shouted, holding up one finger.
He looked my way, his big, friendly smile clashing sharply with the hostile impression his heavily-scarred eyebrows, flattened nose, and busted-up face made on most passersby—that's why he was the dip, working behind the marks.
"One more bus," I said, tapping my watch.
He made a circle sign with his thumb and forefinger. "Gotcha, Smooth," he shouted back, his voice as clear as St. Mary's ringing in the fog.
So, we worked the next bus, the crowd streaming through the gate, and I sold four tout sheets before we got a good shot at a dip. Then, I dumped the last five sheets in a trashcan on our way outta the gate, hurrying to catch that last bus from the City.
On the way back across the Bay Bridge, Frankie got all excited reading the green sheet of a
Chronicle
he found on the seat, 'bout a local fighter out in the Sunset, Pat Lawlor, who was scheduled for a junior middleweight championship shot.
"Gotta get us a couple passes, Smooth," he said, his voice now as slurred as a wino's after a taste of Wild Irish Rose.
I nodded absently, wondering about the take from the five dips.
We got off at our Divisadero stop, right in front of
George's B.B.Q
., and who was stepping out the door but Big Henry. He was sporting a western-cut, sky-blue suit, navy-blue shirt with white pearl buttons, navy-blue lizard-skin boots, and a navy-blue Stetson, all this complimented by a modest assortment of gold chains, rings, bracelets, and an ear stud. Oh, he was a sight, even for this stretch of Divisadero on a warm May afternoon; lotsa gays in wild get-ups cruised along here.
"Hey, Big Henry, wha's goin' on, man?" I asked, offering my palm.
"'S'up," he answered guardedly, touching my hand while holding open the door to George's.
Wanda May was coming out to the sound of Huey Lewis's "The Power of Love." She was an old, old friend from my Tenderloin days, but still looking mighty fine, all tricked-out inna tight crimson dress and gold high-heels. Man, that lady could rock 'n roll, if you know what I mean. "'Lo, Wanda May, how you?" I said, smiling like an alley cat with a mouthful of fresh fish.
She'd always been an independent, but I'd heard she was one of Big Henry's line now, with a taste for smack. That recollection kinda stiffened my grin.
"I's jus' fine," she purred, reaching out to stroke my fingers. "You lookin' good, man. Real good, you know?" Her hand lingered a moment on my hand.
"C'mon, bitch," Big Henry snapped peevishly, jerking the woman out to the sidewalk. "Ya'll doan need to be wastin' my time with this here big time promoter and his punchy flunky," he said, chuckling dryly at his own sarcasm.
I looked at Wanda May's fine booty as Big Henry drug her off, remembering how proud she'd been a few years ago. Then I took a peek at Frankie, seeing how he was handling the insult. He was still smiling, hands feeling around in his pockets, apparently paying no attention to Big Henry's comments. He saw me looking at him and whispered in a heavily slurred voice, "Can we check out the loot, now, Smooth?"
I shrugged: "Why not?" and we made it up the street to
Biltman's Billiards
.
***
I hurried into the restroom back by the public phones, a quick nod to the four guys shooting straight pool at table number eight. Inside the men's room, we locked the door and Frankie turned-out his pockets…four wallets and this funny-looking thing made of silvery vinyl. He emptied the wallets, spreading out half a dozen credit cards, carefully matching them with driver's licenses—we could get a ten-spot for each set from Fat Freddie—then began to count the money.
While Frankie was counting the money, I unfolded the silver vinyl thing. It was kinda like a credit card holder, 'cept the individual packets didn't contain credit cards.
[washed]
No, there was a bunch of… miniature instruments; and, at first, I thought it must be a safecracker kit of some kind, or lock picks.
"Two-hunnerd-niney-seben-dollars!" Frankie said, with a kind of triumphant note in his tone, slurring the numbers all together. He held the money in his fist as he moved to the urinal.
I nodded absently, flipping at a buzzing fly bothering me and staring at the instruments in the vinyl holder. Whatever, it sure weren't no B 'n E man's kit. Built into the center of the holder was a thin, round face, kinda like a pocket watch, but instead of a second hand there was a neon-blue dot circling and there were no numbers 'round the perimeter. It was the strangest timepiece I'd ever seen, if that's what it was. I noticed two tiny buttons at the bottom of the watch face. So, I punched the one and the neon-blue dot suddenly stopped and pulsed. "Hey, look at this, Frankie," I said, touching his shoulder and kinda chuckling—
Frankie was quite still at the urinal, one hand still clutching the bills, the other holding his johnson, but he wasn't pissing. He wasn't doing anything; he was frozen in place. And the fly that had been bothering me had lit on the light switch, and wouldn't move either, even when I tried to brush over it.
"What the hell—?" I said, breaking off the useless question.
Then, I punched the other tiny button beneath the funny circle face.
"...We done okay, didn't we, Smooth?" Frankie was asking, taking his leak. The stupid fly buzzed up from the light switch, landing on Frankie's shoulder.
And, I punched the other button, again.
Just like before, Frankie and the fly were frozen again.
In fact, the only living thing that moved in that restroom was me. Fascinated, I stared down at the tiny piece of equipment in my hand, the second hand dot—or whatever it was—was pulsing at about one o'clock on the numberless face. What the hell did I have here? I punched the other button.
Frankie finished pissing, the fly buzzing overhead. "Meetcha in the hall," he slurred, zipping up and stepping to the door, after he pocketed the roll of bills. "I'm hungry. You wanna burger or anything?"
I shook my head, taking his place at the urinal. "You go 'head," I managed to say, still dumbfounded by the strange timepiece, "I'll be out shortly. And I ain't hungry."
Frankie nodded and stepped into the pool hall.
***
About five minutes later I stepped out of the restroom, too, my head a little clearer. I had decided not to worry about what I had or where it came from, but how could I use it. And Frankie was setting up an opportunity for me on a snooker table.
"Watch this, Smooth," he said, trying a difficult shot, cutting a red ball at a tough angle into the right corner, the cue ball traveling the length of the snooker table. Once, he'd been a decent shot, and we'd hustled a few bucks. But now, even though his hands were steady when he shot, the Parker's had screwed up his stroke—and stroke's everything to a shooter, especially a pool hustler. A couple of guys were watching Frankie, half-ass smirks on their faces.
"Hey, you, Ten-ball," I said to one of the lookers, "I got me a five-spot says Frankie makes the shot."
The guy looked me square in the eye, you know, and kinda laughed, not sure if I meant it. "Hey, you really serious, Smooth?"
I pulled a five outta my pocket, laid it on the polished wood railing of the snooker table, and winked at him.
Frankie wasn't saying anything. He just eyed the shot, frowning and licking his lips; and he wore a kinda hangdog expression, like a little kid knowing he was about to take an ass-whupping from the class bully and there wasn't a frigging thing he could do about it.
Ten-Ball covered the five, smirking again. A couple of other guys drifted over to the table, wondering what was happening.
"Go 'head, Frankie," I said confidently, "pocket it."
He swallowed hard, squinted down his cue, took a couple of strokes, and hit the white ball.
He'd overcut the red and it bounced against the side railing about four inches from the right corner pocket—a bad miss.
"Alright," Ten-Ball cried out, picking up the bet.
I shrugged and grinned, like saying
: You win some, lose some
.
By now there was 'bout half a dozen guys looking on.
And Frankie's speech was getting really slurred. "Hey, Smooth, I'm sorry, man, I-I—"
"Forget it," I said, picking up the red and putting it back in its original spot, then moving the cue ball back in place. "Let's try it again."
Frankie just looked at me with this puzzled expression, shaking his head.
"Double or nothing?" I asked Ten-Ball.
He grinned, put the two fives on the railing, and shrugged himself, as if saying:
Hey, man, it's your funeral
.
"Go 'head, pal," I said to Frankie, who was sweating heavily by now. But he did as I said, sucking in a deep breath and taking up a shooting position.
"Anyone else want in?" I asked, nodding toward the bet on the table.
Several guys couldn't dig up ten dollars fast enough…All told, I had to cover fifty bucks, including Ten-Ball's bet.
Frankie wasn't looking well, but we'd been partners a long time, and he knew that I wasn't throwing away fifty bucks for nothing. He was in for the whole maryann. So, he sucked in another breath, eyed along his stick, then stroked the cue ball, which rolled almost clear across the length of green felt, before I punched the stop button on the strange timepiece, which I'd slipped into my pocket in the head. Well, of course, everyone in the pool hall froze in place, including all those watching the action around the snooker table. I stepped around the table to the red ball that had stopped about three inches from hitting the side railing again, picked it up, aimed, and began it rolling straight toward the center of the corner pocket, punching the go button under the timepiece; then I moved back around the table, as everyone came to life.
"Look at that!" someone shouted in dismay, as I slipped back to my original spot near the pile of covered bets.
"I don't believe it," Ten-Ball said, looking first at the pocket where the red ball had disappeared, then back to Frankie, who was still in the shooting position, stretched out across the table and balanced on one foot. Ten-Ball shook his head, glancing at me suspiciously with disbelief.
I picked up the bets, saying, "Thank you, gents."
Frankie was grinning like a wino who'd scored a whole gallon of dago red.
The crowd was breaking up slowly, most of the betters grumbling, knowing they'd been conned somehow, but not sure just how I'd managed it.
I just grinned, counting the money.
Then, Biltman, the owner of the pool hall, and me 'n Frankie's landlord—we got a flat upstairs in exchange for sweeping, waxing, and buffing the floor, and emptying the trash each morning downstairs—signaled he wanted to talk to me privately. I stepped over close to the cash register, and Bilt shifted the ever-present cigar stub from one corner of his mouth to the other.
"Ya had a pair of visitors a little while ago," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Thought they was tooty-fruitys or somepin, the way they was dressed—funny overcoats." The cigar shifted back and he shook his head. "Some kinda freaks, anyways."
I nodded, knowing it musta been that weirdo mark we hit at the track and a buddy. Probably after the timepiece and instruments—which had to be real valuable. "What did they say they wanted?"
"Didn't," Bilt whispered, "just, they'd be back."
He took the cigar out of his mouth, so I knew to listen carefully.
"Doan want no trouble, Smooth," he warned, "none of your crazy ass shit 'round here, ya know wha' I'm saying?"
I put up my hands in surrender. "Hey, I doan know these guys, Bilt, doan know what they want."
He put the cigar back in his mouth and nodded, not believing a word I said.
I turned 'round and got Frankie who was still trying to figure out how he'd made the shot. "C'mon upstairs, pal," I said, nodding toward the door, "gotta show you something."
He put up his cue, following me out the door of the pool hall, then up the adjoining stairwell to our flat overhead.
***
Upstairs, safely in our flat with the door locked, I pulled out the little silver holder and showed it to Frankie, briefly explaining how the timepiece worked. I'd been thinking it over, how we could really put it to work. Figured to use it someplace where there was lots of money. Naturally, at first, I'd thought of a bank, you know. But they'd eventually miss the money and there'd be a check and big fuss with the FBI getting in the act. No, I finally decided one of the big money crapshoots up at Lefty's would be the ticket. We could work it kinda like the snooker table thing—roll a run of sevens or elevens, using the timepiece to stop the action and make the necessary adjustments with the dice. I grinned, my mouth watering just thinking about the money we'd hustle. Boy, it was 'bout time our ship come in. But I didn't go into all that right then. I only explained to Frankie that we had to get away, run a low profile for a week or so—maybe hang out at his sister's up in Sacramento. He nodded his head, agreeing after he understood that the mark and his friend were on to us. He went downstairs to call Tina, and I locked the door after him, then began throwing stuff in a little handbag.