Much to his mother's dismay, the boy was in the poolhall again. It wasn't that she didn't want him to play, she was just perpetually nervous about him playing
there. His father introduced him to the game, the hall, and the men who frequented the tight, smoky place last year, and her son was immediately enraptured. He didn't give a whit about the meandering conversations of the adults, nor the beer that was served in the dim light behind him. His father told him that anything that happened there other than pool was none of his business, and that was all he needed to know.
His heart was given over to the plush green felt of the pool table and the smooth, glassy finish of the smallest cue on the rack. He was prone to pet the table before he began, a boy hopelessly devoted to his puppy. And even then, years before high school, the boy was good. Damn good. His vision was sharper than any adult, his stroke was smooth and certain, and he smiled to himself the entire round. The men would gather and watch him blaze through a round of nine-ball, and shake their heads as he embarrassed someone at the snooker table. His prowess at the table and whispers from his father most certainly kept him shielded from anything crude or dangerous in that place.
It wasn't until he didn't see a fight that he realized that there was an entire world that stood at his back, watching him play.
It was a Friday night when the men from Monegaw Springs stumbled into the poolhall. The boy labored at a game of straight pool with the only man who could provide good competition. He was in his early sixties, bald, and the largest man in Rockville. He wore denim overalls without a shirt during the day when he worked his fields, so his skin was a taut chestnut leather. He grunted and smiled as he played the boy, his ferocious gray eyes following the movement of the balls, and he rarely spoke. People called him Boss.
Boss was in mid-stroke when the door slammed open. Three young men stood in the doorway, one of whom staggered mightily. He shuffled and crashed and barked his way to the bar for a drink while his two friends lingered in the entrance, embarrassed. Boss stood and watched the man, and the boy followed his friend's eye.
The bartender wasn't giving the man a drink, and The Man From Monegaw was not happy. The curses that slogged from his mouth were thick and wet, and the boy was immediately nervous to hear the threat of violence that accompanied those words. The man slammed his hand on the bartop, and spun around to face the customers. "I can whip any man in Bates County," was what he said. The boy remembers the encounter precisely, but not for the young, drunk intruder. He remembers it for what happened next. Boss laid his cue down softly on the table and shook his great tanned head at the boy.
Boss spoke. "That's taking in a whole lotta territory."
The drunk's eyes glinted and he nodded at the old, bald man. Boss moved to the door, and the group disappeared behind the door into the night. The boy noticed that the poolhall was silent and the men looked at one another and shook their heads with the terrible knowledge of what was to come. The boy flinched suddenly at the sounds in the alley behind the hall. Muffled grunts, a chuckle, and a thump against the wall of the building that shook the cue rack.
Boss stepped back through the door, pointed for a beer. Outside, a car door slammed and the engine howled as it sped away. Boss placed the knuckles of his giant, meaty hand against the icy mug and moved back to the table with the boy. He smiled. "Your shot, kid."
The boy didn't remember seeing the Man from Monegaw ever again.
