The weather outside was miserable due to the cold, rain, and fog. I pushed one of my Camels out of its pack, and flicked a light to it. Today was definitely not a working day so I decided to drop on down to Joe’s Pool Hall, and shoot a game or two.
I told Lola where I would be if anything came up, and walked down the thirteen newly waxed stairs to the street. The wind bit through my sports coat as I dashed to my car, jumped in, turned the key to the ignition, and heard the 425 horses of my engine scream. I backed out my ‘65 Pontiac G.T.O., and sped toward Warburton Avenue in Yonkers. Reaching Warburton, I hooked a right into an open space with a fire hydrant in front of it. Before getting out and locking up, I took my little orange press card and placed it on the dashboard. That card had come in handy several times.
Joe’s place wasn’t exactly in the best part of town. It was a place where no sixteen-year old punks would rip up the tables, or distract the players. Joe also kept a tight rein on drunks as well.
I opened the door and heard the typical clatter of balls as I climbed the dusty stairs to the second floor parlor. There was Joe behind his brown wooden desk, with his hand out to greet me.
“Long time no see,” he said.
“Yeah, I’ve been pretty busy Joe.”
His hand was strong as I threw my paw into it. I jabbed at my pack of butts, shoved one in my mouth, lit up, and walked to table six where a big game was going on. Looking over everybody’s heads, I eyed the two who were playing…Big Boo Boo Schaefer and Nick the Greek. They were two of the best, and the score was “nip and tuck” with Boo Boo on a thirty-six ball run as Nick stood in the corner nonchalantly watching the shots. One of the local punks tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I wanted to shoot for a few bucks. I know my way around a pool table, and consider myself a semi-hustler at times. This looked like some easy money to line my pockets with. The kid must have come in from another billiard parlor looking for a hustle. If he had played here often, he wouldn’t have asked me.
Joe grinned as he handed me my cue stick from behind the counter. I chalked up as the punk racked. As time went by, I had about a hundred and fifty clams of winnings in my pocket. That was about a week’s pay and a lot of money for a working boy around here.
I could see that the kid was getting edgy, but I wasn’t going to give him any slack. He called his ball, bent over, and positioned his cue. Only he positioned a little sloppy, and touched the cue ball with the tip of his stick. The punk must have thought I was a pigeon or something, and went on as if he didn’t scratch. I don’t like cheaters, especially the ones who think I’m a sucker.
I grabbed his cue before he followed through and spat out, “You touched the cue ball kid. You ain’t playing with a blind man.”
He pulled the cue out of my hand and said, “You’re crazy turkey. You better see an eye doctor.” I grabbed his thin frame by his shirt, picked him off the floor, and threw him against the wall. The punk was burnt up now. I saw his hand dig into his pocket and come out with something shiny. I didn’t recognize what it was until the click sounded. A six-inch piece of cold, clean steel whipped out. The punk was cursing me up and down, and was threatening to cut me if I didn’t give him his money back. What a sore loser!
Nobody gets tough with Mike Murdock, and walks away without bruises.
The runt with the knife looked like he was gonna take a fit when I spit on his puny, stupid face. He came at me with his blade, slashed, and looked pleased with what he did. The rat succeeded in slicing the sleeve of my blue blazer from the elbow to wrist’ and managed to get a little of my hand.
I looked down at my paw…BLOOD. I get real mad when I see my own blood. It’s times like these that earned me the nickname “MADDOG.”
