Slick was wearing a red-and-blue polka-dotted polyester shirt with long, pointed collars that had been fashionable around the time that disco died—about the same time that Slick had stopped brushing his teeth, Robert guessed. Slick wore a perpetual brown and broken grin, a grin that was burned into the memories of countless tourists who had strayed into the Slug to be fleeced at the end of Slick’s intrepid cue.

The stranger reared back and broke. His stick made the sickly vibrato sound of a miscue. The cue ball rocketed down the table, barely grazing the rack, then bounced off two corner rails and made a beeline toward the corner pocket where the stranger stood.

“Sorry, brother,” Slick said, chalking his cue and preparing to shoot the scratch.

When it reached the corner pocket, the cue ball stopped dead on the lip. Almost as an afterthought, one of the solid balls moved out of the pack and fell into the opposite corner with a plop.

“Damn,” Slick said. “That was some pretty fancy English. I thought you’d scratched for sure.”

“Was that a solid?” the stranger asked.

Mavis leaned over the bar and whispered to Robert. “Did you see that ball stop? It should have been a scratch.”

“Maybe there’s a piece of chalk on the table that stopped it,” Robert speculated.

The stranger made two more balls in an unremarkable fashion, then called a straight-in shot on the three ball. When he shot, the cue ball curved off his stick, describing a C-shaped curve, and sunk the six ball in the opposite corner.

“I said the three ball!” the stranger shouted.

“I know you did,” Slick said. “Looks like you were a little heavy on the English. My shot.”

The stranger seemed to be angry at someone, but it wasn’t Slick. “How can you confuse the six with the three, you idiot?”

“You got me,” said Slick. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, pard. You’re up one game already.”

Slick ran four balls, then missed a shot that was so obvious it made Robert wince. Slick’s hustles were usually more subtle.

“Five in the side!” the stranger shouted. “Got that? Five!”

“I got it,” Slick said. “And all these folks got it along with half the people out in the street. You don’t need to yell, pard. This is just a friendly game.”

The stranger bent over the table and shot. The five ball careened off the cue ball, headed for the rail, then changed its path and curved into the side pocket. Robert was amazed, as were all the observers. It was an impossible shot, yet they all had seen it.

“Damn,” Slick said to no one in particular, then to Mavis, “Mavis, when was the last time you leveled this table?”

“Yesterday, Slick.”

“Well, it sure as shit went catywumpus fast. Give me my cue, Mavis.”