A Game of Pool
Steve Crow
"Damn, I wish there was a challenge in this here town."
Buster Madison learned back against the billiard table, leaning on his cue. The newly-opened
Side Pocket Billiard Hall was open this time of day, but dark and quiet nonetheless. Buster
wasn't sure who had had the bright idea to open up such a place. No doubt it generated a little
bit of income for somebody or another. But there had been at least three bartenders through here
in the last two weeks. Even Billy No-Neck had been working here briefly.
Billy was an okay kinda fella, as far as Buster was concerned. He had acquired a new respect for
the man after he had stepped in to a fight that Buster had found himself in over at the LAD
Saloon. He kinda missed the Negro's comforting presence here, but had to admit he hadn't
found it necessary.
And that was why Buster was bored. There wasn't any kind of challenge here. Most of
Gomorra's gamblers preferred cards to billiards. And while Buster had his own special...gift
with cards, he had never taken to poker the way a fellow like Whitmore had. When it came
to facing down across a poker table, Buster was way out of his league with folks like Whitmore
and Casparo.
Problem was, there weren't any other good billiard players in town. The few that played the
game of billiards at all had either lost all their money to Madison, or learned quick enough that
they were no match for his skill with a cue.
A few of them occasionally sought Buster out for a game, but only to hone their skill, and with
the stakes no higher than a drink. That left the occasional itinerant for Madison to play. But
very few of that type made their way to Gomorra these days. The town's reputation tended to
discourage all but the hardiest miners. Where there was ghost rock, there was always miners.
But they lacked the keenness of eye and steadiness of hand that Buster wanted...no, needed in an
opponent.
As for Buster's other skills...he had found them in small demand. One of the local ministers,
Elijah, had approached him about lending his services to the Flock. The man's eyes had pierced
Buster's soul, and Buster hadn't bothered to maintain the pretense that the Prophet was talking
about his skills at the table.
But the man was a lunatic, sure enough, and his 'Flock' on a course for Hell. Buster had
declined the offer. Fortunately, Elijah had accepted the refusal with good grace...well, a bare
amount of civility. Madison had heard worse cursing and swearing, but never put so...Biblically.
There was the Whateleys, but there was some gambles Buster wouldn't take no matter what. He
and Bobo LeVeux, a man with a small skill in the game, had shared a few games and drinks with
him, and they had exchanged notes on the huckster trade. But Buster had no interest in signing
on with the Rangers, either.
Now, however, he was tempted to reconsider Bobo's offer. No game, no challenge.
"Perhaps I might offer you a challenge?"
Buster turned at the voice which had interrupted his thoughts as if reading them. A man stood
behind him. A huge figure of a man, bulky but marginally not fat, dressed in well-tailored Back-East clothing that took off twenty pounds. The newcomer had a cue case tucked underneath his
left arm.
Madison frowned. The Billiard Hall was quiet, and he had not heard the man enter. It wouldn't
be the first large man he had met who could move quietly. However, Buster considered himself
perceptive. He could hear the click of a busted bank shot from across a saloon, and home in on it
like a shark. Buster couldn't even hear the man breathe. Almost as if the newcomer was a...
Stop thinkin' like that! Some thoughts ain't wise to consider in Gomorra.
The man appeared solid enough. He remained absolutely quiet, considering Buster as Buster was
considering him. His eyes were a steely grey, and Madison hadn't seen their like since Elijah
had paid him a visit. They could see into a man's very soul.
Buster shrugged. There wasn't much to see in his soul. He was a man of few vices, which he
suspected is why Elijah had accepted his refusal. No seven sins for him.
The newcomer seemed satisfied with whatever he saw, though. He extended his free hand,
which Buster shook. Despite the heat outside, the man's hand was cold, clammy.
"I am a newcomer to town, and looking for a game." Buster was impressed with the man's
diction. It was precise, educated. Educated men made the best billiard players, as Buster himself
was testimony to. You could go a long way with sheer dexterity and intuition, but if you had all
that and could do the angles in your head, you'd always come out ahead. Buster had all three.
Buster cocked one leg up on the table. "You planning on staying in Gomorra long?"
"I am here on...special assignment, Mr. Madison. I will not be staying long."
"You know my name?"
The man nodded once. "Your reputation proceeds you, my good sir. I have heard you were in
need of a challenge?"
Buster frowned. Whatever his dissatisfaction, he had never expressed it out loud, not even to
Bobo. He wasn't sure where this man had "heard" of his need for a challenge, and was pretty
sure he didn't want to know. Knowledge of the unspoken was no longer a surprise in Gomorra.
"And speaking of names...what's yours? Perhaps I've 'heard' about you."
The man placed his case on the table, opened it, and withdrew the two pieces of the cue stick.
Despite himself, Buster whistled. The stick was carved from ivory, and a piece of art. In fact, he
had only ever heard of one such cue stick.
"Your name wouldn't happen to be...Brown, would it?"
The man looked up from assembling his cue stick. "Why, yes. You have heard of me?"
"I thought you had died ten years ago, in a shootout in St. Louis. A sore loser. Or so rumor has
it."
"Rumor has a way of being wrong. Here I am. Ready for a game."
Buster tipped his hat back. "'Fats' Brown. The greatest billiard player who ever lived."
"Yes," Brown responded, with no hint of modesty. For him, it was a simple statement of fact.
Buster had always wondered how good Brown actually was. It was said the man lived with his
cue stick, ate with his cue stick, slept with his cue stick. That he had devoted 18 hours a day to
the practice of the game.
Brown completed his assembly, then nodded to the table. "If you would care to rack them up?"
"Why?"
"'Why?' I thought you wanted a challenge, Mr. Madison. I am here to offer you one. Do you
need to know anything more than that?"
"If you know I want a challenge, then you know the stakes have to be high. What are you
offerin'?"
"Only the highest stakes, Mr. Madison. Life or death."
"Those stakes seem to be popular in Gomorra these days."
"Indeed, which is in part why I am here. You play me, you win, you live. Forever."
"And if I lose? You kill me? Here and now? The local sheriff might take a dim view of that."
"This is between you and I. Perhaps I will kill you. And perhaps you will simply die in
ignominy. A third-rater. Never able to stand up to a real challenge. Unwilling to take on 'the
best'."
Brown leaned forward, looking into Buster's eyes. Madison thought he saw a hint of red
somewhere in their depths. "Don't you think I know how you feel? Night after night. Nothing
to challenge you. You need me, Buster Madison. Without me, you're nothing. You'll always
wonder if you are the best."
"I am offering you that chance. Here and now."
Transfixed, Buster stared into Brown's eyes. Then he whipped his cue stick between Brown and
himself. The spell broken, Buster shook his head as Brown stepped back.
"I'm afraid I'll have to pass, Mr. Brown."
The newcomer chuckled. "No guts? A big talker, but no spirit for a real game?"
Buster shrugged. "Maybe." He turned back to the billiard table and began to rack the balls.
"And maybe I'm satisfied with where I am in life. And maybe, maybe you're not 'Fats' Brown.
Maybe you're a demon, spawned in Hell and sent to Gomorra. Or maybe you're his ghost,
looking to exchange me for himself, so that I walk the earth having to challenge any young turk
with a cue stick and a chip on their shoulder."
Buster completed the rack, placing the last ball dead center. He turned, but 'Fats' was gone, as if
he had never existed.
"And maybe," Madison said to the empty air, "Just maybe, a man should be careful what he
wishes for in Gomorra."
(This story devoted to the memory of Red Serling, 1924-75.)
© Stephen Crow, 1999