A Game at Dooley's

A Game at Dooley's - David E. Malone - June 02, 2006

It was a warm, muggy summer's day in the poolroom. The sounds were muted... a background hum of quiet conversation augmented by the buzz of the cicadas through an open window and the sharp click of the balls. It was uncomfortably warm and close but no-one thought to complain. That's the way it always was in the summer at Dooley's.

Built, as it was, before the luxury of air-conditioning, the old pool-room had stood the test of time and needed no newfangled cooling machinery to disturb its velvet hush. It smelled, as it rightly should, of stale beer and the sharp reek of cigar smoke still lingered in the air despite the no-smoking ban in effect for the last five years. It was as if the stench had been absorbed into the very walls and furnishings of the old room. The pictures on the walls were as old as the pool-room or older... legendary players like Mosconi, Crane, Greenleaf... and the obligatory picture of W.C. Fields with his crooked cue and the one of the pool-playing dogs. The old polished beech floors shone dimly in the table lights and nothing jarred the mesmerizing and hypnotic pace of the regulars and their animated wagering and their niggling match-ups except the occasional rifle-like crack of a break shot. It had always been that way and likely would stay that way. It was their cocoon, their home away from home, and for the hustlers, their place of work.

There was a strict hierarchy in the room that had stood the test of time. The oldies were allowed their snooker table at the back where they could gum the odd chicken-salad sandwich and slurp their beer and generally chat amongst themselves about how good they used to be and how the new generation didn't know their ass from their elbows and how badly they'd be outplayed if it was only twenty years ago. The next group were the local heroes, the current crop of real players, the aristocracy of the room. They were cocky and confident and represented the only significant jellybeans that changed hands every day. And finally there was the rest, the assorted crowd of rookies, bums, yuppies, smart-ass kids, and pool wannabee's who paid their table money just to be looked down on by everybody else.

Everything was in its place and everybody knew their place. That's what made it Dooley's.
But on one particular day something changed. At first it was negligible, undefinable... then Nate the barman began to feel a slight chill in the warm air at one end of the room. He shivered and looked around but there was nothing there and the next time he passed by, it was gone. A draft maybe or a tiny glitch in the space-time continuum... nothing to fret about. Indeed, he forgot all about it.

A couple of days later he felt it again and this time called Billy Sturm over to see if he could feel it too. Billy nodded wordlessly as the hairs on the nape of his neck stood up and there was a shiver making its way down his spine. Something was definitely there... and then it was gone again. The two men looked at each other and shook their heads, but decided to say nothing. It was only an atmospheric disturbance of some sort and it wasn't worth making a fuss about.

A week later the calm was disturbed again, this time by the entrance of an odd looking man dressed all in black. It would have been hard to define what was strange about him but everyone looked up when he walked in, and then looked away nervously. Despite his handsome, aquiline features, there was something dark in his presence, an air, an aura, perhaps a foreboding. And in the heat of the day he was wearing a long, black-linen coat. Nate was quick to approach him. He wanted no trouble and he got paid to be the bouncer as well as the bartender. But the stranger simply nodded amicably and asked for a free table to, as he said in his low rasping voice, work out some of the bugs in his stroke.

"Well, sure, stranger...", said Nate. "Nice to see some new blood in this poolroom. Where are you from?"

His eyebrow raised quizzically, but all he said was... "Out of town..."

"Talkative son-of-a-gun ain't yer..." said Nat, laughing, but he respected the man's wish for privacy and gave him a set of old Centennials and pointed towards the Gold Crown in the far corner.

"No-one'll bother you there..." he said.

"I only wish that was so..." said the stranger grimly. It was as if Nat had touched a raw nerve or opened an old wound of some sort.

"No-one will bother you." Nat repeated firmly. "The locals are all good lads and they respect a man who wants to keep to his self."

The stranger nodded again, took the proffered ball tray and strode over to the table. He carried an ancient Brunswick cue-case over his right shoulder that they hadn't noticed because it was also black and blended in well with the rest of his drab attire. He took his time removing the coat and hung it carefully on the hook on the wall. Tall and thin and clad in an old black suit that was worn and threadbare, the stranger looked as if he had been transported ahead in time from the eighteenth century. It appeared he was totally unaware of his surroundings and focussed only on removing the cue from his case and screwing it together. The cue was nothing out of the ordinary - looked like a very ancient Palmer or perhaps a Brunswick - but it was well used and the width of the tip was worn down from constant use. He didn't spill the balls on the table, but methodically plucked them out of the tray, one-by-one, and placed them in the rack. Then with a practiced flick of the wrists, he racked all fifteen balls and strode around the table to break them up.

Nate kept one eye on the table and noticed that the stranger didn't seem to miss... ever. Playing straight pool, the cue ball looked like it was on a string and he never seemed to get out of position, never got trapped behind a ball, and never missed a pot. It all looked rather simple and easy to the untrained eye.

When Denny, the local straight pool hotshot wandered over to get a drink, he nodded in the general direction of the stranger and asked, "Is he any good...?"

"Too good for you, laddy..." replied Nate with a sour grin. "He hasn't missed a ball in forty-five minutes."

That's when things started to get really strange. Nate sensed rather than felt something over his left shoulder, where the chill had been the prior week, and turned sharply to see what it was. This time he could vaguely see something there besides the cold air. He couldn't make out what it was - it was a shimmering in the air, a sort of disturbance like a ripple on the water where it had been disturbed by a stone or a fish surfacing - and as he watched open mouthed, the shimmering began to intensify and take the form of what could only be described as an apparition of some kind.

"I'm going mad..." he thought, " I must be seeing things." and turned his head slightly to see if anyone else had noticed.

They had... half the players in the room were standing transfixed as they watched this thing and more were looking up as they saw their playing partners frozen in place. The shimmering deepened and the room vibrated with a tremor far below the hearing point of men. It was something they could only feel instead of hear. Gradually the apparition solidified and it became apparent that it was a man... of sorts. Dressed in a long black robe with a hood, there was no discernible face, just an impenetrable dark shadow where the face should have been and the long drapes of the robe hid any hands or feet. A huge intake of breath filled the room as the players fear became tangible now that the specter had revealed itself.

And then it began to move... slowly at first... and then with firm purpose towards the stranger's table. A quick glance showed that the stranger hadn't moved or even looked up. Indeed he continued with his methodical play. There was a scuffling and a desperate attempt by the locals to get out of the way, some of them crashing into tables or falling over themselves as they backed away. But the apparition seemed to be fixed on the stranger only and moved inexorably towards his table until he stood mere inches away. Oddly, although none of them had seen it before, it became apparent that the specter's long bone-like fingers clutched a jet-black cue.

"You came then...?" said the stranger, not looking up. It was not so much a question as an affirmation of fact.

"Do I not always come...? replied the apparition gently.

"I do not welcome thee."

"Your welcome is not needed... I ask only for your cooperation."

This last was flatly said, but the words exchanged seemed as a time-worn ritual and not common conversation. The two had met before and under similar circumstances it seemed. The specter lifted one bony hand towards the table surface and then slammed it down on one of the remaining balls.

"I have little time to waste. Let the game begin..." he said.

They lagged to see who would take command of the break and it seems the apparition won, although both lags were impeccably tight to the rail and an obvious advantage was not apparent to the poolroom onlookers. The stranger racked calmly and sat down. He looked straight ahead blankly and never looked directly at the menacing presence of the other. The soft initial break ball barely moved the pack and so the stranger stood up and did the same. It seemed this exchange of fine safeties would go on forever but eventually the specter must have seen a combination that worked, for he indicated a ball and pointed to the top-left corner pocket. His shot slammed into the pack... and the nominated ball slid smoothly into the called pocket. Now that the table was more open, he settled down and started scoring at will, picking off the loose balls at the edges of the pack. And each shot seemed to free up another ball, and another, until there was but one remaining. The stranger got up wearily and racked the sunk balls again. With his next shot the apparition sank the remaining ball and sharply broke up the pack. The next rack was a mirror image of the first and so he continued. Rack upon rack. His skills were at least the equal of the stranger's and one ball followed the other, the smooth continuity of the remarkable string broken only by the re-racking of the balls.

Now that it seemed the apparition was not immediately threatening, the regulars crowded around the game, getting as close as they dared - which was still no closer than the next table. Nobody had left. As the points accumulated, the table markers appeared to move by themselves and the totals changed. It was an uncanny sight as day turned into night and still they continued. Although they rarely missed, they were far from perfect and each had his share of turns at the table as the scores neared one thousand. Suddenly the specter stood upright and slowly lifted one hand in silent victory.

The match was over and it seemed the stranger had lost... shrugging his shoulders, he stood and said cryptically and to no-one in particular...

"I am sorry... sometimes I win."

The specter hadn't moved and stood still as stone while the stranger packed his cue and then walked out looking straight ahead. He hadn't paid for the table time and Nate weakly raised a hand in protest but let it fall again as he recalled the strange events of the evening.

As the door closed behind the stranger, the apparition also moved towards the end of the bar where he had first appeared. But this time he stopped along the way and turned to face old Billy Sturm who, like his mates, was rooted to the spot with fear. He lifted one skeleton-like hand and lightly tapped him on one shoulder before continuing and Billy's knees buckled slightly at his touch. As he reached the bar, the apparition started to fade and by the time he reached the other end there was once again just a shimmering... a slight disturbance... and then nothing.

After he left the bar that night, they never saw Billy again. Some said he was so terrified from looking into the blank, infinite face of the apparition that he lost his mind and wandered off. Some say he was plucked from this mundane existence by the other-worldly specter and taken who-knows-where. The words death and even the devil were nervously bandied about, but not at night... only in broad daylight, and then only in low voices as if they might be overheard by some unseen listener.

And Dooley's went back to being Dooley's, as it had always been, and as it would always be.

But from that time onwards, there was a noticeable difference in the locals, a wariness that wasn't there before. Whenever the door opened now a hush was created and subsequently you would hear the sound of a collective relief that was palpable to the senses as each newcomer was recognized. And old Billy's chair sat empty and unused because no-one dared to sit in it ever again.