Using free stuff: an excerpt from a novel MS

I wrote a short piece the other day about Cindyisms. A few minutes ago I remembered that I had used one of them in a novel that is in-progress. This work is unedited and raw, so I'm not sure this even works well, but I thought I'd share it. Here's one of the book's opening scenes:

I was working the corner pool table in a Texas bar about an hour east of San Antonio, hustling this burly guy who thought he was a hot stick. Typical Texas saloon scene: wobbly mix and match wooden chairs, grimy floors, dim lighting highlighted by neon beer signs, car tags nailed on the wall from places as far away as Alaska and Maine. A juke box filled with an odd assortment of bands and musicians linked only by Texas roots--from Bob Wills to ZZ Top.

I ran the five through the nine ball and stood there leaning on my stick waiting for burly boy to fork over a hundred bucks. He took out a wad of money, but didn’t hand it over. Instead, he said, “Hey Shithead, if you want this money all you got to do is come over here and take it.”

He laughed and waved the clenched fist full of bills under my nose as he leaned across the pool table, close enough for his whiskey and cigarette breath to choke me like a dust cloud. As if he’d won the game, he tilted his head back, shook his long, greasy red hair out of his face and started draining a full Lone Star Beer.

That’s one of the things about hustling pool. If you want to find the money, you have to be willing to live with a few difficulties in collecting a bet now and again. Every town big and small that I’ve ever been through has at least one place to find a game, but sometimes the guys who hang there are accustomed to treating outsiders like, well, outsiders. And Texas seems to have more of these little bars and pool halls than most. What I’d found was that winning was the easy part; getting your money and your ass out the door in one piece was another issue.

I glanced over to make sure the back door was unlocked while I thought what to do to get the hundred bucks I’d won in a fair game. When the butt of my pool cue landed square on the back of his thick hand, the longneck bottle exploded in his face like a glass grenade. As I hoped, his other hand released the five twenties. The bills floated gently onto the table, covering glass shrapnel, foam and blood. That was the first step.

On one of my dad’s few sober days during my teens, he’d taught me something that had saved my ass more than a few times. “I don’t want you fighting,” he’d told me. “There’s no shame in walking away. But if you ever see a time it can’t be avoided, forget all that macho fair fight crap. If you have to fight, get in the first punch and make it a good one.” His voice had trailed off and his eyes got a faraway look in them, as he finished by whispering, “That’ll win most fights.”

This was one of those times a fair fight wasn’t an option, and my first lick was one Dad would’ve approved of. Burly Boy wouldn’t be swinging at me with that hand, or even taking a piss with it, for a long time. When he bent over screaming and put the bloody hand between his knees, I brought the cue down on the back of his thick neck. Not hard enough to kill him, but hard enough to even the two-on-one fight a little. All that time I spent lifting weights hadn’t been wasted after all. He slumped to the wood floor, sounding like a sack of potatoes dumped in the kitchen corner, then rolled onto his side and was still. I swept up the twenties and stuffed them into my pocket as I spun around swinging my cue at whoever might be there.

I almost waited too long. His buddy was already taking a homerun swing at my head with his own cue. I ducked and turned my head sideways, a little late. He didn’t crush my skull in, but I felt the blood gush down over my ear as he opened a seam in my scalp. As I dropped to my knees, I managed to swing my stick toward his right kneecap. I didn’t have the strength for a hard lick, but it made contact and slowed him down enough so the kick meant for my ribs just shoved me a little. I rolled under the pool table and came up on the other side next to Burly Boy, the stale beer and wet dog smell of the grubby floor filling my nostrils.

My ears were ringing as I scanned the back of the room for anything that might be between me and the exit. Blood filled my left ear. This was a fight I couldn’t win, first lick or not. These two didn’t scare me so much, but the guys in sleeveless blue jean shirts on a row of wobby wooden stools at the bar had all turned around and stopped laughing. Not a good sign I thought.

My homerun hitter was one of those skinny guys made of tanned leather cut at odd angles. On each of his huge forearms that seemed out of place on his thin body he had a rattlesnake tattoo, mouth open and venom dripping from their fangs to the back of each hand. As he limped around the pool table, he paused for a second and broke the pool cue over his knee. I guess the knee didn’t hurt that much after all. He clutched the two sharp stakes that could skewer a pig.

From the shadow in the corner beside the juke box, a crew-cut, white-haired man in a dark suit stepped up ghost-like, grabbed the 8-ball from a side pocket and slammed it against Rattlesnake Man’s forehead. The Suit pushed me toward the back door, not even looking back to be sure the guy was down.

Snake Man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he dropped forward face first. His teeth skittered across the floor like bloody dice. Before I could even react we were out the side door and headed to a black Crowne Vic, where the Suit commanded me to get in.

Clearly, he was not just some old guy in his Sunday best. Gray hair or not, his grip on my arm was a vise. I didn’t feel like arguing with someone who just saved me from an ass whipping or worse, so I got in. As my friend Cindy always said, never kick a gift horse in the mouth.

When I looked back, four or five guys were streaming out the door. They didn’t look like they were just out to stretch their legs.