“Oh shit.”
The partner kicked the floor with his heel, then punished the cue stick with a hard slap of his hand. He was finished, the game was decided. He reached into his jeans pocket, brought up what was probably the last bill he had (it was a Lincoln), and tossed it toward the table where it floated to a soft landing next to the cue ball. Hoss grinned and watched as the money drifted down.
“Aw, come on, boy. At least finish the game.”
But his opponent had already racked his cue stick and was loping, hunched and small, toward the door. Hoss shrugged and laid his cigar on the edge of the pool table. He began, as methodically as an assassin, to sink the remaining balls. Beckman remained, matching the final exhibition of skill, acknowledging with a nod the successful completion of diffic
