Fatboy and the Nineball -4- Sugar Day

Deputy Dan Weathers, the Oklahoma Mud Man, took his big hat off his face and glared at the Multi-Band Communication Console set into the dash of his cruiser. Most people would call it a police radio, but it was much more, including the capabilities of a computer terminal and a cellphone in its repertoire.

Dan had been dozing in the heat of the afternoon after the teenagers had all retired to some sort of party on the other side of the lake. Of course, he'd left the radio function running, just as he would have with one of the old-fashioned police rigs he had broken in using when he and Fatboy had been Military Police in the Philippines, Germany and Iraq.

And he'd heard his callsign, even half asleep. It was a facility all good cops developed.

He pressed the button for two-way and said, "Niner-Three-Baker, Dispatch, you have messages for me?" They did, indeed. Dan read the transcripts on the screen while listening to the audio at the same time.

"93B, see the woman, State Line Casino, trespassers on motorcycles."

"Uh, huh," said Dan, "Maylene."

"Weathers, report from Sheriff Hy Mitchell in OK that we got a motorcycle gang headed our way, may be those folks with the flaming toilet seat insignia from New Mexico or wherever. Keep your eyes peeled."

"Uh, huh," said Dan. That voice had been Deputy Dan's supervisor, Lieutenant Carl Blasingame, in De Queen. He keyed the two-way again to record a response. "10-4, Loot." 

A different voice broke in, a woman's voice. "Dan? Danny? I never know if this is working. It's Sugar, Dan. I'm stranded, the old bus broke down on the way back from Van Schmidt's place on County Road 13. Come pick me up? I don't know where the fuck I am exactly...." Sugar trailed off into muttering.

"Damn," said Dan. Highway 13 was ten miles on the far side of De Queen from the Oak Grove Campground where he had parked to watch the kids play in the water, and even further from Maylene's State Line Casino and a possible renegade biker gang.

Pamela "Sugar" Day was a paralegal and notary operating out of De Queen to take legal papers for signatures to shut-ins all over the county. She drove an old Dodge van because she sometimes needed to give someone in a wheelchair a ride, but the county did not maintain the piece of junk worth a damn. Sugar was also twenty-six years old, blonde, with the sort of plush body that Dan liked to hold next to him and had been his steady girlfriend for two years.

He pulled out his personal cell phone and tried to call Sugar on that, but she must not have regular cell reception where she was at. Some of the little hollers in southwest Arkansas were still back in the previous century, technology-wise. He'd have to try to talk to her on the MBCC, a device that always seemed to frustrate Sugar. The version in the non-police county vehicles was much simpler but still had some bewildering options.

No help for it, though, he'd have to go check out the State Line Casino, now that Maylene had called it in to Dispatch, too. Besides, there had been enough time for Fatboy to make a mess of things if it were at all possible. And knowing Fatboy, it surely was. With any luck, the bikers would already have killed the fat braggart and saved Dan the trouble.

He took the handset from the MBCC and prepared to try to negotiate communications with his technophobic blonde main squeeze.

###

The thing is, sixball looks like nineball but isn't. The strategy is different, the breaks are wider, and the shot choice is critical. Having the loser of the nineball round shoot first in sixball and the winner of sixball shoot first in the next nineball was an unconscionable advantage to Fatboy who might have been the best sixball player on the planet, and surely in the top two or three hundred at nineball.

Fatboy could do the stunt of sinking all six balls on the break three times out of ten. It was a demoralizing thing to see. 

Fatboy won the second nineball round, and Sharky went first at sixball. Having seen Fatboy's trick shot, Sharky had to try it. He scratched, the white ball going into a corner pocket, so Fatboy sank the rest of the six and then all nine and Sharky was looking at a fresh rack of six again.

By the fourth round, quarters were getting scarce, and Fatboy sent Shadow behind the bar to retrieve a jar of coins painted with red fingernail polish the color of blood. The company that serviced the pool tables would return the painted coins without counting them. "House will pay for all the drops, now," said Fatboy, and Sharky murmured his thanks.

Pretty soon, Fatboy was up seven rounds of nineball to Sharky's one, the first one. Neither of the smaller tables had a game going; everyone wanted to watch the nineball showdown. No one had said a word except for a "Sumbitch," now and then from Del or Sharky, and a few giggles from the punks' table. Sharky glared at them, and Woody made a cut motion to tell them to knock it off.

Fatboy grinned as he racked the six striped balls again. "Pool is thirsty work, iddenit?" he said, sounding friendly. "I bought the first two rounds. You gennemen pay for another?"

Woody nodded, and Del put two twenties on the counter while the punks fetched and opened eleven more beers. Slutch hadn't come back, so he missed out.

Sharky scratched again, leaving the money ball on the table. Fatboy swallowed half his beer in one long pull, sank the fifteen, then put coins in to drop the balls again and let Sharky set the rack. The Shithouse Bugs all looked a little long-faced, and that kind of tickled Fatboy.

He finished the rest of his beer, his fifth of the afternoon, blew a hollow note across the top and began to sing, thumping his cue on the floor to keep a rhythm. Five beers in two hours was nothing to a man of Fatboy's size and experience, but he felt good and wanted to enjoy himself. The song was a chant, really, a sort of hillbilly rap.

Jo-ab was King David's General Mean,
He put a hurt on all things Philistine,
I'm Jo-ab Ficks. They call me Fatboy,
Winnin's my bidness, and Nineball's my joy.

Fatboy made up the words as he went along, keeping the rhythm with his shots. He almost danced around the table, bumping the punks out of his way with his bulk.

Don't stand in my way, don't hinder my stride,
I'll leave a winder in you, three feet wide.
Don't call my name 'less you want me to come
Call me three times, I'll beat you like a drum.

He racked the six for Sharky, still singing, making the balls click together. 

I'm Fatboy Ficks, Son of the Ouachita,
I don't cheat, and I don't hardly brag at all,
Take your best shot. You only get one,
'Cause when I shoot, the game is done.

Sharky waited for Fatboy to finish the verse, but the man with the hammerhead tattoo still couldn't resist the trick shot and scratched again, the cueball leaving the felt and causing Del to jump to the side. Woody caught the ball on the bounce; it made a pong! sound on the cement floor.

Fatboy caught the cueball tossed by the FSB leader, stepped up to the table and ran the six with only three shots, dancing in place and singing. He was too excited to want to risk his trick shot when he didn't need it for intimidation anymore. 

He had a pleasant baritone, but the Bugs did not seem to be enjoying the song.

Don't think you can beet me in my own pool hall,
That stick's too heavy for you to carrot,
I'll turnip your spade, I'll bust your watermelon!
I'll strip you nekkit, I'll make you crawl,
I'll sell you a handbasket to go to hell in!
Your ass is marked paid. I hope you can bare it!

He ended that verse with a Curly shuffle, a pirouette and a loud "Woo!" For a big man, he was light on his feet, and he liked to dance. He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, crossed his eyes, held the pool cue above his head and twirled it like a baton. He roared with laughter and stomped his feet.

Del and Woody exchanged glances as if all the world had turned sour. Fatboy paid for the drop with three more quarters from the painted stash and racked the nine himself, singing as he worked and keeping the rhythm with heel stomps and toe taps.

I know all the angles, I know all the tricks,
I'm the Hillbilly Theseus, Fatboy Ficks.
Don't ride my woman, don't kiss my horse,
Don't drink my beer 'less you pay, of course.

He flashed them all a shit-eatin' grin and ran the table for the ninth time. He never saw Woody's nod or Del coming up behind him with a reversed pool cue.