Galahad

Smelling like bacon grease and sulphur from his heavy red conk, eyes hidden behind jade-green shades, he carried his pool cue with him wherever he went. They called him Galahad, and he was, according to his own estimation, the bad-dest pool shark in the universe. Just about every night, he'd be sauntering through the peeling blue door of the Pink Lady pool hall, unmistakably announcing his arrival, nodding and smiling at everybody. "'S'hap'n', Shotgun? Hey, now, T.J.! Wass goin' on, Johnson?" He was a wizard of rap. Once involved in a game, he generated a rhythmic torrent of jive, letting the entire pool hall know that he was, "without a doubt, I say check me out, the man of the hour, the man with the mean shot, the man with the clean shot, hey, look out, don't let me get hot!" The only one who could cool him out was Big Mike, an old-time hustler who had played the bigmoney circuit back in the Fifties.

"Galahad, you ain't never gonna make it playin' in them big tournaments, 'cause you cain't keep yo' damn mouth shet long enough to eat a sammitch. How you gonna play one of those fo'-and-five-day tournaments? You'd starve to death. Besides which, them white pool players you always says you can beat--like Lassiter and Weenie Beenie--sheeit, them gray boys don't say more 'n two, three words a whole tournament. The fus' time you run a (continued on page 148)Galahad(continued from page 95) rack, runnin' yo' mouth like a washin' machine, fella like Lassiter'd pack up his cue and go home."

Galahad hung his head like a whipped dog and lightly stroked his razor-thin mustache. "You right, Big Mike. 'S'bout time I stopped actin' so loud and nigger-ish. From now on, only thing you gonna hear me say is rack an' put yo' money down." But the very next minute, he shouted his own magnificence, dropping a tight rail shot on a three-cushion bank. He fell against the wall, slapping his forehead in mock disbelief. "Good Gawd, I don't believe that! Did you see that shot? I seen Cisero Murphy blow that same shot twice, an' here I is, a po' nigger makin' the damn thing wif my eyes closed! Somebody give me some skin!"

But whatever his faults, Galahad was a hero befitting his name. For years, he had lived in a four-room apartment with his mother, younger brother, older sister, an aunt and his sister's five illegitimate children. His sister was a prostitute, plying her trade to middle-class blacks and whites, and although Galahad never liked her selling herself, he hadn't tried to stop it. He had only insisted she never work for a pimp. He hated pimps. A pimp had once beaten up his sister and Galahad caught him outside a liquor store and nearly stabbed him to death, and from that time on, his sister was a free operator. He had been protective of his sister's prostitute friends as well. Twice, when girls had been hurt severely, he sought out the pimp responsible and brought him to justice, after which the prostitutes called him Galahad, while the pimps, afraid to discipline their girls with more than a hard slap, simply kept out of his way.

Galahad's goal in life was to win enough money at pool to buy his family a house, send his younger brother to college and get his sister off the streets. He knew how much he needed, but he also knew he would never win such a large sum playing in black-neighborhood pool halls. He had to go downtown, where the white hustlers played for big money, and there he would need a stake of at least $500 to get into a game.

"What you needs, son," Big Mike suggested, "is a sponsuh. Somebody who got faith in you. Somebody who will set ovah in the co'nah with a roll in they pocket, tellin' you not to worry 'bout nothin' 'cept shootin' yo' game. You needs a sponsuh like them white boys got."

"Thass true, Big Mike. I do needs me a sponsor. Thass why I keep askin' you to put yo' money where yo' mouth is. You mus' don't think I can shoot."

"Oh, you shoots, all right," laughed Big Mike, tugging his sagging pants over his protruding belly, "but even if I had the dough to bet on yo' green young ass, I wouldn't. Like I tol' you befo', you run yo' mouth too damn much to play them white boys. They'd eat yo' ass up without sayin' two words while you be whoopin' and hollerin' and givin' five to yo'self."

"I don't have to act a fool, Big Mike. It jus' make it mo' fun. But now I'm gonna keep my mouth shut till I finds me a sponsor."

"And how you gonna find him?"

"Gonna sit right here in the Pink Lady and wait. He'll come along. Jus' wait an' see. Ain't gonna be no chickenshit ol' man, neither. Gonna be young and rich. Wait an' see."

•

Stephen Powers didn't feel much like a sponsor when he wandered into the Pink Lady. Half drunk from five beers and half high from two joints, he had popped a Dexedrine Spansule, a Seconal and two aspirins trying to mellow himself out. He walked like he was on a trampoline and Galahad, watching from a distance, pegged the tall, light-brown-skinned boy as a college student out reestablishing ties with his roots. He lost no time checking him out.

"My man, my main man, ain't it a beeootiful evenin' fo' a game of nine ball?"

"I don't play nine ball," Stephen hiccuped, "mostly I play eight ball and bank."

"Well, those ain't my games, so you got the edge. You ain't no hustler, is you?"

Stephen started to say he was a college dropout, which was the truth, but a burs t of Dexedrine shot through him and he suddenly felt like the baddest pool player that ever lived.

"You mean you gotta ask if I'm a hustler?"

"Jus' fo' the record, my friend. I know the only way I can really tell is if I see you play."

"Well, seeing is believing. Let's go."

Galahad won ten times in a row, and between losing bets and paying for games, Stephen had only two quarters left. Addled and weak, he decided to go home, but Galahad followed him out into the street, an arm slung over his shoulder. Galahad guided him to a nearby tavern and, once seated in a dark back booth, quickly learned that Stephen had worked and saved $600 to return to school and finish a degree in black history. With that information, a few drinks and Stephen's disoriented condition, Galahad went directly to the bottom line.

"So, like I say, we needs at least five hundred to get on the table with Moran. He don't play fo' less than that."

"Moran?"

"Sweet Titty Moran--big-time hunky pool hustler--the man we been talkin' 'bout."

"Sweet Titty Moran, Sweet Titty Moran."

"Man, what's wrong whichoo? You best stop takin' whatever you on an' drinkin' that alcohol at the same time. I had a cousin kilt hisself that way."

"How much do you say we need?"

"Five hundred. Like I say befo', after I beat his ass the first game, we be in shape to bet mo'. An' you gets half yo' money back, an' after that, every time I win, you gets half."

"I don't know, Galahad. I don't think I understand what you're getting at."

"Nigger, I'm sittin' here tryin' to make you rich an' I see by yo' expression you worried 'bout losin'. That sho' is a sorry way to sponsor somebody. You suppose to have confidence in yo' boy. You suppose to have faith in yo' bruthuh."

Less than a week later, Stephen, with Big Mike and Galahad, climbed the plush carpeted stairs to the Golden Gate Club Billiard Parlor, feeling the bulk of five crisp $100 bills tucked into his right shoe. His right foot itched every time he thought about it, but he didn't mind. All that week, he had soberly watched Galahad's remarkable game and decided to put up his money. Never had he seen such artistry with a cue stick except on television by players like Minnesota Fats, Cisero Murphy and Weenie Beenie. He had seen Galahad make trick shots that Willie Mosconi had created, executing them as perfectly as the master himself. He was in awe of Galahad's skill, but he had never been in any pool hall other than the black-neighborhood variety, so he was clearly unprepared for the posh scene beyond the Golden Gate's imitation-black-leather-covered door. The place was cavernous. High above cool green tables, glittering chandeliers descended like diamond pendants from an imitation-marble ceiling, where ornately sculpted gods enacted some undetermined drama. Thick burgundy carpeting and black-and-white textured wallpaper absorbed what little sound there was, demanding a quiet, dignified air. Only the sound of clicking balls and an occasional "Rack!" pierced the (continued on page 152)Galahad(continued from page 148) silence. Stephen, Galahad and Big Mike just about tiptoed through the room, not speaking above a whisper, until reaching an empty table by the back wall. Slowly Big Mike shook his head and said to Stephen, "Some of these cats here as good as you'll find--almost as good as me an' maybe this young turkey."

"Jive ol' mothafuckah," Galahad sneered, "you know got damn well cain't a one of these white boys outplay me, includin' Sweet Titty. An' as fo' puttin' yo'self in a class wif me, that jus' tells me you gettin' senile faster in yo' brain than you is in yo' hands."

"C'mon, Stephen," Big Mike said, "let's go sign up this table while supernigger here try to figure out which end of his cue stick you hits the ball with. Let's go sign up Mistuh Champeen."

As they walked across the room, Stephen noticed that almost everybody was wearing either tasteful sports jackets or tailored suits. Self-consciously, he turned and peered back at Galahad, laid to the bone in a bright-green silk shirt, purple double-pleated bell-bottoms, yellow suspenders and a white panama hat. Then the club manager's crass, bellowing voice cut him like a razor.

"And just whadda you guys want?"

A squat, bulbous-faced Italian leaned forward on a high stool and drummed his fingers on a counter not ten feet away. His dull black eyes darted back and forth at Stephen, Big Mike and across the room at Galahad.

"We'd like a table," Stephen answered politely.

"You'd like a table?" The Italian smiled slowly and gently scraped his teeth with a toothpick. "OK, boys. Take the one by the wall."

"And we'd like to know when Moran is coming."

"Why?"

"We got business with him."

"You got business with Moran?"

"Right."

"Well, he was here all last night. Cleaned three guys out. Said he was gonna take a nap and come back later. But if your business is ta play him, you gotta wait in line. There's nine or ten real hustlers aheada you."

"Come on, Stephen," Big Mike muttered, turning away from the grinning manager, "let's go."

They took a circuitous route back, quietly studying the competition, and by the time they reached the table, Big Mike had a line on all of them.

"Fella named Dime Sto' up on a front table, got on a blue suit. Cain't shoot no distance. Let him go too far down from his shot and he jus' be shootin' on a hope an' a prayer. I think his eyes is bad. 'Nother fella, redneck from Arkensas name of Osprey, ain't too bad. Nice control, good english. Might be tough. Got a hunky down ovah next to the wall named Johnson. Got a good eye, but he hopped up on somethin'. I can tell. But you see this fella ovah heah in the tan suit? Rack boy say his name is Hans somethin' other. Tell me he got the furs' game with Moran. Shoot a hell of a game. Don't drink, don't smoke. Young boy. Good stamina. He 'bout the only one a these hunkies got a real strong chance."

"From what you say," frowned Galahad, "they too many white hustlers who s'pose to be somebody fo' Moran to pay 'tention to some po'-ass niggers like us. 'Sides, a mothafuckah like Moran don't jus' play fo' money. He play to prove he the best. You think Moran gonna play me befo' he play one a these white boys?"

"Mos' likely won't get 'round to play-in' you till nex' week."

"Thass what I mean. I got to play at leas' one a these sons-a-bitches an' beat his ass good 'fo' Moran get here. That way, he hears 'bout me soon as he come in the joint. Folks be runnin' roun' whisperin' 'bout the bad nigger with the conk ovah in the co'nah, an' he ain't gonna be satisfied till he take me on. Jus' watch. He gonna ask me fo' a game." He chuckled, smiled, then nodded toward the young contender named Hans. "Come on, Big Mike, less go show Stevie here how to pluck a turkey."

From plush gallery chairs, they studied Hans, who either failed to notice them or pretended not to. Tall and thin, his long blond hair, Roman nose and cold blue eyes complimented his bronze tan and white pin-striped suit. He sipped from a glass of orange juice, ordering a fresh one every seven racks. Grinning like a wino after a half pint, Galahad couldn't hold himself back.

"Hey, turkey, how's 'bout a game a nine ball?"

"I don't play nine ball, buddy. Go find somebody else."

Then Galahad was up from his chair and out onto the floor, keeping a respectful distance, rubbing his chin and hooking one thumb in his yellow suspenders. "What's the matter? You prejudice? I didn't mean nothin' by callin' you a turkey. I calls all my friends turkeys." He turned toward the gallery. "Right, turkeys?" Big Mike made gobbling sounds and Stephen stuck his thumbs under his armpits and moved his elbows like wings.

"You guys ought to work up some kind of comedy act," Hans smiled thinly. "You ought to be on The Gong Show."

"Tell you what," Galahad offered, "s'pose we go fifty bucks fo' a game a bank? What you say?"

Quickly, Stephen unlaced his shoe, but Galahad had already produced a crumpled $50 bill and laid it on the table.

"I know you thinks I can't win, but you never know. I might get lucky and beat you. Like you say, I jus' might wind up on TV."

Galahad ran the rack in three minutes, and his defeated foe spoke with vengeance, his blue eyes flashing. "OK, my friend, how about a game of straight pool for that fifty bucks?"

"Why, sho', boss, only why don't we make it a hundred?"

They kept playing and Galahad kept winning. When Hans had lost $500, he stormed out, leaving Galahad to pay for the last game, but by then the Pink Lady's finest was top man in the hall. Sweet Titty (or The Tit, as some called him) arrived soon with two seconds and two outrageously turned-out black prostitutes. Both were tall and dark and contrasted sharply with Moran, who was short, fish-belly white and fat. Dressed in a dark silk suit and light-blue shirt, he padded across the carpeted floor to a choice table by the gallery, his small entourage following. The squat club manager greeted them all with gusto, pumping Moran's hand and all but bowing to his two black women.

"I see that fat dago can smile real nice at niggers when they nigger hoes 'companied by a white man," Big Mike muttered, but the comment went unnoticed by Galahad, who spun around in his seat and stared at his beer, his voice heavy with personal hurt.

"How can them black bitches stand that slimy fat mothafuckah?" He was going to say more, but one of Moran's seconds approached, a gaunt, yellow-eyed guy in a white suit and black tie who smelled like bad cheese.

"Wanna play Moran?"

"My manager does my business."

"How much?" Stephen stammered, trying to sound authoritative.

"A yard a game. Two hundred balls, straight pool."

Stephen was about to suggest they first play one game for $500 or maybe $250, but Galahad quickly mumbled acceptance and Moran's flunky left.

"Less go pluck another turkey," (continued on page 218)Galahad(continued from page 152) Galahad sighed. "We gon' have 'nough feathers to make us one fine-ass mattress."

But Moran was no turkey. He ran 85 balls three shots off the break, while a full gallery looked on, applauding. Sweet Titty was not an ugly man, but the pale light from the chandelier brought out every line in his jowly face, highlighting, in particular, two large hairy moles on his right cheek. He had only a thin wisp of gray hair across his head and two clumpy patches over his ears, so his nude, white pate actually gleamed when he leaned over the table. Heavy dark bags beneath his half-opened eyes and an unconscious habit of letting his lower jaw drop as he concentrated made him look sleepy, almost stupid. He was like somebody under the influence of deep hypnosis, barely lifting his feet as he waddled awkwardly around the table. Watching, Stephen felt sick, convinced his money was gone, unsettled not only by Moran's mathematical precision but by the obviously bad effect the black prostitutes had on Galahad. Every few minutes, Galahad would turn and glare at them, seated directly behind in low-cut dresses, false eyelashes and wigs. They stared back with dead, uninterested eyes, as if he were some helpless animal offered as sacrifice. There was no sign of allegiance there, no clever indication that they really wanted him to win. They were employees of Sweet Titty Moran and their loyalty was steadfast.

"Go on, Titty baby," they called out, "beautiful eye, beautiful eye."

Moran glanced at Galahad almost pityingly, as if to emphasize the hopelessness of his situation; but on the 86th ball, he missed. The prostitutes and the gallery moaned in unison and Galahad spun around furiously in his chair.

"Black bitches! Hoes! Down here with this fat little hunky and he cain't shoot wuf a shit! Keep yo' damn mouths shet! You a disgrace to yo' race!"

Big Mike grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him back, his grizzled black chin stuck up right in Galahad's face. "Now, lissen to me, boy. You been runnin' yo' mouth fo' as long as I known you 'bout how good you is on the pool table. Well, now they two thousand dollahs in this game. Mo' than you seen in yo' nach'l life, an' if you blow it 'cause some black hoes don't root fo' yo' ass like yo' momma would, you ain't got no business down here."

Galahad shrugged him off and walked to the table. He glanced back to see Moran seated between the black women, their dark smooth arms on his shoulders, dusting his suit with long, polished nails. Galahad was visibly rattled, but Moran had left seven balls in decent positions, so he still finished the rack in five minutes. His grace and ease were starting to return, but suddenly he heard one of the prostitutes kiss Moran loudly on the cheek and he looked up, glaring. Moran was pulling the woman close, kissing her on the neck, his round face partially hidden by her long black wig. Big Mike panicked.

"I tol' the nigger to keep his mine on the game!"

Stephen merely groaned.

"Bitch! Stop kissin' on that white man 's if you likes it! You 'bout to make me sick to my stomach!"

The woman ignored him. Mumbling, Galahad turned back to the table. He leaned over the shot, clenching his teeth, his veins standing out on his temples. He jammed the cue so hard the shot went an inch wide of the pocket, bouncing off the cushion and slowly rolling away.

"Sheeit!" Big Mike cried, and Stephen moaned, putting his head in his hands. Moran shuffled out to the table, supported by the mechanical shouts of his cheerleaders.

"Go on, do yo' thing, Sweet Titty. Do it to it, baby!"

"You got it all, honey. Stay in that same groove, baby."

Sweet Titty expanded his lead. Stephen sighed, Galahad mumbled and Big Mike settled his tension with sandwiches and beer, nudging the two others. "Come on, y'all. Less not get so hung up on the drama we cain't eat this white man's free grit." He jammed an elbow into Galahad's side. "'Specially you, since you gonna need yo' strength to run this little humpty dumpty out the joint soon as he miss the next shot."

"Stop pokin' me, nigger. I don' need this man's nasty food. Prob'ly give me indigestion, ruin my game."

A groan went up in the gallery. Moran had missed a cross-corner bank that once again left Galahad in good position. The score stood at 163 to 42. By now, Galahad was one mass of tension. He felt more fatigued than he ever did at the Pink Lady. His shoulders and thighs were tight and his neck was stiff. His cue stick felt thick and off balance. He heard Moran laugh, a deep throaty laugh, and he looked up, even though he hated to. One of the prostitutes had her hand placed obscenely in Moran's lap and she was whispering in his ear.

"Hoe!" shouted Galahad, startling the entire gallery and drawing a reproving stare from Big Mike. The woman stood defiantly.

"So is yo' sistuh, nigger, so don't get righteous with me! You jus' mine yo' own goddamn business while I minds mine, an' stop tryin' to blame me fo' the fact that you is gettin' yo' ass kicked!" She stuck out her chin and put her hands on her hips while Moran, embarrassed by her outburst, pulled at the hem of her skirt, making little shushing noises. Stunned, Galahad flushed with shame, shame that was reinforced by the club's poshness and all-white clientele. Suddenly, he felt out of place, foolish to have thought he could play professional pool with white people. He was about to put down his cue stick and forfeit the game when Big Mike and Stephen huddled around him encouragingly.

"Don't let it bother you, Galahad," Stephen supported. "Don't worry about the money. Don't worry about anything. I have faith. Go on, shoot your game."

"Nigger," Big Mike whispered, "I know you gonna think this sound soft comin' from a hard-assed nigger like me, but ahmo tell you sometin' ah ain't tol' you befo'. You is without a doubt the bes' pool player ah seen in my life, an' I seen 'em all. I seen Fast Eddie, Fats, Mosconi, Murphy, Lassiter, all of 'em. Terms o' raw talent, you got 'em all beat. Only thing you lack is experience playin' under pressure. You understan'?"

"Is you jus' tellin' me that, o' is you fo' real?"

"Ahm fo' real, but ah ain't gonna say it again till you run 'bout a hundred and fifty balls." Galahad nodded and waved them away, but once seated back in the gallery, Big Mike feared his pep talk wasn't enough. "Stevie, this boy need to feel like he at home in the Pink Lady 'fo' he can shoot like he s'pose to. All this carpet an' shit done took his confidence."

"Yeah, it's like shooting pool in a museum or something."

" 'Zackly. What he need to hear is some loud niggerish yellin' an' mothafuckahs cussin' each other out. But since we cain't do that, the leas' we can do is give him some loud mouth. Jus' lissen an' do like me." He cleared his throat, spat on the rug and looked out toward Galahad. "Right on, right on! Mothafuckin' shootin', baby! 'S some bad english you got on that ball, my man!"

"My man, my main man," Stephen echoed, "SOOOpastah! If you wasn't so young, I'd think you was Cisero Murpy--"

"He badder than Cisero," Big Mike cut in, "much badder than Cisero. Ah seen Cisero, but this little nigger heah gotta eye on him Cisero jus' nevuh had. Who wanna bet fifty cent against this kid? Who wanna bet? Sheeit, Sweet Titty cain't shoot no pool. Ah know a whole lotta dudes in the Pink Lady could take his ass to the cleanuh's right now."

"Oh, yeah?" some guy shouted back. "If they got dudes at this Pink Lady that good, where do you rank Moran?"

" 'Bout sixth, givin' Sweet Titty the benefit a the doubt."

The gallery chuckled, and Galahad was starting to look like his old self, swaggering around the table, ducking and kneeling as he lined up shots. Big Mike and Stephen got into a rhythm, yelling like madmen, and soon the score was 163 to 87. Moran was calm. He slouched in his seat and swigged a beer while his ladyfriends sipped martinis. He appeared extremely bored. Galahad soon had everybody laughing, clapping at his antics, and even Moran's black ladyfriends giggled despite themselves as he twirled his cue stick, slid it out along his arm and drew it back dramatically, talking up his game as he went along. "Six in the side and watch it ride! Ten in the co'nah an' Sweet Titty's a gonnah! Easy on the seven, kick in the 'leven! Six straight back, ballin' the jack!"

Sweet Titty never underrated anyone with guts enough to play him for $1000, but it hadn't occurred to him that he might lose, so he had indulged himself freely, consuming five beers and two sandwiches, and had fallen asleep. He dozed like a baby, his fat, jaded face settled in peaceful repose, his head resting heavily on the ample bosom of one of the prostitutes. He didn't know what happened when his fleshy pillow slipped suddenly and the woman jumped up.

"Ooooo, Sweet Titty! He made such a pretty shot! You shouda seen it! Didn't he, Thelma?"

Thelma, though equally enraptured, gave the other girl a sharp glance and pulled her back down. But Galahad had heard, and he began playing just for them, twirling his cue stick like a baton, calling for a new rack by means of spontaneous verse:

"Set 'em up, rack boy, all fo'teen. I shoots from the hip an' my shot is clean. My eyes is sharp an' my stroke is mean. I'm the baddest cat this joint has seen!"

The score kept narrowing--187 to 163--and Stephen and Big Mike were almost hoarse from yelling so much. Moran sat stone-faced, quieting the prostitutes with prolonged stares, then glaring at Galahad, who kept prancing around, spouting verse, snapping his yellow suspenders. Nothing could stop him then, and within minutes there were only three balls left on the table and Galahad needed to sink just one to win.

Unfortunately, by some minuscule quirk in his elbow, some fractional twitch in his bridge finger, he had managed to leave what appeared to be an impossible shot. Three balls, the forest-green 6, the royal-blue 2 and the perfectly black 8, nestled tentatively against one another in a fragile triangle near the far right corner from the cue ball. His thinnest hope was to slice the triangle on either side, hoping to gently propel either the 6 or the 2 off a rail for a two-rail bank. The 8 was on the right side of the triangle, nearest the pocket, but there appeared to be no way to move it without scratching. The angle wasn't right.

The entire gallery was as still and hushed as stones, waiting for him to call his shot. He took his time, kneeling and padding around the table on cat feet, studying those three balls from every possible angle.

Finally, he stood up, perplexed, and rubbed his chin. His eyes strayed for a molent to the gallery, and one of the prostitutes winked at him. Just a quick wink from an otherwise deadpan face, but he caught it. And he smiled.

He looked at the table one more time and said, "Eight," with a big grin and a flourish of chalk on his cue tip. The whole hall filled with a simultaneous gasp and Moran, still frowning, sat as tall as he could and peered closely at the table. For a moment, his eyes and Galahad's locked.

"It won't work," Moran observed dryly, almost as a physicist might comment on a colleague's new theory.

"Sheeit," Galahad eloquently intoned, and, laying his cue stick gently on the rail, he lined up the shot with one hand. Before there was time to think about what he was doing, he stroked. The white cue ball caromed off both side rails, hit the 2 on the back side, which spun the 6 out of the way, then came back off the rail to nudge the black 8. The 8 crept toward the pocket as though carried on the backs of an army of ants. When it arrived at the lip, it paused and actually rocked. Then it teetered and fell. The applause was deafening, and Galahad looked up to see the black women winking and chuckling, one looking down and away, the other concealing her mouth behind a make-up mirror. Moran looked like a dead man propped up in a chair, but as the applause slackened, he raised himself somberly and shuffled up to Galahad to shake his hand. They agreed on a rematch the following night and Galahad, beginning to jump like he had bugs in his pants, accepted $2000 from the rack boy with childish excitement.

"Looka here, Big Mike! We done won us some dough! Hot damn! We done beat The Tit!"

"Put it in yo' shoe, like Stevie here do his, lessen you lose it befo' you gets home. An' stop lookin' at it like you ain't never seen no money befo'. Ack like a pro."

"I acts the way I feels, an' right now I feels like celebratin'." Proudly, he handed ten $100 bills to Stephen, who counted it carefully and just as proudly handed five back, saying he had already profited from the show itself. Galahad shook his head incredulously. "Nigger, is you crazy? Boy, let a nigger get some education and he lose all his common sense. If it wasn't fo' you, I wouldn'ta been here in the first place."

"Give it here," Big Mike put in. "If Stevie don't take it, I will. I think ahmo get me a game goin'!"

"You shouldn't get a dime, jive ol' mothafuckah. You didn't have no faith in me. But here's what ah do. Ahmo insist Stevie take two hundred, an' maybe ah'll give you one hundred, 'cause that's 'bout all you deserve. Now, as fo' the two hundred that's left, well, ah'll be back in a minute."

Galahad strolled toward the bar, where Moran and his seconds were having several much-needed drinks. He didn't see the prostitutes, but a handbag and gloves rested by Moran, so he figured the girls were probably in the ladies' room. A waiting area separated the men's room from the women's, and that's where he headed. He was back in less than a minute.

"Less go, we gotta wait downstairs."

"Fo' what?" rasped Big Mike.

"Fo' the sistuhs, they comin' with us."

"Nigger, you ain't gonna spend two hundred dollahs on them hoes, is you?"

"Look heah, if ah wants to buy two tons of dogshit, it's my mothafuckin' dough. Com-pren-day?"

"Boy, I jus' cain't see you puttin' that kinda bread out fo' no hoes. What 'bout yo' plan to get that house fo' yo' momma and get yo' sistuh off the strip? You givin' all that up fo' some pussy? Nigguh, has you loss yo' mine?"

Big Mike snorted furiously and walked ahead, and Stephen didn't know what to expect when they all reached the street, but, to his relief. Big Mike muttered a gruff goodbye and kept going.

"You ain't my daddy," Galahad called after him, "so don't tell me what to do with my money!"

Big Mike wheeled around and jabbed a grizzled finger in Galahad's direction. "And you cain't shoot pool wuth a damn, cocky mothafuckah!"

And then Big Mike disappeared between the open doors of a bus and the tension eased, gave way to the pain of both men and lingered in the air like dust. Galahad didn't say anything, but soon the women came, voices chattering and stockings whispering, lips glossed and earrings sparkling. They embraced their hero as freely as they had Moran and the one named Thelma nodded to Stephen.

"Is he in on it, too?"

"No, an' ah ain't, eitha."

"What you mean, you ain't eitha? What's the two bills fo', then?"

"Fo' not workin' no mo' tonight. Fo' goin' home to wherever you lives an' takin' a hot bath and maybe gettin' into a book, maybe some TV. It's fo' gettin' off the streets fo' twenty-fo' hours." The girls were too surprised to reply and Galahad turned to Stephen and held out his hand. "Ahmo let you go, mah man. Thanks fo' the spote. Come on down tomorrow evenin' if you wants to see me kick Sweet Titty's ass again. If not, see you aroun'."

Stephen squeezed Galahad's hand gratefully, then turned and walked in Big Mike's footsteps toward the bus stop. When he was about halfway there, he heard Galahad hail a cab, and he looked back to see the dapper pool shark hold open the door for the prostitutes, doff his hat, then climb in after them. Tires squealing, the cab made a U turn and headed for the night-life district, its radio blaring soul horns and funky bass through the open windows.

"Half drunk and high, he had popped a Dexedrine, a Seconal and two aspirins to mellow himself out."

"Sweet Titty arrived with two outrageously turned-out black prostitutes--both tall and dark."

"Moran was pulling the woman close, kissing her on the neck, his round face hidden by her black wig."