The Josh Bishop Incident

   The smooth harmonies of the Mamas and the Papas greeted me at the three-step down entrance to Champ's Pool Parlor. Cigarette smoke clouded the air of the converted rowhouse basement. The acrid odor of burnt pizza combined with the buzz of conversation yielding the sensory overload that I sometimes crave.
   Through the thick air, I saw Mandy leaning over the juke box. She looked trim and wholesome, a cheerleader, out-of-place in this modern American equivalent of an opium den. She smiled and I knew that her invitation to the party was still open.
   Josh kills me. When he heard there was a party at Shirley's, he said, "At the caretaker's house! Grooving at the grave!"
   Bart stoked the three ball into the yellow and white nine. Unfortunately the nine ball stopped short of the corner pocket by three inches. Bart looked disgusted with his shot. It left Rusty with a duck shot.
   "Hey, Chet," Bart said. "Pick up a stick. We're just playing

 

nine ball. Damn Rusty's won two out of the last five."
   "Don't let it get you down. The World Series is seven games long." I looked around the basement. Mandy sat on a chair by the juke box. Shirley sat next to her. They still give me weird looks like I've acted nonhuman around them.
   A couple of the guys from Lincoln's are playing the back pool table.
   After Rusty broke the next rack, I tried the three in the side pocket. Although I'm sure that geometry should allow me to make shots, I haven't figured out how.
   Rusty knocked it in easily. Then the four, five, and six. Finally he missed.
   Bart stared at the front door. He didn't even realize it was his shot.
   "What's on your mind?" I asked.
   "I'm wondering where the hell that Josh is? He's got five bucks of mine and he'll have two fists if he don't get back here."
   I blew out a thick stream of smoke. "Five dollars. That's about a hundred pills," I said to draw him out.
  "No," he shook his head. "Twenty-five."