J. T. turned and eyed the four ball, pointed casually to a side pocket, lined up the shot, and slapped the sucker in.
He saw Truck’s nostrils flare. Though the rest of his face remained admirably stony.
“You’ll be filming here, in Hellcat Canyon?” someone else ventured.
“Yep. Quite a bit of the series will be filmed in the mountains around here, along the river and such. Ya’ll will get tired of seeing me and the rest of the cast around town come next fall.”
More laughter, and someone fervently muttered, “Never!”
He chalked the cue again. Pointed at the left side pocket. Eyed it a moment, for the sake of drama. And then shot the sucker in.
“Hey, McCord,” Truck said suddenly. “You know the Misty Cat is haunted?”
“You don’t say,” J. T. said idly.
“You like ghosts, McCord?”
“Not sure anyonelikesghosts. Seems to me, you either have ’em or you don’t.”
Scattered laughter greeted this.
“It’s just,” Truck drawled, “I figured you might know a bit about dead things. Seeing as how your career is pretty much one.”
J. T. straightened and examined Truck thoughtfully.
“Not bad, Truck. A bit labored as insults go, but nonetheless fairly well constructed. I give it an eight. Always good to know someone is following my career.”
Nervous laughter greeted this.
He bent over the table again, picked out the red 3, lined up his shot, and slammed it into the pocket.
“Daaamn!” someone murmured.
“Who saysnonethelesswhen they’re playing pool?” Truck addressed this to the crowd at large.
Only one person laughed. Nervously.
J. T. did, that’s who saidnonethelesswhile he was playing pool. Especially when he knew it would piss Truck off. Which was his whole objective.
“Naughty Nellie, they call her,” Truck continued. “The ghost. She was a prostitute.”
“How’d Nellie die? She see you coming, Truck, throw herself out the window?”
The room erupted in laughter.
He lined up a shot; the seven was about a 60 degree angle to the left side pocket. A tricky one. He took a moment to commune with the shot.
He aimed. And he got it crisply in, to a rustle of oohs and aahs.
Truck was tenser than a drum skin now.
The air felt hot and close, and waves of something hostile and dangerous were coming off him.
J. T. lined up the blue ball and tapped her delicately in, just as Britt wove into the room, tray balanced on her arm, handing out smiles, beers, and change.
She pushed past Truck to get to Moses. And Truck didn’t even look at her, but somehow, magically, he managed to brush her ass with his hand.
J. T. saw her scoot out of the way and every muscle in his body went rigid.
