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in time when it seemed his plan for Charlie was teetering on the edge of oblivion and could so easily tip over into a horror show. Of course, what came after the golden days and crimson nights of Hong Kong was the FBI. And then St. Vincent had shown up. And then came the Well, a horror show of an altogether higher magnitude.
    By this point in his musings, Charlie had knocked off her double Beam and had turned to face the tables. Most of them were taken and, from Whitman’s admittedly amateur view, it looked like almost all of the players were involved in serious matches with serious money riding on them. Looking more closely, he could see that the play was almost pro-level stuff. How on earth, he wondered, was Charlie going to make money off these guys?
    As if divining his thoughts, she said, “You think I can’t do it.”
    â€œI think you can do anything you want when you set your mind to it.”
    â€œThat’s what you tell a child before she starts reading her first book.”
    He wanted to tell her how full of shit she was, but he figured this wasn’t the time, even though it might have been the place. Instead, he said, “I’m looking forward to the show.”
    She smiled dreamily, but not at him. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the action at the tables. “And a show it will be,” she said softly.
    The opponent she found was a rotund man in his early fifties. He wore his trousers very high, supported by a pair of English braces. He had a head like an onion, nearly hairless, with the small ears of a simian, but his eyes were bright sparks, curious and cautious as a bird’s. His name was Milt, he had just won a hard-fought match, and he was very, very good.
    Whitman thought Charlie could have chosen someone with a bit less experience and skill to start in on, but obviously she had other ideas. The hubris of her goddess syndrome still appeared to be in effect.
    They settled on the stakes—ten thousand. Whitman was frankly astonished. He stood against one wall and watched Charlie as she took out her cue, spiraled the two parts together. They broke for who would go first. Charlie pocketed one ball, but missed the second. Milt, following her, pocketed two. Smirking, he challenged her to double the bet. To Whitman’s amazement, she agreed. Milt looked as pleased as a pig in a wallow.
    He stuck a half-chewed cigar between his liverish lips and, bending over the table, got to work. He broke, then pocketed the next seven balls in a row. He missed on an elegant but difficult triple-bank shot, but only by a millimeter or so. Whitman wondered whether he had been caught showing off for his opponent. Either way, he appeared unconcerned as he stood up and backed away from the table opposite where Charlie was bending over. From there, he got quite an eyeful, which was mostly what he was interested in at this point. It seemed apparent to Whitman, as well as everyone else watching, that he could already feel Charlie’s twenty grand in his pocket.
    That was before Charlie finished up what he had left her without missing a shot, then ran the table twice. She would have done it a third time, Whitman guessed, but by that time Milt had had enough humiliation for the night. He slapped down his twenty thousand, took his cue, and went home in a huff.
    After that display, no one in the place was willing to play her, at least not for money, and Charlie wasn’t interested in playing pool unless it was to make money.
    On the car ride back to her apartment, he said, “So many things have changed since I last saw you.”
    Charlie, driving in her typically controlled, intense manner, stared through the windshield at the passing city. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
    Whitman sighed, but silently. He said, “Can we kill the foolishness?”
    Abruptly, she pulled over to the curb. “Get out,” she ordered.
    â€œWhat? Here?”
    She leaned across him,