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be more drunk than she was in a way that made Webster nervous. He could
     see that Mullet and Luker each thought he was going home with her. Two other men in their early twenties were at the table,
     too, but Luker was the boss. “Lower the pot to twenty-five,” he said. “Five bucks a piece. Race to three.”
    Sheila held the cue like a novice. It was clear she was watching Mullet and imitating his every move, as if she were new to
     the game. Webster was surprised they didn’t throw her out then and there.
    “Any house rules I should know about?” she asked in a voice Webster hadn’t heard before.
    “Yeah, Sweetheart, it’s nine-ball.”
    The Mullet guffawed as if Luker had made a terrific joke. Sheila was all concentration as the balls were racked. “I go first?”
     she asked.
    “The table’s all yours,” Mullet said.
    Sheila bent, took her time, made her shot, and knocked the cue ball off the table. She put a hand over her mouth.
    “Scratched it,” Mullet said as he put the cue ball exactly where he wanted.
    By the time the table was Sheila’s again, the game was hers for the taking. One of the other players hadn’t been able to sink
     the eight, but the setup made for easy shots. Sheila sank the eight but jawed the nine. If she were hustling, Webster thought,
     she was good.
    “Nice one, Sweetheart,” Luker said. “Beginner’s bad luck.”
    Sheila lost the first race and begged to be allowed to continue. “Look, I almost got it in,” she said, raising her left shoulder
     and then lowering the right in a sinuous move. She put a five on the table. “Let me win it back,” she begged.
    She laughed with Mullet, but it was Luker she had her eye on. If Webster hadn’t known her better—and it occurred to him that
     he didn’t know her at all—he would have sworn she was after him.
    “Race to three,” Luker said. “Ten bucks.”
    “Dickhead’s shooting air balls,” Mullet complained, pointing to one of the other players. “He hasn’t got a dime left.”
    “That true?” Luker asked.
    The man shrugged, put his cue in the wall rack, and walked away.
    “The pot is forty. We’ll spot Sweetheart the eight ball,” Luker announced.
    On her first shot, Sheila hung the eight and relinquished her turn. On her second, she caromed the nine off the eight and
     sank the eight, jumping up into the air and clapping her hands. On her third, she ran the table to seven and appeared to be
     unable to sink the eight.
    Careful,
Webster thought, a good ten feet behind her.
    “You making lemonade, Sugar?” Luker asked, pretending indifference.
    Sheila turned to Mullet. “What’s he talking about?”
    He shrugged. “He wants to know if you’re hustling him.”
    Sheila gave a good laugh. “Oh, boy,” she said.
    But Luker had had enough. “Get lost, Sweetheart. This game’s gonna get too rich for you.” He turned to the other three players.
     “Pot is three hundred. Seventy-five apiece. Race to seven.”
    She put the ten she owed on the table and began to chalk her tip again, wiping the residue of yellow onto the thighs of her
     jeans, a move not lost on either Mullet or Luker. Still in the stance she began with (she was brilliant at this), she peeled
     the other bills from her jeans and laid down Webster’s additional sixty, which made him take a deep breath.
    “Honey, it’s seventy-five,” Mullet said, looking nervous now. “Go buy yourself a coupla beers.”
    Behind Sheila, the man with the best view of her ass reached forward and put fifteen on top of her sixty.
    Luker stood to his full height and took his time cracking his back. “Not spotting you no eight ball,” he said as he examined
     Sheila hard. When it was her turn, she bent forward and made a terrible shot that ratted in the nine. The man standing behind
     her whistled.
    “Pure luck, Baby,” Luker said. Mullet had gone silent.
    Sheila lit a cigarette. Webster wondered if he should get her out. He didn’t like the looks of Luker.