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On Sheila’s second try,
     she ran the table up to eight and didn’t sink the nine. The man behind her groaned. He didn’t get it.
    On her third try, she made a move a dancer might, bending to the table. The ash of her cigarette was nearly an inch long,
     the center of attention. A girl with frizzy blond hair who’d been hanging near Luker knocked on the back of his black vest.
     She let her arms slide around him, claiming him. Her hands almost met in the middle.
    The ash was mesmerizing. Even Webster was certain she couldn’t make a shot without leaving it on the table, an offense Luker
     would use to throw her out. Sheila ran the first six, caromed the seven off the eight, sinking the seven, and then sank the
     eight and nine. No one said a word. It seemed the whole back half of the restaurant was silent and waiting.
    As she rose from the table, she elegantly caught the ash in the palm of her hand. As she bent to put the cigarette out in
     an ashtray, she mouthed the word
car
to Webster.
    He took his jacket from a hook, went for the door, and heard her laugh at the back of the room. A sexy laugh he didn’t like.
     He was worried for her. No man wanted to be hustled in front of a girlfriend hanging off his vest.
    Webster braced for the cold. He’d be bracing until May, a good two weeks after the warmer weather had finally come. He brought
     his watch cap down over his ears and raised his collar. He jogged between rows of cars to his own, wanting to be exactly where
     he was supposed to be.
    When he parked by the front door, the engine running, he took his hat off and tried to flatten his hair. He turned on thedefroster to melt the ice from the windshield. He checked the gas gauge: he had maybe fifteen miles’ worth left. He turned
     the engine off. After ten minutes of waiting, Webster grew worried. He thought of going back in, but if she had a good hustle
     going, he’d ruin it. After twenty minutes, he was picturing a back-alley rape, even though there wasn’t a true back alley
     for fifty miles.
    She was laughing as she opened the door of the restaurant. She lost the laugh as soon as it was closed.
    She got into the car.
    “Go,” she said.
    They were almost to the Hartstone town line before she spoke. “Smashed the rack and ran the table. Twice. The guy beside me
     was holding the pot and couldn’t give me the money fast enough.”
    “That big guy looked like he wanted to kill you.”
    “Don’t think so,” she said, counting out Webster’s seventy-five. “I’m pretty sure he wanted to fuck me.”
    “I wanted to get you the hell out of there,” Webster said.
    “You have rescue fantasies.”
    “Believe me, the last thing I fantasize about is rescue.”
    “That’s why you do it, though. Your job.”
    “You’re full of it,” he said.
    “You ever drive into New York at night?”
    “No,” he said, knowing she wanted to find another pool table.
    “You’re lying.”
    “Don’t even think about it.”
    He had no authority over her. On the other hand, she didn’t have a car.
    *    *    *
    It wasn’t until they were a mile from her place that she asked to see the land.
    Webster was taken aback. “It’s dark out,” he said.
    “There’s a moon.”
    He peered up through the windshield. Point nine. He stopped the cruiser and made a U on 42.
    “You liked it,” she said.
    “Liked what?”
    “Watching me hustle.”
    “How long have you been playing pool?”
    “Since I could stand on a chair.”
    “You’re very good.”
    “I’m better than you think,” she said.
    Webster wondered if he could beat her.
    “Can I ride with you sometime?” she asked. “In the ambulance?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s against the law.”
    “I’ll bet it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve broken the law.”
    “It’s not happening,” he said.
    As he drove up the hill toward what he thought of as his piece of land, the gas-hungry cruiser sucked the needle down to empty.
     Webster