Twillbear (Part 6)

George Thorogood and the Destroyers’ rendition of Bad To The Bone blasted through the speakers of Clancy’s causing more than a few patrons to strum their air-guitars in tribute to the classic anthem of every bad-ass wannabe rock star in the assemblage, who greeted every drum beat with heads tossed back and agonized grimaces abounding as their contortions revealed their inner artist. Several women in tight jeans swayed to the music, eyes closed and hips jutting this way, then that, in recognition of unspoken sensual stirrings and libidinous yearnings. It was just the sort of ambiance that every guy in the place craved, except for those in the poolroom. Their agenda, while never totally dismissive of the music, tended to focus on the business at hand—nine ball… the gambler’s grand game of skill. Like dominoes, it could be learned in five minutes and never mastered in a lifetime. Every roll of every ball created a new problem, a new challenge. To become proficient, a player needed more skills than just the dexterity to stroke a cue or play position; he needed to know himself—and his limitations. Tonight, Twillbear Hopkins watched the man called Harper LaGrange bully and intimidate all comers, greedily collecting the wager after each game with a smug comment and/or derisive smirk. Silently, he assessed both man and player, recalling others who’d demonstrated similar qualities, and wondering if there might be an inherent evolutionary niche for such people, the human version of the hyena, not without skills, but never to be trusted for any reason. Twillbear watched his facial reactions to every event, noted how he held his cue, where he kept his money, what he drank, the jewelry he wore around his neck and on his fingers, the condition of his shoes— everything.

As the last player put his cue stick back into the rack and walked out, Twillbear half-sat, half-stood leaning against the radiator at the back of the room, arms folded over his chest, in the same position he’d assumed hours before. Glancing over his shoulder, Harper LaGrange noticed the solitary figure standing behind him. Slowly he turned around and leaned his butt onto the rail of the pool table so that he could see Twillbear without having to crane his neck. Lighting a cigarette, he gestured with his hand.

“Come on up and get you some.” As usual, LaGrange reeked of mystery. His thin, dark hair combed straight back with widow’s peak and thin mustache predominating his hawk-like facial features screamed hit man, with or without the elegant three-quarter length leather jacket. His nonchalance belied his stare, and when their stares met, an invisible trail of sparks filled the room. A mouthful of pearly white teeth conveyed arrogance into his taunting leer and communicated his disrespect.

Twillbear Hopkins didn’t move, demanding LaGrange to pay attention. Lose eye contact now and you might as well sulk out of the room and deposit your balls in an Easter basket because they’ll be useless from that point on. In a stare-down, timing becomes the most important element—too short and you tip your hand, too long and you lose the opportunity to return serve effectively.

“You can’t afford me,” Twillbear hissed, his scowl transfixed. The hunter found his quarry and settled in for the kill as he absent-mindedly swirled the ice remaining in his otherwise empty drink glass.

The comment brought about another pause, before causing Harper LaGrange to grin and snort, shaking his head at no one in particular. “No, I suppose not. But just for shits and giggles, why don’t you humor me and tell me what it’d take for you to get your ass up off that radiator and play me a little game of pool? How about that bartender you’re so sweet on? She’s a little young for you, old man, but to each his own. Surely you’d man up for her… that is, if your fragile half-breed psyche can stand the humiliation.”

Without another thought, a cue from the rack located immediately behind Twillbear filled his hand as he rushed the smaller Harper LaGrange, swinging the stick with un-Godly fury and screaming with wild abandon. As he leaped toward his victim, time compressed for Twillbear Hopkins and he could hear his voice echo in his ears as his now slow-motion movements imbedded in his cerebellum. Then, as his weapon completed its arc and prepared to contact his adversary’s head, he saw the pistol in LaGrange’s hand point straight at him and heard the blast. Eternity froze inside Twillbear Hopkins’ mind as reverberating blasts echoed in his ears.

Twillbear Hopkins sat up in his bed, struggling to his feet; his hands frantically patted his torso as he checked for an entry wound, his heartbeats pounded in his ears. Finding no wound, his moans began to subside along with the panic and his fingers found the light switch. The sudden flood of light pierced the darkness and offended his corneas, but affirmed his realization that he was at home… in his bedroom… and the clock radio’s LCD confirmed the time—4:17 a.m. His nightmare complete, Twillbear rubbed his eyes and yawned as he headed for the bathroom. A shower would help bring him to his senses— but nothing would remove the impact of the dream.