Between the Devil

The silence in Benny's garage was absolute, broken only by the low hum of the bare bulb overhead and the rhythmic tap… clack… thump as Vince dismantled the rack. Each sound drilled into Kaizer's awareness, amplified by the suffocating tension. Vince moved around the table with a predatory grace, his stocky frame surprisingly fluid. He wasn't just playing pool; he was imposing his will on the table, on the room, on Kaizer himself.

Kaizer remained pressed against the rough concrete wall, forcing his body to stay relaxed, betraying none of the frantic calculations and rising panic churning within him. He watched Vince pocket the two-ball near the corner, the cue ball rolling out perfectly for the three, which sat mid-table. Vince didn't even seem to pause; his movements were seamless, flowing from one shot to the next with the confidence of someone who expected – knew – he wouldn't miss.

Focus, Kaizer commanded himself, shutting out the disastrous possibilities, the image of Vince demanding money Kaizer didn't have. He narrowed his attention to Vince's technique. The powerful break wasn't just brute force; it involved precise timing and a controlled, slightly off-center hit to maximize spread while maintaining cue ball position. His stroke on the subsequent shots was compact, firm, with minimal extraneous movement. No wasted energy. His eyes, Kaizer noted, didn't just look at the object ball or the pocket; they scanned the entire table constantly, tracking potential interference, calculating positional routes multiple steps ahead. This was muscle memory combined with active processing – the hallmark of a truly dangerous player.

Vince dispatched the three-ball without ceremony. The six was next, sitting near the side pocket opposite where the three had been. Vince played the cue ball off the end rail gently after pocketing the three, letting it drift across the table, coming to rest with a near-perfect angle on the six. It wasn't flashy, just ruthlessly efficient positional play.

Kaizer felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. Vince wasn't making mistakes. He wasn't giving Kaizer an inch. The memory of countless opponents who could run racks under pressure surfaced – players who seemed to enter a trance, blocking out everything but the path to victory. Vince had that look now, that focused intensity.

He glanced quickly at the onlookers. Jake Miller watched with rapt attention, his earlier competitive fire replaced by a look of professional assessment, maybe even a dawning realization that he was leagues below this newcomer. Spike's jaw hung slightly slack, his usual sneer wiped clean by Vince's display. Tank stood impassively, but his eyes tracked every movement Vince made, absorbing the lesson. The other unfamiliar faces in the garage were simply mesmerized, caught in the gravity of Vince's performance and the palpable high stakes. No one was whispering now. No one dared cough.

Clack. Thump. The six-ball vanished into the side pocket. Vince didn't even watch it drop, already moving into position for the eight-ball (the seven having gone on the break). The eight sat near the corner where the one had been pocketed. Again, Vince played simple, perfect position, letting the cue ball roll forward just enough after pocketing the six to leave himself a straight, easy shot.

This was a clinic. A systematic execution. Kaizer felt a grim certainty solidifying: Vince was going to run out. He wouldn't get a shot. The bluff would be called. The fifty dollars would be demanded. What happened then? Humiliation? Violence? Running felt impossible, trapped as he was in this garage, surrounded by Vince's implicit menace and the watchful eyes of the others.

He scanned the cluttered garage again, subconsciously looking for escape routes, fallback plans. Nothing. Just greasy tools, stacked tires, cobweb-draped boxes. His mind raced, searching for an angle, a way out, just as intensely as he searched for angles on the felt. Could he talk his way out of it? Offer to pay later? Plead ignorance about the stakes? Unlikely. Vince didn't strike him as the forgiving type.

Clack. Thump. The eight-ball disappeared. Only the nine remained. It sat almost directly in front of the corner pocket where the four had gone on the break. A simple, short shot. A formality.

Vince circled the table slowly, deliberately drawing out the moment. He chalked his cue with meticulous care, his eyes briefly flicking over to Kaizer, a cold, triumphant glint within them. He knew he had the game won. He knew Kaizer hadn't shot. He was savoring the kill.

Kaizer forced himself to meet Vince's gaze, keeping his own expression unreadable, a mask of calm indifference he was miles away from feeling. Don't show fear. Don't show weakness. Even in defeat, maintain composure. It was an old hustler's code, learned through bitter experience. Sometimes, the only victory left was denying your opponent the satisfaction of seeing you break.

Vince finally bent down over the nine-ball. The garage held its collective breath. This was it. The final shot. Fifty dollars changing hands – or rather, fifty dollars being demanded from empty pockets. Kaizer braced himself for the inevitable confrontation.

Vince took one smooth practice stroke. Then another. He drew the cue back…

And paused.

He didn't shoot immediately. He held the backstroke for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, perhaps relishing the tension, perhaps ensuring Kaizer fully appreciated the finality of the moment. And in that infinitesimal pause, something shifted. Maybe it was overconfidence. Maybe it was the slightest lapse in concentration, his mind already counting the winnings. Maybe it was just the inherent unpredictability of pool, even on a simple shot.

He finally completed the stroke. It looked smooth, but Kaizer, his senses hyper-alert, detected something almost imperceptible – a tiny, almost invisible twitch in Vince's wrist just before impact, a fraction too much force, perhaps a subconscious attempt to add unnecessary flourish to the final shot.

CLICK.

The sound was wrong. Not the solid thump of a clean pot. It was sharper, harder. The nine-ball shot forward, hit the back of the pocket… and sprang back out, ricocheting off the facing and rolling to a stop barely an inch away from the hole.

A stunned silence filled the garage. No one moved. No one breathed. Vince remained frozen in his follow-through position, staring at the nine-ball sitting mockingly outside the pocket, his expression shifting from triumphant certainty to utter disbelief, then quickly hardening into cold fury.

He had dogged it. On the game ball. A shot a beginner could make ninety-nine times out of a hundred. He'd snatched defeat from the jaws of absolute victory.

Vince straightened up slowly, his face thunderous. He slammed the butt of his cue onto the concrete floor, the impact echoing like a gunshot in the silence. "Damn table!" he snarled, glaring at the pocket as if it were sentient and had deliberately betrayed him.

But Kaizer knew it wasn't the table. It was pressure. Or arrogance. Or both. Even the best players choked sometimes, especially when they thought the game was already won. Vince, for all his skill and intimidation, wasn't immune. He'd given Kaizer an opening. A lifeline. An almost impossible chance snatched back from the brink.

"Your shot," Vince bit out, stepping away from the table, his knuckles white where he gripped his cue. He didn't look at Kaizer, just stared furiously at the offending nine-ball.

Kaizer pushed off the wall, his legs feeling slightly unsteady. The sudden reversal of fortune was dizzying. One moment, he was facing certain disaster; the next, the game was his for the taking. The fifty dollars, Vince's fifty dollars, lay waiting on the rail, practically singing to him.

He walked towards the table, forcing himself to move slowly, deliberately. Don't rush. Don't betray the relief flooding through him. He picked up the warped house cue. It felt heavy, unwieldy, inadequate. But it was all he had.

The shot was absurdly simple. The nine-ball sat less than an inch from the pocket lip. Tap it in. Game over. Collect the fifty. Breathe again.

But as he leaned down, lining up the shot, the weight of the situation pressed down on him. This wasn't just about the fifty dollars anymore. It was about the bluff. About Vince's reaction to losing after dominating the entire game, only to choke on the final ball. Guys like Vince didn't take losing well, especially not under embarrassing circumstances. Winning might solve the immediate financial problem, but it could create a different, potentially more dangerous one.

He could feel Vince's eyes burning into his back. He could sense the simmering rage radiating off him. He could also sense the curiosity from Jake and Tank, the fear from Spike. This single, simple tap-in felt heavier than any championship-winning shot he'd ever taken.

He focused on the cue ball, then the infinitesimally small gap between it and the nine. Just a touch. Don't miscue. Don't overhit it. Don't give Vince any conceivable excuse, any perceived slight. Just make the ball. End the game cleanly.

He took a breath, let it out slowly. He drew the cue back barely an inch, then pushed forward with the gentlest possible stroke.

tap… thump.

The nine-ball tipped over the edge and disappeared into the pocket.

Silence.

Kaizer straightened up, placing the house cue carefully back on the rack. He didn't pump his fist. He didn't smile. He didn't show any outward sign of triumph or relief. He simply turned towards the rail where the fifty-dollar bill lay.

He reached out, his hand steady now, and picked up the bill. He folded it once, then twice, and slid it into his pocket alongside the twenty-five he already had. Seventy-five dollars. Enough for the entry fee, with fifty left over – halfway to the McDermott cue. He'd done it. He'd survived the razor's edge.

He looked at Vince. The rage was still there, simmering just below the surface, but it was mixed now with a grudging disbelief. Vince clearly couldn't comprehend how he'd missed the nine, how he'd let this kid snatch the game away after such a dominant performance.

"My... mistake," Vince forced out, the words sounding like grinding gravel. "Rack 'em. Same game. Fifty bucks." He clearly intended to win his money back immediately.

Kaizer considered. He had the seventy-five dollars. He could afford to play again now. No bluff required. And Vince was likely rattled, prone to making more mistakes out of anger and frustration. Playing him again now, while he was tilted, was probably the +EV move, as the poker players of the future would say. He could potentially win another fifty, maybe even more. Enough for the cue, maybe even some extra walking-around money.

The temptation was strong, pulling at him, whispering justifications. He's tilted. Easy money. Finish him off.

But then he looked at Vince's eyes. The cold fury hadn't dissipated; it had just been banked, waiting for fuel. Beating him again, especially if Vince felt cheated by luck, could push him over the edge. This wasn't a pool game anymore; it felt like handling unstable dynamite. Winning more money wasn't worth the potential physical risk.

He remembered his goal. Not to clean out every garage game in town. Not to pick fights with dangerous characters. But to get into the tournament. To get a decent cue. To rebuild his life, differently.

He shook his head slowly, decisively. "No," he said, his voice quiet but firm, leaving no room for negotiation. "I'm done for tonight."

Vince's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed into dangerous slits. "Done? You win fifty bucks off my mistake and you're done?" The implication was clear: running after getting lucky was cowardly, insulting.

"Got what I came for," Kaizer replied evenly, deliberately vague. He met Vince's glare without flinching. He wasn't scared anymore – or rather, the fear was overridden by a newfound clarity, a commitment to the decision he'd just made. He wouldn't be pulled back into the cycle. Not tonight. "Thanks for the game, Vince."

He turned towards the garage entrance, deliberately turning his back on Vince, on the table, on the money he could potentially still win. It felt like walking away from a fire – dangerous, but necessary for survival.

He could feel the weight of Vince's stare on his back, could almost sense the internal struggle between Vince's rage and the unspoken rules of the garage (you couldn't physically force someone to play, usually). He half-expected a hand to grab his shoulder, a threat to be uttered.

But nothing happened. He reached the edge of the garage, stepping out from the dim, smoky interior into the cool, clean night air under the indifferent glow of the streetlight. He kept walking, not looking back, his pace steady, heading away from Benny's garage, away from the life he was trying so hard to leave behind.

Behind him, he heard Vince let out a roar of pure frustration, followed by the sharp, splintering crack of a pool cue being slammed against the concrete floor. The sound spurred Kaizer onward, lengthening his stride. He'd won the battle, escaped the immediate danger, and secured crucial funds. But he'd also made an enemy, a dangerous enemy who wouldn't likely forget being humiliated by a kid who got lucky and then walked away. The consequences of tonight, Kaizer suspected, were far from over. But for now, he was safe, seventy-five dollars richer, and one giant leap closer to his goal.