Putting Down Stakes

Saturday morning sunlight, usually a welcome sight after a week of fluorescent school lighting, felt harsh and interrogative filtering through Kaizer's cheap bedroom curtains. He blinked awake slowly, the phantom echo of Vince's splintering pool cue still ringing faintly in his ears. For a moment, disorientation reigned – was he sixty-three, waking up after another lonely tournament, or fifteen, facing another bewildering day in his past?

The distinct lack of aching joints and the unfamiliar contours of his narrow teenage bed quickly resolved the question. He was here. 1995. And last night… last night had been real. He sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and his eyes immediately sought the desk. The folded stack of bills was still there, nestled beside the clunky computer monitor. Fifty, twenty, five. Seventy-five dollars.

Relief washed over him again, potent and immediate. It hadn't been a dream. He'd survived Benny's garage, survived Vince's intimidating presence and near-perfect game, survived his own stupid bluff, and walked away with the crucial funds. The memory still sent a tremor through him – the missed nine-ball, the silent tap-in, Vince's barely contained fury, the walk away into the night. It was a tightrope walk over a chasm, and somehow, he hadn't fallen.

But the relief was quickly tempered by the weight of the morning's agenda. Today was about cementing the legitimate path, taking concrete steps away from the dangerous allure of easy money and shadowy garage games. First order of business: Rack 'em Up Billiards. Tournament sign-up.

He dressed quickly – another rotation of faded band shirt and baggy jeans – pocketing the seventy-five dollars with a sense of grim determination. He skipped breakfast, ignoring the faint sounds of his parents moving around downstairs, murmuring Saturday morning pleasantries he wasn't equipped to participate in right now. He needed focus. He grabbed his own cheap maple cue from the closet – leaving the warped house cue from Benny's leaning guiltily beside it for now – slipped out the back door, and started walking.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and burning leaves from somewhere down the block. The normalcy of the suburban Saturday – sprinklers whirring on lawns, a distant lawnmower starting up, neighbors fetching newspapers from their driveways – felt jarringly disconnected from the secret life he was living, the high-stakes drama that had unfolded just hours before only a few miles away.

His steps were purposeful as he headed towards Rack 'em Up. He replayed the plan in his mind. Walk in, find Mel, pay the twenty-five dollars, get his name on the list. Simple. Straightforward. A clean transaction marking his official entry into the legitimate side of the local pool scene.

Yet, apprehension coiled in his stomach alongside the determination. What if Vince was there? Unlikely on a Saturday morning, perhaps, but possible. What if Spike and Tank were there, ready with more taunts or, worse, spreading exaggerated stories about last night? What if word of the fifty-dollar game, Vince's choke, and Kaizer's subsequent departure had already filtered through the grapevine? Pool halls were notoriously efficient rumor mills. He needed to be prepared, maintain his composure, project quiet confidence without arrogance.

As he rounded the final corner, the familiar, slightly run-down facade of Rack 'em Up came into view. A few bikes were leaned against the wall already, more than usual for this early on a weekend. The neon 'OPEN' sign glowed, beckoning him towards the dim interior. He took a deep breath, pushed his shoulders back slightly – a trick learned over years of projecting confidence before crucial matches – and pushed open the door, the bell announcing his arrival with its familiar jingle.

The Saturday morning atmosphere was different from the weekday afternoons or the charged intensity of last night's garage game. Brighter, somehow, with more natural light filtering through the front windows. Less smoky, though the faint background scent of stale cigarettes was ever-present. The tables near the front were occupied mostly by younger kids, likely dropped off by parents, awkwardly learning the basics, their laughter echoing loudly. Further back, a few older regulars nursed coffees, quietly practicing drills or playing slow, deliberate games of straight pool.

Kaizer scanned the room quickly, subtly. No sign of Vince – a wave of relief washed over him. He did spot Spike and Tank, however, occupying their usual territory near table six. They both looked up as he entered, their expressions mirroring each other: a mixture of surprise, wariness, and maybe even a grudging hint of something that might have been respect, quickly masked. They didn't approach him, didn't call out. They just watched him walk towards the counter, exchanging low murmurs he couldn't hear. Interesting. Maybe Vince's arrival and Kaizer's subsequent handling of the situation had shifted their perception of him from 'lucky newbie' to 'someone maybe not to mess with'. Or maybe they were just intimidated by association after witnessing Vince's brief but potent display of menace.

Mel was behind the counter, same apron, same frown, meticulously arranging a display of candy bars that probably hadn't been restocked since the Bush administration. He glanced up as Kaizer approached, his eyes doing that unnervingly quick, assessing sweep.

"Morning," Kaizer said, keeping his voice neutral.

Mel just grunted, a sound that could have meant anything from 'hello' to 'go away'.

"Here to sign up," Kaizer continued, getting straight to the point. He gestured towards the Junior Nine-Ball Championship flyer still taped crookedly in the window.

Mel paused his candy bar arrangement, looking at Kaizer more directly now. He didn't seem surprised. Perhaps he'd expected it after Kaizer's earlier inquiries and the obvious skill display. He reached under the counter and pulled out a clipboard with a simple, lined sheet of paper attached. A handful of names were already scrawled on it.

"Twenty-five bucks," Mel stated flatly, holding out his hand, palm up.

Kaizer reached into his pocket, carefully separating a twenty and a five from the fifty he'd won off Vince. He placed the bills into Mel's waiting hand. The simple transaction felt disproportionately significant, a tangible investment in his chosen path.

Mel took the money without comment, counted it quickly, then tucked it into the ancient cash register drawer. He pushed the clipboard across the counter towards Kaizer, along with a cheap ballpoint pen. "Print your name. Legibly."

Kaizer leaned over the counter, scanning the list. Maybe five or six names so far. He recognized Spike's messy scrawl, and Tank's blocky printing. A couple of names he didn't know. And then, near the bottom, written in neat, confident cursive: Jesse Riley.

Seeing the name there, official, confirmed, sent another jolt through him. Dave Riley's kid. Mel hadn't been kidding. The competition was real. This wouldn't be just about navigating scrubs like Spike. He took the pen and, under Jesse Riley's name, printed his own:

KAIZER SAINT

He printed it clearly, deliberately. Seeing his full name on that list, directly beneath his old rival's son, felt… right. Grounding. A declaration of intent. He slid the clipboard back across the counter.

Mel glanced down at the name, his expression unchanging, but Kaizer thought he saw a flicker, the barest minimum of acknowledgment, in the old man's eyes before he turned away and placed the clipboard back under the counter. "Receipt?" Mel grunted.

"No, that's okay," Kaizer said. His name on the list was receipt enough. Mission accomplished. Step one complete. He felt lighter, a significant weight lifted.

He turned away from the counter, intending to leave immediately. He'd done what he came for, no need to linger, no need to invite conversation or confrontation. But as he turned, he saw someone else approaching the counter from the back tables, cue case in hand. Tall kid, maybe a year or two older than Kaizer's physical age, lean build, dark hair falling slightly over serious eyes. He moved with a quiet confidence, an athlete's easy grace. He hadn't been on the sign-up list Kaizer just saw.

The kid stopped at the counter, nodding politely to Mel. "Morning, Mel. Here to sign up for the Junior Nine-Ball." His voice was calm, steady.

Mel retrieved the clipboard again. "Name?"

"Jesse Riley," the kid replied.

Kaizer froze mid-step. That was Jesse Riley? He hadn't signed up yet? The name on the list must have been from a previous year, or maybe Mel pre-filled names of expected regulars? It didn't matter. Here he was. In the flesh. Dave Riley's son. His primary competition, standing right here.

Jesse Riley printed his name neatly above Kaizer's, paid his entry fee, and exchanged a few quiet words with Mel about table conditions – demonstrating a familiarity and level of seriousness that immediately set him apart from the likes of Spike and Tank. He seemed completely unaware of Kaizer standing nearby, focused entirely on his interaction with Mel.

Kaizer watched him, fascinated and slightly intimidated. Jesse carried himself differently. There was no swagger, no loud pronouncements, just a focused intensity, a quiet confidence that spoke volumes. If his game matched his demeanor, and Mel's assessment was accurate, Jesse Riley was going to be a serious obstacle. This tournament wouldn't just be a stepping stone; it would be a genuine test.

Jesse finished his conversation with Mel, picked up his cue case, gave another polite nod, and headed back towards the tables in the rear without giving Kaizer a second glance. He hadn't registered Kaizer at all, just another kid loitering near the counter.

Kaizer finally shook himself out of his stupor and continued towards the exit. Seeing Jesse Riley in person had crystallized the need for the McDermott cue. Competing against that level of focused talent with his current equipment felt almost insulting to the game itself. He needed that upgrade. Which meant he needed fifty dollars. Fast.

As he pushed the door open, stepping back out into the bright Saturday morning, he almost collided with someone heading in.

"Whoa! Sorry," a familiar voice stammered.

Kaizer looked up, his heart giving an awkward lurch. Mark Jessop. His friend stood there, blinking in the sunlight, clutching a small stack of comic books.

"Mark? What are you doing here?" Kaizer asked, surprised. Mark rarely, if ever, ventured into Rack 'em Up.

Mark looked equally surprised, maybe even a little flustered. "Oh! Hey, Kaizer! I was just… uh… seeing if Mel had any old sci-fi paperbacks. Sometimes he gets boxes of used books, you know?" It sounded like a flimsy excuse, especially delivered while clutching pristine-looking comics.

An awkward silence stretched between them. Kaizer immediately thought of the BBS message, his vague reply. Had Mark received it? Was this visit related? Was Mark checking up on him, trying to reconcile the online GhostCue persona with the real-life Kaizer Saint?

"Find any?" Kaizer asked, gesturing towards the comics Mark held.

"Oh, these? Nah, these are mine," Mark said quickly, tucking them more securely under his arm. "No luck on the paperbacks today." He shifted his weight, avoiding Kaizer's direct gaze for a moment. "So… you playing pool again?" The question was casual, almost too casual.

Kaizer hesitated. How much to reveal? "Just signed up for the junior tournament they're having," he said, opting for the partial, legitimate truth. He nodded back towards the flyer in the window.

Mark's eyes widened slightly. "The tournament? Seriously? Wow. I mean… that's cool. Since when are you into tournament pool?" The underlying question was obvious: Since when are you this person?

"Just thought I'd give it a shot," Kaizer said with a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "Something different."

"Right," Mark said slowly, still looking at Kaizer with that searching, slightly confused expression. He clearly wasn't buying the 'something different' angle entirely. He opened his mouth as if to ask something else, maybe about GhostCue, maybe about the rumors he'd surely heard at school…

But then Spike and Tank chose that moment to emerge from the pool hall, laughing loudly about a missed shot. They clapped Mark awkwardly on the shoulder as they passed. "Hey, Jessop!" Spike said jovially, before his eyes landed on Kaizer again, his expression instantly souring. He just sneered and kept walking, Tank trailing silently behind him.

The interruption broke the fragile tension between Kaizer and Mark. Mark seemed to deflate slightly, the moment for a more direct question passing.

"Well," Mark said, adjusting his glasses. "Good luck with the tournament, I guess. That's… really cool."

"Thanks, Mark," Kaizer replied, feeling a pang of guilt at the distance between them, the secrets unspoken. "Look, I gotta run. Stuff to do."

"Oh. Okay. Yeah, me too," Mark mumbled, stepping aside to let Kaizer pass. "See ya Monday?"

"Yeah. See ya Monday." Kaizer walked away quickly, not looking back, the awkwardness of the encounter clinging to him. Mark definitely suspected something. The vague BBS reply hadn't thrown him off completely. How long until Mark confronted him directly, or put the pieces together in a way Kaizer couldn't deflect?

He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling the remaining fifty dollars. Tournament entry secured. Cue deal provisionally secured. But the path forward was still littered with obstacles: earn fifty dollars fast, deal with Mark's suspicions, avoid Vince's potential wrath, and somehow prepare to face the formidable Jesse Riley. The victory at Benny's garage felt like a long time ago already, overshadowed by the complex realities of his second chance.