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“Yeah, what is it, Weldon?”
He waited a moment to reply. In the background I could hear “La Jolie Blonde” on a jukebox and the rattle of pool balls.
“You want to have a bowl of gumbo down at Tee Neg’s?” he asked.
“I’ve already eaten, thanks.”
“You shoot pool?”
“Once in a while. What’s up?”
“Come down and shoot some nine-ball with me.”
“I’m a little busy right now.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“About what?”
“For taking a punch at you. I’m sorry I did it. I wanted to tell you that.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all . . . ‘okay’?”
“I pushed you into a hard corner, Weldon.”
“You’re not still heated up about it?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“B
ecause I wouldn’t want you mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“So come down and shoot some nine-ball.”
“No more games, podna. What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve got to get out of this situation. I need some help. I don’t know anybody else to ask.”
After I hung up I drove over to Tee Neg’s pool hall on Main Street. The interior had changed little since the 1940s. A long mahogany bar with a brass rail and cuspidors ran the length of the room, and on it were gallon jars of cracklings (which are called graton in southern Louisiana), hard-boiled eggs, and pickled hogs’ feet. Wood-bladed fans hung from the ceiling; green sawdust was scattered on the floor; and the pool tables were lighted by tin-shaded lamps. In the back, under the blackboards that gave ball scores from all around the country, old men played dominoes and bourée at the felt tables, and a black man in a porter’s apron shined shoes on a scrolled-iron elevated stand. The air was thick and close with the smell of gumbo, boiled crawfish, draft beer, whiskey, dirty-rice dressing, chewing tobacco, cigarette smoke, and talcum from the pool tables. During football season illegal betting cards littered the mahogany bar and the floor, and on Saturday night, after all the scores were in, Tee Neg (which means “Little Negro” in Cajun French) put oilcloth over the pool tables and served free robin gumbo and dirty rice.
I saw Weldon shooting pool by himself at a table in back. He wore a pair of work boots, clean khakis, and a denim shirt with the sleeves folded in neat cuffs on his tan biceps. He rifled the nine ball into the side pocket.
“You shouldn’t ever hit a side-pocket shot hard,” I said.
“Scared money never wins,” he said, sat at a table with his cue balanced against his thigh, knocked back a jigger of neat whiskey, and chased it with draft beer. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with his wrist. “You want a beer or a cold drink or something?”
“No thanks. What can I do to help you, Weldon?”
He scratched at his brow.
“I want to give it up, but I don’t want to do any time,” he said.
“Not many people do.”
