It’s the back room of a smoky Irish pub and everyone is already there by the time I walk in the door. Mickey Finnegan is racking up the balls on the pool table in the middle of the room. He looks up when I come in and tips me a wink, “There’yar Tommy. We were about to start the tea party without ya.” He’s the spitting image of the suave mobster, Mickey. Tailored grey pinstriped suit, tilted hat, a weeks worth of beard and a cigar between his teeth. He finishes racking the balls, “You play kid?”
“A bit.” I reply and he tosses me a cue then begins chalking his own. There’s three other men in the room, two of whom I recognized and a third I’ve never seen before. There’s a dark haired youth slouched at the bar; Billy the Kid they call him. Named after some TV action hero or some shit. Boy sure knows how to handle a gun though. Midget sits in the corner, watching everyone with those shifty eyes. Fucking nervous case, no way I’d have him watching my back if I had a choice in the matter. The last guy is older and bald, with massive hands, a scar across his cheek and an air of quiet confidence. Mickey leans forward and sights down his cue, “Tommy, you’ve already met Midget and Billy, this is Romper, a mate of mine from way back.” We nod to each over across the table, “Well then, lets get this circus on the road shall we gentleman.”
Mickey fires down the cue ball, sending the numbers spinning every which way around the table.
The one and the four go down in opposite pockets.
“We’ve got one week,” Mickey begins, “We hit the bookies at eleven am sharp, the armourguard truck doesn’t come till midday Thursday.”
The two-ball drops in the opposite corner.
“Wednesday’s the night of the fight, by Thursday morning there should be at least two-hundred thousand bundled up in the coffers of the bookies.”
Three clips the seven and goes down in a side pocket.
“Romper will make the drop in a Ford with taped plates, then take a drive around the block. We’ve got four minutes to be in and out with the cash.”
Mickey strokes the orange five ball and it follows the six into a corner pocket.
“We don’t want any alarms. Any smartarses- just use your imagination, get creative on his arse, but whatever you do, don’t kill anyone.”
Double on the seven goes down in a middle pocket.
“When we’re in there, just leave the talking to me. Simple… right? Any questions?”
“Yeah” I look at the pool table, “you gonna give me a shot?”
Mickey flashes me a smile and shoots without even looking at the ball. “Not likely son.”
The eight-ball drops.
“If everything goes to plan lads, this time next week you’ll all be thirty grand richer.”
Mickey slots the nine.
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2 comments:
Why wasn't the eight ball black!? Also, I wanted all the coloured words to link to things (which might have been difficult to do as well as the specific colours).
Reading my comment again, I didn't mean to sound so picky. I liked this piece.
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