Balling the Jack. Frank Baldwin

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СКАЧАТЬ turn around. The first sight of Claire each week is a tonic. Scrubbed features, light freckles, milk in her eye. A heartland princess in the teeth of the big city. She gives us a kiss.

      “You look great, Claire. Feel hot tonight?”

      “Like always.”

      Don’t let her fool you. She may look sweet, but put a dart in her hands and Claire is a killer. She’ll be key tonight. You should see these Irish guys when they go up against a good-looking girl. Boy, do they lock up. We might be in McDougal’s, or O’Flannery’s, and all Claire has to do is shake her opponent’s hand and he starts to sweat. If the guy is getting any action at all, it clearly isn’t in her league. When she steps to the line to warm up he can’t keep his eyes off her ass. He’s a mess before the game even starts.

      In darts it doesn’t take a lot to knock you off-stride. An eighth of an inch turns a triple 20 into a triple 1. The guy gets behind early, still out of it, and then the ribbing starts up from his teammates.

      “Can’t beat a girl, lad?”

      “What’ll you have from the bar, Wally? A wine cooler?”

      Brutal. So then he starts to press, swearing between throws, his dart arm full of tension. Claire hits a big round and now the pressure is really on, and the peanut gallery turns it up a notch.

      “Whyn’t you tell us it was ladies’ night, Wally?” All of a sudden this A league darter can barely hit the board. Claire finishes him off and the guy slinks back to the bar, ruined for the rest of the evening. We’ve seen it a dozen times.

      Dave walks in humming the Notre Dame fight song. He puts his arms around the three of us, bringing our heads together.

      “Gentlemen. Claire. We WILL win it all. You know what I did last night?”

      No one offers a guess.

      “Think of the great fighters, before a fight.”

      “You slept alone,” says Jimmy.

      “I slept alone.”

      “You’re a martyr, Dave,” I say.

      “I am that. Though I’ll confess that since I swore off Catholic girls, the rotation’s been a little weak.” He turns to Claire. “I may be able to slip you in there.”

      She laughs. “I’ll pass.”

      “Okay. But that does mean Debbie’s going to have to go again on two days’ rest.”

      Claire shakes her head. “Tell me, Dave, where do you find these women?”

      “Claire, Claire.” Dave takes a long taste of his pint and winks at us. “They find me.”

      Tank and Bobby walk in together and join us at the bar. Tank kisses Claire and scowls at the rest of us.

      “I been thinking about this all day,” he says. “Didn’t get a lick of work done.”

      Tank was my roommate junior year. The fullback on the football team until he tore up his knee, then keg captain of his frat. He’s the only guy in New York who knows more about the Mets than I do. His perfect Friday night is a case of beer and a video of the ’86 Series. A solid dart player and a no-bullshit guy. Likes a head butt before every match, and as captain I oblige.

      Bobby would fit nicely under Tank’s arm. He’s five feet three and looks fourteen years old. Nearly cost us a playoff match a few months back by forgetting his license. We paid off the bouncer to get him in but no dice getting him a drink, and sober his game deserted him. We were lucky to squeak by. Bobby is a freak of nature. He can’t weigh more than 140 pounds but he goes beer for beer with any of us, and the damnedest thing is he never has to piss. We can’t figure out where it all goes. He jumps onto a barstool.

      “Okay, guys. Ante up.”

      Bobby is also the songmaster. He gets two bucks from each of us to load up the jukebox before a match. Dave held the job at the start of the season but lost our trust. He was liable to spring Madonna on us, or Loverboy. He played them back to back at midseason and we booted him. I speak up.

      “Before you go, Bobby. Everyone in close. Mason, a round of tequilas, please.”

      “Pep talk,” says Bobby.

      “Who do I kill, captain?” says Tank.

      “Give us the word, skip,” says Jimmy.

      “Put me in the mood,” says Claire.

      Mason pours them out.

      “Okay, guys,” I say, “I’ll keep it simple.” I look at each in turn.

      “Tonight we’re the ’69 Mets.” We raise our shots. “Bottoms up.”

      We toss them back, turn our glasses over on the bar and walk to the boards. We’re ready.

CHAPTER FIVE

      ALL A CAPTAIN can ask is to have his ace on the line with a shot to win it. Come on, Jimmy—put the stake in these guys.

      An hour ago it didn’t look so good. The Hellions jumped on us early, winning four of six singles. We fought back in cricket to even the score, split the first two doubles 501 games and here we are—all tied up. Our big guns against theirs in one game for the Manhattan championship. A hell of a game it’s been, too. Jimmy and Tank have torn up the board but Killigan and Duggan have matched them dart for dart. Now, at the finish, all that stands between us and one hell of a party is the double 16 Jimmy is stepping up there to hit. He has no margin for error, because if he misses, Killigan gets his own chance to win it, and Sean Killigan hasn’t missed all night.

      I’m scoring the match. Chalking, we call it. From my spot next to the board I face the shooters and the two teams spread around the table behind them. The Drinkers stand to the left, Bobby and Claire on their chairs for a better view. Claire watches through her fingers and Bobby looks away, then back, then away again. Dave has his fist in the air, ready to yell. Tank, Jimmy’s partner, gives him a nod of encouragement and takes a big draw from his pint.

      Off to the right the Hellions stand together, silent. Even with a loss staring at him, Duggan’s face is a sneer. He looks at me, and when he sees that I see he flicks his eyes at jimmy, shakes his head, and draws a finger across his throat. I look back at the board. I could sure use a drink, but chalkers aren’t allowed one. Christ. Playing a tough game is bad enough. Watching it is murder.

      Jimmy steps to the mark. Most guys take a little extra time with the game on the line. Rub their shoulders, take some deep breaths. Jimmy is all business, though, and as he locks in on the target, my gut tightens with joy. He has that look to him, the one he gets when he’s really on. Staring so hard at the board I know he can’t see anything else. He pulls his arm back to throw and the rush hits me and it’s all I can do not to smile. Because I know, sure as gold, that Jimmy’s going to bury it. And when he does I’m the only one in the bar who doesn’t see it because I’m not looking at the board but at Duggan. His face and the roar of the gang tell me it’s in and I throw the chalk in the air and hell breaks loose.

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