By Frank Weber
The story was always the same. The girls would see him. They would latch onto him. Sometimes, they would even fuck him. But none of them would ever last. He was exciting and mysterious – at first, anyway.
Then the reality of his life would set in.
He was out and still on parole, and he was perpetually unemployed.
Guys like him never seemed to have a steady job, so he figured he was shooting par for the course.
They always saw the romantic side of him first. The women that hit on him all had their fun as fast as they could, but sooner or later, the idea of supporting him didn’t set too well. He figured he was lucky because they could never really kick him to the curb.
About all they could do was stop calling him and start locking their doors.
So they shut him out. Big, fat, fucking deal. They shut him out…until the next night they found themselves alone at home, late at night, liquored-up and hornier than a goat.
Then he was suddenly worth at least a phone call again.
Then they might even show up at 3:00AM, pounding on his door.
None of it was anything new, and his response was always the same.
C’mon in, but you can’t stay too long. You bore the living hell out of me.
So went his life.
He scrapped and scrounged for each and every nickel he could find.
Most of the time, he had no idea if he would have enough change for a glass of beer.
Years of this forced him to hone his skills in ‘the art of the bum’
Didn’t matter if it was some high-society, bored housewife or a street-wise – and yes, bored – twenty-something girl, the effect was still the same. He didn’t even care about how much he could get – if anything – or even what he could get.
Sometimes it was sympathy and sex.
Sometimes it was sympathy and a few dollars.
Sometimes, he managed to finagle their sympathy into a warm place to sleep for a couple of nights. What a life, he thought.
But…at least I can still hustle. Maybe the next one’ll pay off big.
But, it never seemed to work out that way.
He was beginning to think that no he had no way to break free from this life.
Once he was saddled with ‘Convicted Atlantic City Cat Burglar’, that was all anyone would ever know of him.
He was sixty-three years old now.
He was only just paroled last April after a fifteen-year stint up-state.
Still, as harmful as it was to his societal standing, just the idea of being with a ‘Convicted Atlantic City Cat Burglar’ struck a chord with some women. It excited them, and – for a little while at least – it clouded their better judgment. It was one of the absolute best pick-up lines he had ever used.
If he wanted some, he could get it. He just couldn’t keep it. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he ever did get the chance to keep it. He was past caring about those things.
And his encounters were not limited to women his own age, either. He was so pleasantly surprised to find so many younger, very eager, and very willing women that just wanted to ‘try out an old man like him’
Didn’t make much difference if it was from boredom or ‘daddy issues’ or even rebellion, the tune always played out the same.
Hey there, Good Girl…I’m a Bad Boy. Come gimme some.
He was a heavy drinker. He was a notorious womanizer.
But what he really loved was gambling. He was a consummate, degenerate gambler.
All other vices took a back seat when it came to a chance to gamble.
He celebrated the Triple Crown the same way other folks would celebrate Christmas.
The bar held parties just especially for him and his love of the track.
Actually, they loved the money he made for them laying off bets on this race to offset that race. He seemed to have a touch when it came to gambling, although you couldn’t prove it by looking at his life.
When the bell sounded, everything stopped in his mind and he stood there, pool cue in hand, leaning against the table totally transfixed by the hooves in flight. For all the excitement he felt, he never let it show. A thoroughbred gambler. Maybe he bit a little harder on his cigarette. Maybe he blew out smoke into his glass as he drank it down. Mostly, he just shook his head, and then looked away.
The only good thing about the end of a bad race is knowing there’s always another race waiting to run.
Losing on the horses always bothered him a little more than poker or dice. There was something inherently romantic about the track. Something that took him back to ‘better days’. Better only because he got away with so much more.
One afternoon, as the races ticked off at Pimlico, a woman in her early forties wrote her name on the board to play pool. When he was running the table, no one ever wasted the time it took to write their name down. But she didn’t care. Besides, she wanted to talk to Tony about his days in Atlantic City. She wanted a piece of the old-time cat burglar-gambler. She romanticized his criminal past.
It took him all of about two minutes to run the first rack on her.
She racked the table again.
He ran it again just as fast. He shot her a bored glance and a heavy sigh.
She racked the table again.
Tony said, “I feel bad, kid, but you’re not gonna beat me. Why don’t you just have a drink?”
She glared back at him. “Get yourself a drink and break ‘em!”
She lit a cigarette and dragged in heavily on it.
“I want to hear about Atlantic City. I want to hear how you could break into hotel rooms. Let’s have it!”
“That’s not something I talk about anymore, kid. I did my time for it and I left it all behind on the boardwalk.”
“Bullshit! Come on! I really want to hear about it!”
She slinked over to him and reached her lips up to his ear and whispered, “I’ll bet you I win this next game. If I win, you tell all about Atlantic City. If you win, I’ll let you do anything you want to me.” She defiantly blew a stream of smoke in his face. She believed she was sharking him.
Tony didn’t make a sound. He just nodded slightly. The bet was on.
He re-racked the table and motioned for her to break it up.
She smiled and looked around at everyone that was now watching.
They knew what was happening. They’d seen it all before.
She dropped the first three balls and then missed an easy bank shot. It was Tony’s shot.
BUT…it was post time. The Preakness was about to run. The world must now stop turning so that he could watch the race. No exceptions.
She couldn’t believe that he just stopped playing and leaned against the table to watch the TV.
He was playing a game for a piece of her ass!
Then she realized that everyone else in the bar did the same thing.
And it was all-of-a-sudden quiet in the place – almost church-like.
She tried to make bad jokes to get his attention, but all she did was annoy him more.
She even gave him a shove to try and throw him off balance from the table. It didn’t work.
She stood there, arms crossed, fuming from being put in second place behind a horse race on TV.
In two minutes, the race was over. The bartender came over and whispered something to Tony. Both men smiled and Tony nodded to him. The bartender slapped Tony on the back and went back behind the bar, very obviously happy with the race.
She was ready to burst. “What’s the big fucking deal with horses? You got a chance to have all this and you stop to watch TV? What the fuck is your problem?”
Tony didn’t say a word. He leaned over the table and dropped two balls with one shot.
He dropped two more balls on his next shot.
In a matter of minutes, the eight-ball sat alone, smack-dab in front of the corner pocket.
The eight ball fell with a loud, glassy crack, and it was over. That fast.
He looked up at her and never took his eyes off her as he laid his cue across the table.
He grabbed her by the arm and led her into the men’s room. “You lose. You owe me.”
She didn’t resist him at all because she looked at it as a win-win for herself – either she got the stories or she got to try him out. She was ok with losing to him.
He latched the door behind him and turned her around.
He bent her over the sink counter and pulled her skirt up over her hips.
He yanked her panties down and pushed them to the floor.
He unbuckled his jeans, pulled out his cock and pushed it up and into her.
Long, powerful, almost angry strokes and thrusts as deep as he could get them into her.
Her nails scraped on the counter with each lunge forward over the sink.
She caught herself in the mirror, and she saw him working her harder than she ever imagined he could. She closed her eyes and began to cry out and moan and she rocked her body with the pounding he gave her. She took it all and even managed to take it with a smile.
Finally, with one last thrust that lifted her feet off the floor, he finished inside her.
And collected on his bet.
He put himself back together and buckled his jeans and his belt.
She hadn’t moved yet, still bent over the counter, still gasping and moaning, wearing a stunned grin on her face.
He bent down and pulled her panties up for her.
He pulled her skirt back down and straightened it for her.
He turned her around and she expected a kiss. Not quite.
He lowered his glasses and glared at her.
“The House always wins, Honey.” And he playfully patted her cheek.
“You’re a good fuck, but you gotta go now.”
And with that, he unlatched the door and walked back out into the barroom.
She came out a few minutes later.
No one paid her any attention. They’d seen it all before.
She threw a couple dollars on the pool table in front of Tony on her way out the door.
“Fuck you, old man! You ain’t nothing special! You’ll always be lowlife criminal!”
Tony made his break shot and turned his eyes up to her, “You should go take a shower, kid.”
Her face turned ten shades of blood-red as she stumbled in an embarrassed hurry to get out of the place. And then she was gone.
One of the younger guys that was playing pool with Tony said with a smirk, “And you just can’t figure out why you can’t ever keep a woman, huh, Tony?”
“Sooner or later they all figure it out. I’m nothing special. Not to anyone. Not for any reason. The game always ends the same way, with me flat-broke-busted – either blowin’ my last dollar at the track or blowin’ my nut inside a broad like that. The House always wins.
But, hey, ya know what, kid?”
He stopped talking the second he caught sight of her coming back into the bar.
She wrote her name on the board again and leaned against the wall.
She crossed her arms, cocked her hips and smiled at him.
He winked back at her, pushed up his glasses and dragged on his cigarette.
Without looking down at the table, he lined up his next shot and turned his eyes back to the kid.
Under the loud, glassy smacking of the billiard balls across the table he said,
“That’s the only way the balls wanna roll when you’re just another gigolo in the unemployment line, kid.”
About Frank Weber:
Frank Weber is a freelance writer from Erie, Pennsylvania. He has been published in several print and digital magazines, local interest books and advertising campaigns as both writer and model. His work encompasses a firm conviction, a simple honesty in written word and enough of a raw edge to make people feel what they read. Website: www.frankietatts.com
Twitter: @frankietatts_
Instagram: @frankietatts
Comments