In Dark Corners by Gene O'Neill Read Free Book Online Page B

a dozen credit cards, carefully matching them with driver's licenses—we could get a ten-spot for each set from Fat Freddie—then began to count the money.
    While Frankie was counting the money, I unfolded the silver vinyl thing. It was kinda like a credit card holder, 'cept the individual packets didn't contain credit cards.

    [washed]

    No, there was a bunch of… miniature instruments; and, at first, I thought it must be a safecracker kit of some kind, or lock picks.
    "Two-hunnerd-niney-seben-dollars!" Frankie said, with a kind of triumphant note in his tone, slurring the numbers all together. He held the money in his fist as he moved to the urinal.
    I nodded absently, flipping at a buzzing fly bothering me and staring at the instruments in the vinyl holder. Whatever, it sure weren't no B 'n E man's kit. Built into the center of the holder was a thin, round face, kinda like a pocket watch, but instead of a second hand there was a neon-blue dot circling and there were no numbers 'round the perimeter. It was the strangest timepiece I'd ever seen, if that's what it was. I noticed two tiny buttons at the bottom of the watch face. So, I punched the one and the neon-blue dot suddenly stopped and pulsed. "Hey, look at this, Frankie," I said, touching his shoulder and kinda chuckling—
    Frankie was quite still at the urinal, one hand still clutching the bills, the other holding his johnson, but he wasn't pissing. He wasn't doing anything; he was frozen in place. And the fly that had been bothering me had lit on the light switch, and wouldn't move either, even when I tried to brush over it.
    "What the hell—?" I said, breaking off the useless question.
    Then, I punched the other tiny button beneath the funny circle face.
    "...We done okay, didn't we, Smooth?" Frankie was asking, taking his leak. The stupid fly buzzed up from the light switch, landing on Frankie's shoulder.
    And, I punched the other button, again.
    Just like before, Frankie and the fly were frozen again.
    In fact, the only living thing that moved in that restroom was me. Fascinated, I stared down at the tiny piece of equipment in my hand, the second hand dot—or whatever it was—was pulsing at about one o'clock on the numberless face. What the hell did I have here? I punched the other button.
    Frankie finished pissing, the fly buzzing overhead. "Meetcha in the hall," he slurred, zipping up and stepping to the door, after he pocketed the roll of bills. "I'm hungry. You wanna burger or anything?"
    I shook my head, taking his place at the urinal. "You go 'head," I managed to say, still dumbfounded by the strange timepiece, "I'll be out shortly. And I ain't hungry."
    Frankie nodded and stepped into the pool hall.

    ***

    About five minutes later I stepped out of the restroom, too, my head a little clearer. I had decided not to worry about what I had or where it came from, but how could I use it. And Frankie was setting up an opportunity for me on a snooker table.
    "Watch this, Smooth," he said, trying a difficult shot, cutting a red ball at a tough angle into the right corner, the cue ball traveling the length of the snooker table. Once, he'd been a decent shot, and we'd hustled a few bucks. But now, even though his hands were steady when he shot, the Parker's had screwed up his stroke—and stroke's everything to a shooter, especially a pool hustler. A couple of guys were watching Frankie, half-ass smirks on their faces.
    "Hey, you, Ten-ball," I said to one of the lookers, "I got me a five-spot says Frankie makes the shot."
    The guy looked me square in the eye, you know, and kinda laughed, not sure if I meant it. "Hey, you really serious, Smooth?"
    I pulled a five outta my pocket, laid it on the polished wood railing of the snooker table, and winked at him.
    Frankie wasn't saying anything. He just eyed the shot, frowning and licking his lips; and he wore a kinda hangdog expression, like a little kid knowing he was about to take an ass-whupping from the class bully