on that way for a couple of hours, with Robbie getting sloppy drunk,
losing to Dad, and groping me when we danced or sat at the bar between
games. All Dad said to me was. "Keep your legs crossed, honey, and
keep 'em crossed tight."
After Dad had taken him for about eighty bucks, Robbie started
muttering angrily to himself. He snapped down the cue chalk, sending up
a puff of blue powder, and missed a final shot. He flung his cue on the
table and announced he'd had enough, then sat down next to me. His eyes
were bleary. He kept saying he couldn't believe that old fart had beat him
out of eighty bucks, as if he couldn't decide whether he was pissed off or
impressed.
Then he told me he lived in an apartment over the bar. He had a Roy
Acuff record that wasn't on the jukebox, and he wanted us to go upstairs
and listen to it. If all he wanted to do was dance some more and maybe
kiss a little, I could handle that. But I had the feeling he thought he was
entitled to something in return for losing so much money.
"I'm not sure," I said.
"Aw, come on," he said and shouted at Dad, "I'm going to take your girl
upstairs."
"Sure," Dad said. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do." He pointed his
pool cue at me. "Holler if you need me," he said and winked at me as if
to say he knew I could take care of myself, that this was just a part of my
job.
So, with Dad's blessing, I went upstairs. Inside the apartment, we pushed
through a curtain made from strands of beer-can pull tabs linked
together. Two men sat on a couch watching wrestling on television.
When they saw me, they grinned wolfishly at Robbie, who put on the
Roy Acuff record without turning down the television. He pressed me to