Watching Fraser play pool, it's like watching a cat stalk a ball of string. It doesn't actually matter worth a damn, but while he's focused on it, it's the most important thing that has ever happened. He's like that a lot with work, but it's a little weird to see him think so hard about a game. Doesn't seem too relaxed, but hey, he says he's having fun, so who am I to argue.

He just learned how to play this game an hour ago. I taught him. Or so he says. Me, I'm ready to believe he never played before an hour ago, which is a whole other thing -- but he lines up his shots too easy, he handles the cue too smooth, to really have not had any idea what was going on. I'd bet he read a book on it, except it'd be a sucker bet. Nobody'd give me any odds at all on that -- of course he read a book on it. Probably read a whole series. "Advanced Billiards for the Amateur" or something in the back of Smilin' George Fraser's Wandering Bookmobile. With snow tires. Booksicle.

Boxing, now, that was something he'd never given much thought before -- not for fun, anyway. Knows how to throw a punch, sure, don't get me wrong. But it's not the same. I always aim my punches to make a guy step back, quit messing with me; Fraser aims his to knock a guy down. When Fraser takes a swing, he's working, and fun don't enter into it.

But this, he knows, and what's more he knows it's a game, so naturally he's read and studied and learned all about it but never actually tried it before now. And what do you know -- he really is starting to enjoy himself, it looks like. Oughtta be -- since I missed my last shot, just hit it the tiniest bit off the angle and left it perching on the very edge instead of dropping into the pocket, he's made four in a row.

Now he's chalking his cue and lining up the next shot. I can see the crinkle in his forehead above the bridge of his nose as he looks at the table, figures out the, the trajections and whatnot -- like playing chess, only you don't have to predict what the other guy's going to do next, because the other guy is physics, so you already know for sure.

I kill my beer and raise the glass to let the waitress know I'm ready for another round. Fraser puts down the chalk and makes a bridge with his left hand and lines up and draws back and snap, the cue ball thwacks Number Five off the opposite wall and into the corner pocket.

This is turning into a drag.

He misses the next shot, thank god, so I get up to survey the scene. I got three balls left on the table, he has two, and the eight ball is sitting up against the edge, mocking me. I knock off the two in the middle of the table first, then bump the cue ball so it barely brushes against that pain in the ass twelve ball hovering in the corner, and then I can slam that sucker across the end of the table and knock the eight ball in without rolling in behind it. Game's over before the waitress comes back with my beer.

Fraser's nodding. Seems impressed. "That was well played, Ray."

"Thanks, Fraser." The guy at the next table lights a cigarette, and my palms itch. "You're doing pretty well yourself."

"Beginner's luck, I assure you." He leans his cue against the wall and takes a swallow of his ginger ale. His throat convulses once, and then he puts down the glass and leans over to pick up the rack, and his fingers curl around each of the balls as he sets them up for the next game, and I haven't heard a word he's said for way longer than can really be a good idea.

"So even the hand position is similar, though of course in these conditions one needn't wear gloves," he says, and lifts the rack away from the setup. "I believe it falls to me to strike the blow?"

I can feel the corner of my mouth twitch. "Yeah, Fraser. It falls to you," I say. "Your break."

"Ah. Yes. My break. Right." He places the cue ball on the dot with what's probably mathematical precision, then sets up and takes the shot and the cue ball hits the one ball with a crack that sends the rest of them skittering.

The smoke from the guy's cigarette at the next table is drifting over our way and clouding around Fraser's head. Pretty soon it'll mingle with the smoke from the bar, and even out, and the whole place will be a little greyer -- but for now, Fraser's got this haze around him that, combined with a pint and a half of beer, just makes him look ... so fine.

He got solids off the break. Instead of watching his next shot, I prop my chin on my hand and go ahead and watch him.

Hip shot and leaning over the table. Back straight. Shoulders down. Collar's starting to fray, and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. Eyes on the ball, like a batter, and two steps ahead, like a boxer. His tongue presses against his lower lip. His hands are sure as he sets up the shot, takes it, sinks it.

He runs the table.

I'm so caught up in watching him that I haven't been counting the shots. I see him straighten up and look over at me, cock his head, give me a little shrug and a half smile, and it isn't until I'm on my feet and looking at the table that I realize the game is over.

"It's your move, Ray."

I've taken a breath to tell him I don't get a move, but when I turn around I can see that he knows this. He knows he won the whole thing before I even had a chance to take a shot.

That must mean he's not talking about pool any more.

I smile at him and set down my cue. My friends, there's no trouble in River City -- none at all.

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