The only customer on a drowsy Sunday afternoon, the tall man in the cowboy hat and Western shirt was idly lagging the cue-ball up and down the table at "Redsticks", a billiards lounge on the Airline in Baton Rouge, when she came in and strolled over to the bar. A voluptuous woman, dressed much better than the pool-chickies who generally frequented this place, which had admittedly seen better days. He let his eyes follow her on her way, but turned back to the table as the bartender placed a cocktail-napkin in front of her to take her order. Shoving the cue-ball out of the way, he placed the diamond-shaped nine-ball rack on the red baize and began to circle the table, retrieving balls from the six woven-leather pockets and depositing them into the rack, in no particular order. Then, he stepped to the rack end and began to array the balls properly for a break. This done, he reached for his cue, a house model in trademark red, and chalked it, glancing casually over toward the bar. The woman had swiveled around on her stool and was watching him. She raised her tall tulip glass to him and smiled.
He waved distractedly to her and took his stance at the break end of the table, setting the ball behind the break line and drawing a bead on it with the cue. After a few slow, preparatory strokes, he drew the cue back and let fly. CRACK! The sharply-struck cue-ball rocketed toward the racked object balls, simultaneously hitting the one- and three-ball. The tightly packed balls exploded out of their positions and began to rebound madly off the cushions. Gradually they slowed, and just before all motion ceased, the one- and four-ball found welcoming pockets. He nodded in satisfaction and rounded the corner of the table to line up his next shot, on the deuce.
It would have to be either a difficult cut-shot, or a bank, his particular nemesis. Shaking his head once, he set up behind the cue and, shifting slightly, lined up for the fine cut. He smoothly stroked the cue; the cue-ball merely glanced off the deuce before proceeding on its way up-table – but the deuce, barely moving, trickled into the side pocket.
He smiled tightly at his continued good fortune, leaned the cue against the side of the table and returned to his table to take a swig of his beer. Taking the last barely cool gulp, he drained the bottle and stepped forward to get another at the bar. He halted suddenly when he saw the woman was right in front of him!
"Hi, Cowboy!" she said. "Mind if I watch?"
He looked her over quickly but thoroughly. She wore a shiny light-blue silk blouse with a plunging neck-line, and a very short navy skirt. His mouth suddenly going dry, he blurted, "Tell you what: if you'll let me know what you're drinking, I'll bring us each one!"
"Why, thank you, sir!" she replied. "And it's white Zinfandel...."
Shortly, he returned with another bottle of Coors Light and a tall, stemmed glass of wine. They did the clink, wink and drink together and sat for a moment at the tiny cocktail table, introducing themselves and making small talk. She repeatedly batted her eyes coquettishly at him. He thought, this could be my lucky day – and if you can't get lucky on your lucky day, when can you?
