Page 49 of Never Never

Fuck. Pan. He’s gone. He’s storming out, to God knows where, and Tink’s not going with him this time. But we both know—we all know—he can’t be out unsupervised. Not when he’s acting like this.

So I guess it’s up to me.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, and all but vault down the stairs after him. “Pan!”

He’s fast, mounting his bike and zipping off, but not fast enough. I catch him at a red, weave through traffic after him, his jacket unzipped and flapping like a flag in the wind, until an abrupt turn across three lanes of traffic, a dead stop across two parking spaces, and we arrive at his destination.

It’s a thumbnail of a place. A brick corner building on the outside, with a yellowing sign proclaiming it The Social—A Neighborhood Ale House. But it’s got pool, and I guess that’s good enough for Pan.

“All right,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket as we step inside. We’ve been the odd visit or two before, when Treasure’s closed for a private event or Pan just gets the itch for a change of scenery. The brick walls don’t do much to hide the scream of traffic noise from the street, and the jukebox is tinny. Christmas lights, wood paneling, nicotine sheen over everything. Not my favorite, but I’ve been in worse. “Who do we got here?”

“Up to you,” I say.

Pan sticks his tongue in his cheek, orders up a beer, and proceeds to the tables. I sit in the corner and nurse a whiskey.

It’s a third-rate hustle at best, and he’s a medium good player on his best day. But slowly it works. One round, then another. Frustrated truckers with red faces shake their heads and slap bills into his palm, and with each one, I see the spark come back into his eyes a little more.

“Well, how do you like that?” he says, bellying up to the bar next to me. “Now we’re cooking with gas.” He fans out his winnings. A hundred, maybe a buck fifty—they’re crumpled and it’s hard to tell. He slaps down a ten and scores himself two more bottles. “And you people say I’ve lost my touch,” he says.

“We didn’t,” I mutter into my whiskey. But maybe I should.

“You fellas playing pool?” Another taker. Salt-and-pepper hair, T-shirt, mustache. He nods at both of us.

“That, my good sir, I am,” Pan says, deftly swapping his bottles and cue to his empty left hand so he can shake with his prospective opponent. “What do you wager?”

“Start with twenty,” the guy offers.

Pan nods and pumps his hand. “You got yourself a deal.” They circle the table, Pan on his own, and his latest matchup with a friend of his—could be his brother, honestly.

“This is my kind of earning money,” Mustache says to his buddy. Enough for me to hear, but not quite for Pan to catch it across the room. I watch as he bends over, takes a corner shot, and sinks it, but prick my ears to whatever these two are talking about.

“No kidding,” says his buddy.

“No Uncle Sam on my back. No pay stubs to report.” The first one saunters over, nips at the cue ball, and scratches. “God damn,” he whispers under his breath.

“Tough luck, my friend,” Pan says, sidling over to line up his next shot. “Better luck next time, eh?”

The guy ignores him. “You know she’s come after me again this week,” he says to his friend. “Threatening to make them garnish my pay.”

His buddy whistles. “Bullshit.”

Pan sinks the next shot in one smooth, swift jab of the stick. He pumps a fist in victory and spins in a little circle on his heel, not that anyone’s watching his show.

“Goddamn right.” Mustache empties his beer. “You should have heard her; it was so pathetic. Oh, the kid needs shoes. It’s gonna be back to school. Blah blah blah.” He makes a little cry-baby face, turning his hand next to his eye.

His friend snickers. “Yeah, boo hoo hoo.”

“I’m telling you, fuckin’ females today want everything handed to ‘em.”

Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I see Pan’s shoulders stiffen.

“So what’d you tell her?”

Mustache makes a shot, scattering balls with a crack but landing nothing. He swears and Pan grins, milking the moment. Rubbing his chin as he pretends to consider his angles, line up his next shot. Staying a little too closely in this guy’s bubble.

“Whaddya think I fuckin’ told her?” Mustache gestures with his bottle. “Said it’s my money and I’m not stocking up her house. Then she’s all, they’re gonna take the kids, and I said well good, sounds like they’d be doing you a favor⁠—”

Bang.