Gotham Pool Tables Novels & Stories

I said, too focused on admiring him. He chuckled. “Do you know anything about pool?” I shook my head, forcing myself to concentrate. “No, not really.” He explained the rules to me, pointing out a few of the games going on around us. A guy at the table next to us nodded at Matt, and he returned the gesture. “Do you know a lot of people here?” I asked. Matt was bent over the pool table, arranging the balls into a triangular shape. “Some regulars, yeah. My friends and I come here a lot.”

“Can’t you see I have company?” “Sheesh, this place is a genuine work of art, ain’t it?” Gia huffed a snarky response. If she was referring to the décor, it was a typical shitty dive bar atmosphere inside. A real motorcycle gang clubhouse, furnished with shitty-looking mismatched tables, chairs salvaged from off a dumpster. It had a run-down bar that stocked cheap, shitty beer and even shittier spirits. In the corner, there was a fucked-up pool table, and over by the battered sofas, there were about a dozen club whores who were spreading their legs for the boys. The noises that were coming from them were more like shrieks of pain rather than sounds of pleasure. When we're turned on, bears te

he raised a brow, “Why? Do you think I’m not?” Flower petals were littered on the carpeted floor we’re walking through. At the end of it was a huge swimming pool that was temporarily covered in thick transparent glass. Its center held the table and two chairs that faced each other. The pool’s celadon waters was still visibly glittering in the afternoon sky and the dining setup on top of it looked as if it was magically floating. It’s beautiful! “I’m giving you time to think about it,” he furrowed his hair handsomely.

I hear Noah's laugh from behind me as I make my way up and down the foyer hallway, opening up doors we haven't been through yet. He comes up to stop me as I'm opening the third coat closet in a row. "It's over here," he says, smiling, gesturing toward the back of the living room. Down in the basement, the floor is carpeted, except for clay-colored tile around the bar area. There's a flatscreen hanging in the corner, some leather couches around a large coffee table, and—yes, there it is. The promised pool table. "Oh, this was the dream back in the day," I say, heading over to it. "Remember?"

All three of them chuckled, causing my heart to quicken at how much I liked that sound. “In a way, yes.” Kingston confirms. Logan and Damien bring me into a room with low lighting and a large black wood pool table with red carpet. The table has intricate design all around it as if the artist spent days, weeks on this specific table. Tiny white dots outline the top of the darkened wood and red pockets sit at the end of all four corners of the rectangular table with a couple more pockets on the side. Kingston returned with a triangle thing in his hands and set it on the table to begin putting balls in the middle of it.

A loyalty transaction, spoken aloud. At the bar, Elthario Genovese gestured too theatrically for a conversation about tomorrow’s weather. He owned every number that spun across a gambling table, from the dark casino behind a clock shop in Lower Manhattan to the legal floors signed off by officials who loved their grease money. Cash moved through Genovese hands like sand through an hourglass, and everyone in the room knew where the river emptied.

There were fewer women compared to men. Bronton knew where to find him; at the gambling area. There were two tables, each of them had fifteen seats. All those seats were occupied by both women and men, young and old. The music was a bit low here compared to other areas, but the players still had to shout to be heard. He found him at the first table. He tapped him and he turned his face up. "Ooh, it is you." He said as he stood up from the table. "I fold." He said to the group of drunks he had been playing with.

The game went on, but my attention drifted. We were inside Alexander’s game room—if you could even call it that. It looked more like a luxury playground for bored billionaires. The place was huge, with velvet walls, dark marble floors, and those ridiculous gold light fixtures that looked like they belonged in a villain’s lair. One side had a pool table with custom balls—each one engraved with his initials, because of course they were. Near the back, there was a bar that probably cost more than my apartment building, stocked with expensive liquor no one even touched. The TV was massive—like, insultingly massive and hanging above a low, black couch that probably wasn't even meant to be sat on,

The green looked a little faded, but still held the right amount of shininess. It was the size of a tennis court, with strings of yellow Christmas lights strung around the wires that supported the ceiling. There were two pool tables up front. Each had its own little hub of guests. They knew the basics of pool, but they were single players, and they were more interested in talking and socializing. “C’mon, let’s find a table,” Abby said as she led us further between the chairs and tables. A few guys whistled as we moved past them.

The bartender comes over, leaning on the bar in front of me. Soda ? Bloody Mary ? No, not even wine seems right if I want to blend in. “Just a small beer and a shot of something strong”. “I got little grey ones and fisherman”. “Little grey ones, I think”. Both taste like shit anyway. “Okey dokey”. He throws a beer brick on the counter and taps my beer. “The pool table in the back, is it free for anyone to use ?” I ask after having paid. “Yeah but I only have the cones. If you’ll take your drinks down I’ll get you the box”. He puts my beer down and disappears.