The Death Relic

12

After dinner, Payne and Jones went to a sports bar on East Carson Street, where they could shoot pool and watch the hockey game. Led by Sidney Crosby, one of the best players in the world, the Pittsburgh Penguins were playing a late-night game against the Vancouver Canucks. Despite the bad weather outside, the bar was packed with Penguins fans, many of whom wore the team’s black and gold colours as they guzzled beer and shouted profanities at the dozens of TVs.

For Payne, a joint like this felt like home. Despite his military academy education and his title as CEO of Payne Industries, he was a blue-collar guy at heart. Raised by his grandfather, who had started out as a labourer at a local steel mill before starting his own company, Payne spent much of his childhood in a hard hat. During the school year, he was allowed to concentrate on academics and athletics, both of which he excelled at, but during the summer months, his grandfather put him to work on the floor alongside grizzled men more than twice his age who picked on him because of his surname. The experience did more than toughen Payne up. It showed him how blessed he was to have opportunities outside of the mill.

‘Nice shot,’ Jones teased as he put down his beer and grabbed the pool cue from Payne. ‘Too bad you missed.’

Payne shrugged. ‘The hockey game distracted me.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s still my turn. Let me show you how it’s done.’ Jones eyed the table for a few seconds, then pointed to the far end. ‘Six ball, corner pocket.’

He calmly lined up the shot, then buried the ball with one swift strike.

Payne grunted but said nothing, which was standard protocol for them. When they competed against each other, compliments were nonexistent unless someone did something miraculous — like a hole-in-one in golf or a 300-game in bowling — and even those comments came begrudgingly. Once their match was complete, their friendship returned to normal, but during the heat of battle, they were competitors who did just about anything to gain an advantage. And that included playing mind games.

‘So,’ Payne said, ‘I’m surprised you like eight-ball as much as you do.’

Jones moved around the table, looking for his next shot. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Because it’s a blatantly racist game.’

‘You mean like hockey? I haven’t seen a black player yet.’

‘No, I’m talking about the game’s hidden meaning.’

Jones shook his head, trying to ignore Payne. ‘You are so predictable. As soon as I start to win, you start yapping. Yap, yap, yap. Like a little dog. It’s pathetic.’

Payne remained silent, patiently letting his remark fester. He knew the comment about race would eventually be addressed, and when it did, it would mess with his friend’s mind.

Jones studied the table. ‘Four ball, side pocket … No, wait. Scratch that. Two ball, far corner. I think I can squeeze it in past the twelve …’

‘What’s wrong?’ Payne asked.

Jones repositioned himself for the shot. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘Are you sure? Because it looks like something’s wrong.’

He ignored the question and attempted the shot, which he missed by a few inches. Not because he was distracted, but because it was a difficult shot. ‘Shit.’

Payne fought the urge to smile as he snatched the cue back. ‘Wow! That was really close. You must be heartbroken. I’ll tell you what: if you want, we can move the balls back and I’ll let you try again. That’s what my dad used to do … when I was three.’

‘Screw you.’

‘I can even pick you up so you can see over the edge of the table a little better. For a short guy like you that’s a pretty big disadvantage.’

Jones sneered as he returned to their corner table. He took a long swig of beer before he spoke again. ‘What were you talking about before?’

‘When?’

‘Earlier.’

‘Yeah, that really narrows it down.’

Jones growled softly. ‘That bullshit about eight-ball.’

‘Oh, that. I was wondering when we’d get back to that. I heard some sociologist talking about it on TV. He claims eight-ball is a racist game that should be boycotted by everyone.’

‘Really? Why’s that?’

Payne explained the theory. ‘The cue ball, which is white, is used to knock around all the coloured balls. The balls that are solid in colour have the lowest numbers on them. In other words, they have the lowest value according to society. Meanwhile, the striped balls, which are half white, have higher numbers, giving them a greater intrinsic value.’

Jones grunted. ‘I never thought of it like that.’

‘But that’s not the worst part.’

‘It’s not?’

Payne shook his head. ‘The object of the game is to knock the eight-ball, which is black, off the table. Nobody wins until the black ball gets eliminated. Once it does, we celebrate.’

‘Son of a bitch! We’re playing a racist game.’

‘Just say the word and we can quit.’

From his seat in the corner, Jones eyed the playing surface. He had a three-ball lead in their current game. ‘Not right now. I’m winning.’

‘Are you sure? Because I’m more than willing to quit—’

Jones interrupted him. ‘Not a chance in hell! It’s funny how you didn’t mention this racism thing when you were kicking my ass in the last game.’

‘I didn’t think of it then.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘Wait! What are you suggesting? That I’d stoop so low as to use race issues to my personal advantage.’

Jones nodded. ‘Just like a whitey.’

Payne faked indignation. More like brothers than friends, they constantly joked about race without offending one another. It had been that way for as long as they could remember. ‘How dare you call me whitey! I’m an honorary black guy. You said so yourself.’

‘You were until you made up that bullshit about a sociologist.’

‘Bullshit? What bullshit?’

Jones called his bluff. ‘Sociologist, my ass! That eight-ball-is-racist skit is one of the oldest jokes in the world. I’ve heard everyone from Martin Lawrence to Chris Rock talk about it. If you’re gonna distract me, you need to come up with fresher material.’

Before Payne could respond, he heard his phone ring above the din of the bar. It was sitting on their table, right next to Jones. ‘Can you grab that for me?’

‘Not a chance. You’ll use it as an excuse to quit.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘Yes, you will.’

‘At least tell me who’s calling. I won’t pick up unless it’s important.’

Jones sighed and grabbed the phone. He did a double take when he read the caller ID. The name on the screen was a blast from the past. Not Payne’s past. His own past. For a moment, it took his breath away, like a sucker punch to the gut. Why in the hell was she calling Payne in the middle of the night? The two of them didn’t talk — or did they? If so, his best friend had been keeping it from him.

Suddenly his world was filled with doubt.

Payne searched for his next shot. ‘Who is it?’

‘Maria,’ he said softly.

‘Who?’

Jones cleared his throat and spoke louder. ‘Maria.’

‘Maria who? I don’t know any Marias.’

He glared at his friend. ‘Maria Pelati.’

Payne stopped what he was doing and focused on Jones. From the look in his eyes, it was obvious he wasn’t happy about the call. ‘Really? Why’s she calling me?’

He continued to glare. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’