Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

‘Can’t wear no club jacket in here,’ he said, noting Bobby’s wide-eyed curiosity. ‘Can’t even show your fuckin colors. Rules of the house.’

‘Oh.’

The young guy smiled and raised his hand. Traced in blue ink on the back was a devil’s pitchfork. ‘But I got the sign, little brother. See it?’

‘Heck, yeah.’ A tattoo. Bobby was faint with envy. The kid saw it; his smile widened into a grin full of white teeth.

‘Fuckin Diablos, ‘mano. Best club. Fuckin Diablos rule the streets. All others are pussy.’

‘The streets down here.’

‘Fuckin right down here, where else is there? Rock on, baby brother. I like you. You got a good look on you. Fuckin crewcut sucks, though.’ The door opened, there was a gasp of hot air and streetlife noise, and the guy was gone.

A little wicker basket on the desk caught Bobby’s eye. He tilted it so he could see in. It was full of keyrings with plastic fobs — red and blue and green. Bobby picked one out so he could read the gold printing: THE CORNER POCKET BILLIARDS, POOL, AUTO. GAMES.

KENMORE 8-2127.

‘Go on, kid, take it.’

Bobby was so startled he almost knocked the basket of keyrings to the floor. The woman had come through the same door as Len Files, and she was even bigger — almost as big as the circus fat lady — but she was as light on her feet as a ballerina; Bobby looked up and she was just there, looming over him. She was Len’s sister, had to be.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bobby muttered, returning the keyring he’d picked up and pushing the basket back from the edge of the desk with little pats of his fingers. He might have succeeded in pushing it right over the far side if the fat woman hadn’t stopped it with one hand. She was smiling and didn’t look a bit mad, which to Bobby was a tremendous relief.

‘Really, I’m not being sarcastic, you should take one.’ She held out one of the keyrings. It had a green fob. ‘They’re just cheap little things, but they’re free. We give em away for the advertising. Like matches, you know, although I wouldn’t give a pack of matches to a kid.

Don’t smoke, do you?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘That’s making a good start. Stay away from the booze, too. Here. Take. Don’t turn down for free in this world, kid, there isn’t much of it going around.’

Bobby took the keyring with the green fob. ‘Thank you, ma’am. It’s neat.’ He put the keyring in his pocket, knowing he would have to get rid of it — if his mother found such an item, she wouldn’t be happy. She’d have twenty questions, as Sully would say. Maybe even thirty.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Bobby.’

He waited to see if she would ask for his last name and was secretly delighted when she didn’t. ‘I’m Alanna.’ She held out a hand crusted with rings. They twinkled like the pinball lights. ‘You here with your dad?’

‘With my friend,’ Bobby said. ‘I think he’s making a bet on the Haywood-Albini prizefight.’

Alanna looked alarmed and amused at the same time. She leaned forward with one finger to her red lips. She made a Shhh sound at Bobby, and blew out a strong liquory smell with it.

‘Don’t say “bet” in here,’ she cautioned him. ‘This is a billiard parlor. Always remember that and you’ll always be fine.’

‘Okay.’

‘You’re a handsome little devil, Bobby. And you look . . . ‘ She paused. ‘Do I know your father, maybe? Is that possible?’

Bobby shook his head, but doubtfully — he had reminded Len of someone, too. ‘My dad’s dead. He died a long time ago.’ He always added this so people wouldn’t get all gushy.

‘What was his name?’ But before he could say, Alanna Files said it herself — it came out of her painted mouth like a magic word. ‘Was it Randy? Randy Garrett, Randy Greer, something like that?’

For a moment Bobby was so flabbergasted he couldn’t speak. It felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of his lungs. ‘Randall Garfield. But how . . . ‘