Free The Strivers' Row Spy by Jason Overstreet

like. Dank you.”
    I nodded as he filled a small brown bag. Walking away, I tasted one—salty and bitter. But I was hungry and continued eating them, puckering my lips and scrunching up my face as I headed down to a post office on West 133rd Street that the hotel attendant had mentioned. I secured a post office box and mailed some black newspaper subscription slips that I had taken while visiting Gold.
    It was about six in the evening, and I was getting hungry. I headed back to the Sweet Tree, went up, and changed clothes.
    When I came back downstairs, the female attendant at the front office told me I could grab some great ribs at a joint called Sonny’s Pool Hall up on 134th. I headed over to Seventh Avenue and up.
    The place was large and dark, but had only a few customers. I went to the back corner away from the pool tables and positioned myself so that I could see the front door—had done this all of my life. It wasn’t long before a middle-aged waitress came over and took my order.
    â€œWhat’ll it be, Baby?”
    â€œI’ll have the ‘Sonny’s Bad Boy’ with fries and a root beer.”
    â€œAw right, Sugar.”
    They served the side of juicy pork baby back ribs on a brown paper bag—no plate. It was one of the most enjoyable thirty minutes of eating I had experienced. I licked my fingers clean and gulped down what remained of my icy soda. A young man—early twenties—was hitting pool balls by himself. I walked over.
    â€œWould you like to play a game?” I asked.
    â€œRack ’em,” he said.
    â€œAll right. Name’s Sidney.”
    â€œI’m Drew.”
    I racked the balls and grabbed a stick. He took the first shot and the game was on. It took him about five minutes to dispose of me, and he, of course, wanted to play a second game. I obliged. Sonny’s started to get a bit busier as our game continued. Folks were filing in, ordering ribs, and having a grand old time. The volume in the joint had certainly gone up a few notches.
    â€œPlace usually fills up between eight and ten,” Drew said.
    All of a sudden, I got on a lucky streak, making every shot. When I knocked the eight ball in the far corner pocket, I heard a deep voice from about twenty feet away.
    â€œI got next!”
    I turned and could barely make out what seemed to be two well-dressed men in three-piece suits and fedora hats sitting at a table, engulfed in smoke. That combined with the darkness of the room and their coffee-colored skin made it difficult to make out their faces. But I could see the burn of their cigarettes. I squinted and looked through the smoke. One of the men stepped through the thick cloud and walked toward us. He slammed a ten-dollar bill down on the pool table and looked squarely at me.
    â€œYou game, pretty boy?”
    I didn’t say a word. I had quite a bit of cash on me, but it was for securing a brownstone, and I certainly didn’t want to waste any of it on a pool game. I looked at him in his expensive suit. He was a tall, dark-skinned, angular man—about my height. Never having been one to resist a challenge, I reached into my pants pocket and took out two five-dollar bills. I then did the racking.
    As my opponent retrieved a pool stick, Drew grabbed a seat at the next table. He looked on with angst. Chalking his stick, my opponent turned to his buddy in the distance and yelled:
    â€œThis shouldn’t take long, brother! We’ll make the party on time. You hear me, brotha? We gon’ make the party on time.”
    I heard laughter through the smoke. Again, I ignored my opponent and watched as he broke with an aggressive shot. He knocked the five ball in the side pocket and then proceeded to miss his next shot after strutting into it. The man strutted like nobody’s business.
    My lucky streak hadn’t waned, as I began holing every ball I hit. People from afar were whooping and hollering as I did my best