Free The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror by Marcia Muller Bill Pronzini

bottles of Henry’s without getting a heat on and without having to piss. Little guy like that, it just wasn’t natural he could hold twelve bottles of Henry’s without having to take a leak at least once.
    He came hopping over to where Hod was, lined up another shot, said, “Four ball, corner pocket, kiss off the six,” and stroked and made that one clean, too. Then he said, “So how about it, Hod?” in a low voice so the other three customers and Barney Nevers behind the plank couldn’t hear. “What do you say?”
    Hod knew what he was talking about; they’d been talking about it the past hour, off and on. “Hell, I don’t know. It’s a hell of a fine if you get caught. I can’t afford a fine like that. And you can’t pay it, they put your ass in jail.”
    “They got to catch you first,” Adam said. “Nobody’s caught me, have they?”
    “First time for everything.”
    “Shit, Hod, I’m trying to do you a favor here.”
    “Sure, I know. I appreciate it, don’t think I don’t.”
    “You got a family to feed. Wife and kids like venison, don’t they?”
    “You know they do.”
    “Well, then? We go out around two, maybe three o’clock, out on the cape. No game wardens around there at that hour.”
    “Not so far, maybe.”
    “I never saw one yet. Come on, Hod, what do you say?”
    “Take your shot, that’s what I say.”
    “Hod. . . ”
    “I’m still thinking on it, all right?”
    Adam shrugged and hopped around, lining up his next shot. Hod watched him and did think on it, and it still made him nervous. He had nothing against jacklighting deer, not on principle. These were lean times and a man had a right to eat, a right to feed his family the best way he could, and to hell with a lot of stupid-ass laws. He’d bought a side of venison from Adam once, traded him ten pounds of fresh sablefish fillets for some venison steaks another time; he didn’t mind doing business that way. But going out himself, running the risk of getting caught, getting fined . . . he just didn’t like the idea of it. What would Della and the kids do if he wound up in jail? Go on welfare? He had them to think of, four other mouths to feed beside his own. Four for now, anyway; Mandy probably wouldn’t be around much longer, the way she was carrying on now that she’d quit school. Get herself knocked up by that long-haired jerk from Bandon she kept sneaking off with, that was what would happen to her. What could he do about it? She wouldn’t listen to him or Della, you smacked her one and she just looked at you. He knew that look, he’d seen it often enough before. The old fuck-you look . . .
    “ . . . shot, Hod.”
    “What?”
    “I said it’s your shot. You dreaming or what?”
    “Thinking. I told you I was thinking, didn’t I?”
    He lined up on the fourteen ball, an easy cut into the side pocket—and missed it. Shit. How could he miss a shot like that? Nervous, that was how. Adam hippity-hopping around like Bugs Bunny, all this talk about jacklighting deer, it was a wonder he didn’t miss every time.
    He had left Adam wide open; he saw that and knew it was over. Adam tapped in the six, tapped in the seven with just enough English to give him position, and then tapped in the eight. “My game,” he said, grinning. “Beer’s on you, too, right?”
    “Yeah, right.” They’d had a beer side bet on this one and Adam always seemed to win when they had a side bet. Not that Hod figured he was being hustled; Adam wasn’t that good. Just lucky. That was why he’d been able to go out jacklighting and not get caught. Pure luck. Hod didn’t have that kind of luck; first time he went out, game warden would be hiding in the bushes ten feet away when he fired his first round.
    There were two stripes still on the table, his last two balls. He gave Adam twenty cents—five for each of the stripes, ten for the eight ball—and went to the bar and called to Barney Nevers for two more Henry’s. Two stools down from