Saturday Night, December 26

      Monte’s Bar, Luling, Texas

      Crack. Pop. The orange five ball rolled swiftly across the smooth, green surface to the far corner, gently kissed the brown leather padding, and dropped into the pocket.

      Juan Delgado, a short, wiry Mexican, openly exuded satisfaction with his poolroom prowess. He smiled at the three men circling the pool table and thumped his chest. “Soy el mejor—I’m the best.” The men’s conversations mixed Spanish with English.

      Carlos Aguirre gave his new teammate a solid backslap as Juan moved around the table. Juan drew deeply on a cigarette, exhaling slate-gray smoke toward the oblong Budweiser lamp hanging over the table. Adjacent to the poolroom, throngs of beer-drinking, chain-smoking, working-class Texans crowded tables and the bar as music from a 1950s jukebox invited all, young and old, to the dime-sized, sawdust-covered dance floor.

      “Two off the six.” Juan, a slight buzz in his head, walked around the table, chalked his cue, placed it comfortably into position, and took aim. A stub of Chesterfield Classic Red hung from his lips. Crack. Pop. Click. The two ball angled steeply off the six ball, hit two banks, and slowed to a stop in the middle of the table.

      “Mierda—Shit.” Juan grabbed his bottle of Lone Star and took a large swig.

      Manuel Rodriguez’s turn. He handed his bottle to Emilio Cepeda and moved slowly around the table, eyeing each ball in relation to the others. He was good—so good that Luling no longer fed his voracious appetite for hustling. Manuel could make several hundred dollars on a good weekend in Austin or San Antonio. He especially enjoyed taking money from the rich University of Texas kids. He dried his hands on his Levi’s and powdered them with talc. He nodded toward Juan and Carlos and, mimicking Juan, thumped his chest while announcing, “El rey de la colina—the king of the hill.”

      Sure enough, the king was there. Manuel tilted a dirty cowboy hat to the back of his head and carefully lined up his shot. A second later, what seemed a white streak of light hit the nine ball, driving it into a side pocket. The eleven ball quickly followed suit.

      Manuel attacked the high balls as Carlos sidled up to Juan and continued an ongoing discussion. With piercing black eyes deeply set into a stone-cut face, Carlos towered over his teammate. He asked, “So you’re telling me the people you working for can get oil out of a dry hole?”

      “Hell yes, man. We pumping more oil out of that hole than they done for years. We done four other holes in five weeks. Got two machines working damn good. The other two got messed up with the down-hole tubes.” Juan drew in one last time on the dying cigarette butt, slowly blew the smoke into the air, and emptied more beer into his gut. He tossed the butt onto the concrete floor and crushed it with his boot.

      Manuel continued running the table while Carlos and Juan talked.

      Carlos asked, “How’re the people you work for? Treat you OK?”

      “Got no complaints. I signed on in Odessa and stayed with them when they moved to Luling. I been working with them since last January. Man, it’s a cold winter in Odessa. But they pay fair and treat us fair. Told us we’ll be working with them for the rest of our lives. They got big plans for everybody.”

      Ga-thump. The sound of the eight ball hitting the bottom of the opposite side pocket signaled the game’s end.

      Manuel stood up, resting his hand on top of the vertical cue stick. He claimed victory. “Five beers and I still run the fucking table. Anyone want to challenge El Rey?”

      “Hell no,” Carlos answered. “Everyone drink your beer and let’s go.” Carlos polished off his Lone Star and grabbed his denim jacket from the coat hook. He patted Juan on the back. “Juan, want to go with us? We’re going to Maria’s near Mendoza for food, dancing, and good times with the señoritas.”

      Juan liked these guys. “Never