Shark Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Jeff Ross

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Ross, Jeff, 1973–, author

  Shark / Jeff Ross.

  (Orca soundings)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1682-4 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1683-1 (PDF).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1684-8 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings

  PS8635.O6928S53 2018 jC813'.6 C2017-904528-8

  C2017-904529-6

  First published in the United States, 2018

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017949692

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for teen readers, Mark “Shark” Hewitt is forced to play pool for profit.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Edited by Tanya Trafford

  Cover image by iStock.com and Shutterstock.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  21 20 19 18 • 4 3 2 1

  For Mark Molnar

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter One

  The place was called Minnesota’s, a cavernous room beneath a strip mall full of respectable suburban shops. The sign outside continued to inform that Halloween was upon us, even though it was the end of February. Inside, rows of pool tables ran the length of the room, buffered from the walls by pinball and vintage video-game machines. The soundtrack was classic rock, balls clacking off one another and bursts of excited cheering. The fragrance: spilled beer and cigarettes smoked a decade before.

  It felt, in every way possible, like home.

  I found Minnesota’s when my mom, sister and I moved here a month ago. The regulars were cool and always looking for a game. The owner was happy to give the odd free ginger ale when I’d been there a while. But best of all, there was absolutely no betting permitted.

  I had sunk the three and the five when I noticed this guy watching me from a couple of tables away. He was tall, thickset, with an unruly mess of hair on his head and an equally untamed beard on his face. I’d never seen him before. His clothes screamed biker—the leather vest over printed T, extremely blue jeans cinched up with an extra-large buckled, studded belt.

  “Am I going to get to play this game?”

  I looked across the table at Hippy. He was tall and thin, dropped into a vintage Pearl Jam shirt and cargo pants. Sandals over thick socks in the dead of winter. He was the day manager but always found time for a couple of games.

  The one and the four were left on the table for me. Plus the eight ball, of course. The one was an easy shot. The four, way more difficult. I was challenging myself to not take the easy shot. I lined up the four, and Hippy clicked his tongue. He did this every time he saw an easier shot available. I figured he’d catch on to what I was doing someday.

  The four bounced off the edge of the corner pocket and sat there spinning.

  “Yes,” Hippy said. “I shall now destroy you.” He pulled his long hair from his face and leaned over the table.

  I sat on a high stool and, pretending to watch Hippy take his shot, glanced over at the biker guy. He’d gone back to playing alone on one of the large snooker tables.

  “Come on fifteen, don’t be cruel,” Hippy said, leaning low to the table. It looked like he was attempting to send the ball into a pocket by sheer force of will. But the fifteen just sat there, right on the cusp of the pocket. Hippy stood to his full height and rubbed his stubbled chin. “All right, Shark, finish me off.”

  I leaned over the table and focused on the four, which was now an easy shot. Or, at least, no more difficult than the one.

  “Shark?” I looked up to find the biker guy at the end of the table, looking right at me.

  “It’s just a nickname,” I said. I didn’t want to get into the whole thing. My name’s Mark, but when I was younger my little sister put an S on the front of a lot of her words, and so to my family I became Shark. I’d told Hippy this story one day and instantly regretted it.

  “Looks earned to me,” biker guy said.

  “Hippy,” a waitress called from behind the bar. “That thing’s backed up again.”

  Hippy shook his head and set his cue into the wall rack. “You play him, War,” Hippy said. “I have to take care of this.”

  “War?” I said.

  “Nickname,” the biker guy said. “Name’s Warren.” He stepped forward and extended a hand. I shook it, then got low to the table again to finish the game Hippy and I had been playing.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to play War that evening. The whole feeling of the pool hall changed for me the instant Hippy walked away. Everything got heavy, if that’s a way to describe it. I don’t know—I’ve never been that good with words.

  “Good to meet you,” I said.

  I finished the game easily. The one and four found pockets, and after bouncing the cue off two bumpers, I sank the eight.

  War began racking the balls into the triangle. “Where’d you learn to play?” he asked.

  I sat on the high stool again and took a sip from the ginger ale I’d been working on.

  “My dad,” I said, leaving it at that.

  “Basement table?” He wiggled the balls in the triangle until they were tight, then slowly lifted the frame off the table.

  “Mostly pool halls,” I said.

  War picked up his cue. “So,” he said, leaning down to set his aim on the cue ball. “Where’s dad now?”

  “Not around,” I said. War was drawing his cue back and forth. It was my table though. Whenever you win a game, you own the table. If someone wants to play you, they have to let you break. It’s etiquette, but the kind of etiquette that is pretty much a rule.

  He hammered the cue ball into the triangle of balls. I watched as they spread out across the table. The fifteen and twelve dropped, but the cue ball settled in right behind the three. In eight-ball, you’re either low ball or high. That means you either have to get balls one through seven in, or the nine through fifteen. And then, of course, to finish it off, the eight. When you break and sink a couple of balls, you have the advantage of taking a follow-up shot to decide whether it’s the low or high end you need to play.

  “That’s too bad,” War said. I thought he was talking about where the cue ball was sitting, but then he continued. “My dad ditched when I was twelve.” I let him take his shot. He decided against the four, which was perfectly lined up, hoping, it seemed, to get the eleven in and play the high balls. Instead, he tapped the eleven into the perfect position for me to sink it.

  “You’re low ball,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about my dad. I went to pool halls to feel close to him. Playing pool was the one thing we had done together that hadn’t ended
badly. It was the time I had felt most connected to my dad. But that was all in the past, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that it’s best to leave it there.

  The remaining high balls were in perfect positions for me to run the table. Which was exactly what I did. I didn’t feel the need to hold back.

  “Nicely done,” War said when I’d finished. “Another?”

  I checked my phone. Almost seven already. “Not tonight,” I said. “I have to go.” I shrugged into my jacket.

  War came over to shake my hand. “That was a hell of a game,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I shook his hand. “Maybe play again sometime?”

  He let go of my hand. “Sounds good,” he said with a smile. “I’ll be here practicing.”

  His smile felt genuine. It seemed kind. It lit up his face in a way that reminded me of the only nice teacher I’d ever had.

  I got home right as Mom was heading out the door.

  “Mark,” she said. “Why are you so late?”

  “Sorry,” I said. I didn’t need to tell her I’d been at a pool hall. She already knew.

  “Have you eaten?” Her hair was a bird’s nest. Whenever she got anxious, she ran her hand through it, and I knew, standing there on the porch, that my being late had made her worry.

  “Not yet.”

  “There’s some casserole in the kitchen. Wendy is doing her homework. Can you help her with it?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  My little sister is twelve. She is old enough to stay home alone but has always been easily freaked out. Mom doesn’t like leaving her alone for very long.

  I went inside, dished out a bowl of casserole and put it in the microwave. I sat down at the table. Wendy had a sheet of math problems in front of her. They’d been working on geometry in class, and she was not liking it much. Personally, I love geometry. Everything I did growing up had to do with angles. I’d been a goalie for a while. A good one too. Every year since Atom, I’d been on the AAA competitive team. I think it was easier for me than for some other kids because it was all about the angles.

  And I dreamed in angles.

  “These are great,” I said.

  “Math homework is great, Mark?” Wendy said. Her knees were bundled up beneath her. She’s small for her age, so sitting like that was the only way she could see the work on the table. My mom’s pretty small too, and they share the crazy-curly hair.

  “It is when it’s geometry.”

  She sighed her most expressive sigh. She is artsy. Math feels like an unnecessary punishment to her, whereas for me it was the only real reason I went to school.

  I pointed at one of the diagrams. “This one is beautiful. Poetry in motion.”

  “Wrong,” she said.

  “For me,” I said, standing as the microwave binged, “there is nothing more beautiful than what you see before you this moment.”

  Wendy sighed again and dropped her head on the table.

  “Then you do it,” she said, pushing the paper away.

  “No way,” I said, sitting back down with my steaming bowl. “You need to find the beauty yourself.”

  Wendy banged her head against my shoulder. “There is no beauty here,” she said. “It’s just stupid lines and numbers.”

  I closed my eyes and inhaled. “Lines and numbers, Wendy, is what the world is made of.” I opened my eyes to find my sister making a face with puffed-out cheeks and huge round eyes. I grabbed her pencil, pretended to pop her cheeks and said, “Here, let me show you.”

  Chapter Two

  I’d started playing hockey around the same time my dad introduced me to pool. First I was a forward, and then, after trying it just one time, I found that I loved being a goalie. Looking back, I now understand it was all about the angles. Staying square to the shooter so he couldn’t see the net. Shifting to cut off a backdoor pass. Watching only the puck, never the player. Seeing the angle.

  My dad got really into watching me play. The problem was, he could be a bit of a hothead. He’d yell at the refs, who would ignore him. He’d yell at the coaches on both benches. They did their best to ignore him as well. He’d even yell at some of the kids on the ice when he got really fired up.

  Then one game, when I was twelve, he went a step too far.

  There was this one kid on this one team who everyone knew about. He seemed to believe he was in an NHL arena and two feet taller than he was in reality. He’d line kids up for hits when any kind of contact meant an immediate penalty. He always kept an eye on the refs to see where they were looking before he committed his most brazen fouls. At some point he must have decided that the best strategy was to mess with the opposing goalie.

  Every game, this kid ran the goalie. At first, he’d stop at the top of the crease and spray the goalie a few times. But soon he elevated this to going hard into the net and “accidentally on purpose” falling and taking out the goalie at the knees. It had happened to me twice in that season, so I was ready for him that day.

  He kept looking my way, but for the first period he was never on the ice when the puck came down to our end. We were owning his team after the first period, 3–0, and I could tell he was frustrated. He took the face-off on the first puck drop of the second period and banged the puck ahead, spinning our center around as he tore past. I banged my catcher and got ready for him. He gained a ton of speed and then fell about ten feet out, blades up in front of him and aimed right at me. I didn’t even bother with the puck. If it happened to trickle in after he’d rammed me, it would be called a no goal because of goaltender interference. So for once I took my eyes off the puck and instead waited for him to slide in. When he did, I jumped up and came down hard with my pads on his stupid head.

  He made the most amazing whimpering sound I’d ever heard. Soon enough, though, he was flailing around and punching and kicking. He knocked both our helmets off, and a second later I was punching him in the head. I’m not a violent person, but with this happening every game and no one seeming to want to stop it, I had to take matters into my own hands.

  We both received penalties on the play. I stayed on the ice, because another player has to serve any penalties a goalie gets, while the kid was taken to the dressing room. I was shaking and felt sick after it. My dad yelling at the kid’s father didn’t make things any better. We won that game, although the handshake line at the end was intense.

  Dad lost his mind over the remainder of the game. When I found him in the lobby he was seething and banging his fists on things.

  Settle down, Morgan, one of the other dads said. Everyone’s all right.

  That kid has to be stopped, my dad replied. Then he grabbed my stick and banged through the doors into the frigid parking lot.

  He was protecting me—I can see that now. But for anyone else, it must have looked like one more Morgan Hewitt moment of uncontrollable rage. Something he needed to reel in. But from his perspective, my dad was just worried I was going to get hurt. This was the only way he could protect me.

  Out in the parking lot, he spotted the kid’s dad. I watched as he grabbed the man by the shoulder and spun him around. He said, Your asshole kid is going to get someone seriously injured one of these days. I’m going to do everything I can to get him kicked out of the league.

  The kid’s dad got this smug look on his face and laughed. You’re just upset because your kid’s a sieve, he said.

  Which totally wasn’t true. We’d won that game four to one, and the other team’s one goal was a deflection off my defender’s skate. But just hearing him say it made me angry as well.

  Hard to make stops when you have some fat moron sitting on your head, Dad said. He was shaking my goalie stick at the man. That action would come back to haunt him.

  Your kid is afraid to play hard. This is hockey, not T-ball, the man said.

  Your kid’s a thug, Dad said. His only skill is falling down.

  The kid’s dad threw the first punch. My dad managed to dodge it and immediately toss his own haymak
er. If you’ve never seen your dad in a fight in a freezing-cold parking lot in the dim light of evening, I envy you. It’s horrible. They both looked uncoordinated. They both were red in the face with rage. They both were behaving like complete idiots.

  I remember standing there with all my gear, my pads hanging over my shoulder, and all I wanted to do was get in the car and go home. I’d seen my dad angry and yelling at people before, but he’d never been in a fight.

  He threw my stick to the ground, and I walked over to get it.

  What ended up taking out the other kid’s dad had pretty much nothing to do with my dad. The kid’s dad threw a punch, missed, spun around in a half circle and fell to the ground. People who had gathered to watch this spectacle laughed. It looked ridiculous. The thing was, he didn’t get up.

  And then we saw the blood.

  His son was down beside him, shaking his shoulder, yelling in his ear, looking up at everyone as though someone could help. But no one could help. His dad died in that frosty parking lot. Though it wasn’t a punch or shove from my dad that caused the final injury, Dad ended up going to jail for manslaughter. They had been in a fight. If the fight had never happened, the kid’s dad would still be alive. My dad had grabbed the man’s shoulder and spun him around first. He’d shaken my goalie stick at the guy in a threatening manner. Everyone testified to that.

  Even I had to testify to that.

  Thinking back, as I often do, my most vivid memory is of the blood spreading onto the parking block. Yet at the time, I remember, all I could see were the angles—his body, the parking block perpendicular to his outstretched arm, and the long line of blood creating an almost perfect triangle.

  Chapter Three

  I walked Wendy home after school the next day. Mom was still at work, but Wendy was okay being by herself as long as it was light out.

  The pool hall was a bus ride away, which sucked. We only had one car, so although I had my driver’s license, there was never a vehicle for me to use. I have often thought that if I wasn’t killing time in pool halls, I could have a job and make some real money. Maybe get a real car, a girlfriend—a life.