The Rialto Man

Keith spotted the old feller as soon as he entered the snooker club. Everyone else in the place was under thirty years old and wearing casual clothes. Compared to the others in tracksuits and hooded tops, the old guy in the suit looked like he was visiting from another age. Keith gave his friend Mike a nudge, nodding at the newcomer. Mike grinned and took a swig on his bottle of beer. This rainy Wednesday afternoon at Ringo’s snooker club had suddenly got a bit more interesting. Keith swigged on his bottled lager and watched the old guy.

He was somewhere in his seventies and wearing a crumpled overcoat, his snooker cue case tucked under his arm. He set himself up on the snooker table next to Keith and Mike, removing his overcoat, to reveal a grey suit and tie. Keith couldn’t help smiling. The feller’s clothes looked older than Keith. His movements in the snooker club had a practised, routine air about them. He had clearly done this many times over the years.

He tugged his tie down an inch and removed his cue from its case. Keith noticed that the cue came in one piece. Every other player in the club used cues that unscrewed in the middle. This guy was clearly an old-school snooker player. The guy probably felt about modern cues, the way Keith’s grandad felt about any music made since the year 2000.

Keith held back, letting the guy get started with his frame of snooker. After missing the yellow ball and snookering himself in the process, Keith approached the table.

‘Alright, mate? Playing a few frames, eh?’

‘Oh aye, can’t beat the snooker, can you?’ The guy smiled warmly.

‘I’m Keith, and this is Mike.’

‘I’m Alan, Alan Dennis.’

‘Good to meet you, mate. Enjoy your game.’

While playing their own game, Keith watched Alan on the next table. He wasn’t exactly the greatest player he’d ever seen, but he was doing okay. Quite easy shots seemed to elude him. The pink ball he was aiming for seemed to bounce out of the pocket, despite Alan’s best efforts. Keith wondered if, back in his younger years, the guy had played a sharper game. As if reading his mind, Alan looked up from chalking his cue in preparation for his next shot, and spoke.

‘I learned to play back in the day at the Peter Green youth club in Broughton. They had this tiny little table. Me and my big brother, our Tom, we used to go and play snooker. Tom was more interested in chasing the girls than playing snooker, but I was hooked. While he progressed to pubs and nightclubs, I graduated to the snooker halls.’ Alan smiled at the memories. ‘When you’re playing well, there’s nothing better, is there, boys?’

Keith and Mike nodded, continuing their own game.

‘Draft ale and a few frames,’ Alan said. ‘that’s what life is all about.’

Alan finished the last of his pint of bitter and pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. The wad was bigger than his fist. He peeled a ten pound note from it and headed to the bar for another pint. Keith’s eyes never left the old man as he went to the bar. The predator had just found its prey. Alan returned from the bar, taking a sip of his fresh pint. He turned to the young lads.

‘I used to play at the Rialto club in Salford. A grand place. It was the finest snooker hall this side of the river Irwell. They used to have a competition every year. I actually won it back in 1976. Proudest day of my life. That final frame was the best I’ve ever played. You got your name on the trophy and a cheque for twenty pounds. Those were the days. Ten years later, they knocked the Rialto down to build a burger place.’ Alan shook his head in disgust.

Alan chalked his cue and studied the lay of the balls on the table. He side-stepped, craning his neck to check the angle against the cushion.

‘You fancy a frame against us?’ Keith asked. ‘Just wondered. It might be more fun than playing on your own.’

‘Are you sure? My game isn’t what it was back in the day.’

‘Yeah, come on, it would make a change from playing him.’ Mike laughed, jerking a thumb at his friend.

Alan played each of them. The younger men won their frames easily but Alan didn’t embarrass himself. The games were by no means a close run thing, but, Keith had to admit, considering his age, and the amount he’d had to drink, the feller was doing well. When he did manage to sink a lucky ball, Keith and Mike congratulated him and applauded. At the end of one frame, Alan reached into his pocket for some cash.

‘I think it’s time for a drop of whiskey. Can I tempt you two? It’s pension day today, so I’m a little flush.’ Alan said, waving the wad of notes.

The lads shook their heads, nah, we’re good, thanks.

Alan returned moments later with a pint of ale, and a double whiskey. The drink seemed to be having an effect on him. He reminded Keith of some of his grandfather’s old drinking buddies. They would sit in these smoky old pubs, drinking beer and putting the world to rights. They could get so drunk they could hardly speak. Alan wasn’t that drunk, but he was well on the way.

A while later, when he came back from the bar with yet another pint and whiskey chaser, Keith pointed his cue at the snooker table.

‘Do you fancy making it a bit more interesting?’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Alan, his voice slurred slightly.

‘Twenty pounds a frame. How does that sound?’ said Mike.

Alan paused, rubbing his jaw for a moment, as he thought it over. Finally he shrugged.

‘Why not? You only live one.’

‘YOLO.’ Mike agreed.

‘How’s that?’

Mike shook his head, never mind.

‘Let’s play.’ Alan grinned.

Three frames later, Alan was forty pounds down, having managed to win one of the frames. Keith got the impression that it was his age, and the alcohol, that was costing him the frames.

‘Another game, Alan?’ asked Keith. ‘Let’s give you a chance to win your money back. What do you say?’

‘When you get to my age, you realise that, in life you never know when your luck is about to change. The next frame could be the one. I could turn this around. Come on then.’ He nodded.

Alan narrowly lost the next frame and handed over a crumpled twenty pound note from his wad of cash.

‘You want to go again, mate?’ Keith asked.

Alan shook his head.

‘Fair enough, Alan.’ Mike said. ‘The trick is knowing when to cut your losses, innit?’

Alan took a sip of whiskey and sighed. He clicked his fingers, like a fantastic idea had just occurred to him. He pulled out the wad of cash.

‘There’s three hundred pounds here. How about one final frame?’

The two men couldn’t take their eyes off the cash in the old feller’s hand. They were taken aback.

‘We don’t have that kind of cash on us, and I bet you don’t have online banking, do you Alan?’ asked Keith.

‘There’s a cash machine over the road.’ Mike suggested. ‘We could pop over and get the cash, if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘No hurry,’ said Alan. ‘the last bus isn’t until half ten. I’ll get myself another whiskey while I’m waiting.’

‘In that case, old-timer, you’ve got yourself a game.’ Keith grinned.

Leaving Alan to visit the gents, and get another pint and whiskey from the bar, Keith and Mike rushed out the door to the cash machine. Keith couldn’t believe their luck. The old guy was practically begging them to take his money. And he and Mike were only too happy to oblige. The old lad should have known better than to walk into a place like that and start waving his money around. It was only a matter of time before someone took it from him. Keith was just glad they’d got to him first. As Keith punched the buttons on the cash machine, they giggled like children at a birthday party. This was going to be some evening. They would be telling their mates about this for weeks.

They put both Alan’s wad and Keith’s cash in an empty beer glass and placed it on the edge of the snooker table. The prize pot perched on the edge of the table like a trophy.

Keith played well, but not as well as he could. There were trickier shots that he would normally, with focus and time, have managed to hit. This evening, not wanting to run away with the frame straight away, he rushed and opted for the quick shot. He would win the frame, of course, but there was no need to humiliate the old feller any more than he had to. He would take his money, no need to strip him of his pride as well.

Then it happened. Keith missed a red into the green pocket. Alan’s turn at the table. He took a sip of whiskey, then chalked his cue. The red was at such an awkward angle to the pocket. Would the old-timer play a safety-shot? Would he try and snooker Keith? Alan chunnered and mumbled to himself as he studied the table. He chalked his cue again, his eyes never leaving the table. He leaned over the table, his glare suddenly sharp and focused. The cue ball danced across the table and gently kissed the red into the pocket.

While the two lads looked on in shock, Alan took his shot and made the black. The black ball was potted with such precision, that Keith felt as though he was watching an exhibition match. Alan moved lightly and freely around the table, clearly in the zone. Despite the tricky shots, Alan made them look easy. The balls seemed to be doing his bidding, as though he had them on strings. Keith and Mike stood in stunned silence, as Alan ran away with the frame, sinking the final black, off four cushions, in a shot that would have got a standing ovation in the World Championship.

Keith and Mike were confused. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Alan stepped forward and gently took the money from the pot.

‘Thanks for tonight, lads. You’ve made an old man very happy. You take care.’

Alan shrugged into his overcoat, put his cue away, and headed for the exit. He pushed through the double-doors and out into the darkness.

Keith nodded to Mike. The message was clear, it didn’t need spelling out. They would go and get their money back. They would take the cash, even if they had to rough him up a little. Away from any prying eyes in the club, outside in the darkness, the old feller didn’t stand a chance. It was they who were supposed to be taking him to the cleaners, not the other way round. They rushed out the doors and outside. Alan was climbing onto a waiting taxi. Before they could do anything, the taxi drove away into the night. Keith and Mike watched the taxi, taking Alan and his winnings, until the red tail-lights disappeared around the corner at the end of the road.

Swearing and cursing, they headed back into the club. They went to the bar and ordered a bottle of beer each. As the barman placed the drinks in front of them, Keith spoke.

‘We’ve just been rinsed by an old-time snooker player. I can’t believe it.’

‘How was the taxi there waiting for him?’ asked Mike.

‘He made a phone call at the bar while you were out.’ said the barman. ‘He called himself a cab. That was a text-book hustle, lads.’

‘Apparently he won the cup at the Rialto snooker club back in the 1970s.’ said Keith.

‘The Rialto in Salford, the one they demolished for a burger joint?’ asked the barman, grinning.

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’

‘That was never a snooker club, it was a cinema.’

By Chris Platt