The Legend of the Cue Ball Kid

"Wow, you weren't kidding, Baloo!" As the waitress set their food on the table, Kit marveled over the stack of giant chocolate-chip waffles on his plate, smothered in a mound of sliced bananas, strawberries, whipped cream and chocolate syrup. After an overnight cargo haul, they were having breakfast, which was really a belated dinner, though there was so much sugary goodness on the plate that it was like having dessert for breakfast for dinner.

"Ha! Told ya I'd feed ya where the feedin's good," said Baloo. Where Kit's waffles were a stack, his were a mountain. Their bellies were growling and they each dug in with speedy forks. Words were few, chewing was plenty.

Logsdon's Strip was a restaurant on an airfield of the same name, at the foot of a green, grassy mountain, surrounded by blossoming apple orchards that shone in the bright morning sunshine in a glow soft and white as clouds. Baloo hadn't been there for years, partly because it was often out of the way, and mostly because they didn't accept tabs like Louie did. But that morning, for him and Kit, it was the last stop on the last leg of a long haul before they would head straight to Cape Suzette. Baloo promised, if it was still like anything he remembered, it would be worth the wait for eats, and it must have been if he was willing to wait. And, it was exactly like he remembered, even the same waitress, good ol' Ida. She was a perpetually deadpan rhino with hair pulled in a tight bun, an apron full of smudged grease draping her waist, and the prow of a tattooed battleship peeking out from her rolled up sleeve.

The place had a rustic charm, hardwood floor and a pale brick exterior, giant bull horns hung over a giant hearth in the corner, and the round tables were made out of old wagon wheels with sanded boards fitted and nailed on top. You could also also sit at the front counter if you could find an open stool, where you could peer into the smoky kitchen, listen to the sizzling grill, and if you weren't hungry enough when you walked in, the smell of bacon struck your nose like a straight jab from a heavyweight boxing champ.

The locals always kept the place busy for breakfast and lunch, but it was also known among the aviation crowd for its delicious grub and generous helpings. Like Louie's sans the tropical ambiance, pilots showed up around the clock for eats and a chance to unwind with their own. Stuffy customers and dieters need not apply. Toward the back was a game room, with pool tables and dart boards. Out the window, the Sea Duck was parked in a lot right out front, with several other planes, and more coming and going on the runway.

Their plates were cleaned in minutes, and at their last bites, the weariness from their long flight was finally weighing down on them. Kit yawned and stretched, and Baloo rubbed his eyes, letting out a well-earned burp.

"Wanna throw some darts before we go?" asked Kit.

"Nah, we can play darts at home," yawned Baloo. "Besides, we're overdue for some shut-eye, don't ya think?"

"Oh, I get it," smirked Kit. "If I were you, I wouldn't wanna get beat by a kid again, either."

"Uh-oh, ya got me," said Baloo, holding his hands up in surrender. "All right, rascal, one quick game. C'mon, this time I'll hafta show ya why they call me Bullseye Baloo."

"Don't expect me to go easy just 'cause you're tired, Bullseye." Kit slid out of his chair and was well ahead of Baloo at the dart board, and waited for him to pad along. They plucked three darts each from the board, and stood where the line was drawn on the floor, between two pool tables.

"Ya know, one of these days, I gotta show ya how to shoot some pool," mused Baloo. He glanced over the scattered numbered balls on one of tables, and the cues racked against the wall.

Kit looked up at him, an eyebrow raised. "Are ya good?"

"Well, I don't mean to brag, but they don't call me Eight Ball Baloo for nothin'."

"They really call you that?" Kit peered over the rail of the pool table, from which his chin just barely reached over the edge, and brushed his palm over the green felt top. As he did, there was a spark in his eyes, and he started to snicker. "You wanna play? Winner gets to fly us home?"

"Next time, for sure, I'll learn ya the ropes," said Baloo. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," said Kit, grinning. "Eight Ball Bullseye Baloo. I like it! It's snappier than Papa Bear."

"Yeah, yeah."

"So what else do they call you?"

"I've been called lots of things, but I don't use that kinda language." Baloo slid his hand over Kit's head, pulling his cap down over his eyes. "Now you gonna throw a dart or scratch yer nose?"

Kit spun on his heels and faced the board, dart wound back and ready to fly. His first throw was hard and fast, and missed the board by inches, sticking instead into the wall. He took a few extra seconds to concentrate on the next one, and threw it more softly, and this time it hit the board, but low below the center. His third was another fast one that missed the board again.

"Aw, crud," he grumbled.

"Relax, kiddo," chucked Baloo. "Ya got too anxious. Ya gotta take yer time, and test the wind a lil' bit." Baloo aimed carefully, and his first dart came just inside the outer edge of the board; his second just missed the bullseye. All the while, they were entirely oblivious to the comings and goings of customers at the front door.

"See, ya gotta viz-yoo-lize where the dart's gonna go," said Baloo. Squinting, he held the third dart gently in his fingers at eye-level, and took his time to emphasize his point. "Like knowin' where your landin' gear's gonna touch down on the runway."

"Gimme scrambled eggs and cup of java, doll-face," said a voice nearby, one that made Baloo flinch like someone had slapped him on the back of the head. At the same time, he let loose with his last dart, but his fingers seemed to forget to let go, and the dart went fast to the floor and stuck there.

"Aw, crud!" he fumed.

"Looks like your landing gear hit the mud," said Kit.

"Well, well," said that voice. "Nice shot, ol' buddy! A little low, maybe. Gettin' better, I'd say!"

"Whoa, it's Ace London," blurted Kit. Baloo suddenly felt his waffles grumbling deep down inside.

"Ya got that right," said Ace, his chest puffed under his leather jacket. He sat on a stool at the counter, reclined on his elbow and sipping at a steaming cup of coffee. "Fancy meetin' you here at this fine hour. I thought I saw your yellow Beach Turkey out front."

"Yeah, fancy that," muttered Baloo. "I'd love to stick around and catch up, but we were just one our way out."

"Don't let me hold ya up," shrugged Ace. "I'm sure ya got big places to go with boxes of whoopee cushions, or whatever it is you haul these days."

"Well, we're not makin' history today," said Baloo, his smile glowing with gloat. "'Course, there's still plenty of day left."

"And the plane's called the Sea Duck," added Kit.

"Ah! Didn't notice ya had a fan club, Baloo."

"I'm Baloo's navigator," said Kit, his eyes narrowed. It seemed everything Baloo had mentioned about the legendary test pilot was true, and, having known him for all of seven seconds, already didn't like him.

Ace had just taken a sip of coffee, and almost spat it out with a crass snort. "Congratulations?"

Kit stepped forward and was about to say something perhaps unbecoming a polite young man, but Baloo nudged him on the shoulder, and winked at him slyly. "So how're you doin', Ace?" he asked. "Hey, I never got a chance to thank ya!"

"For what?"

"I heard those pickles got delivered right on time. Man, was that a load of my mind."

There was bitterness barely hidden in Ace London's toothy smile. "Don't mention it. Really."

Passing by Ace, Baloo went to settle the food bill with the waitress at the counter register. It was rare that he went too long after any payday with cash left over, but he had made an effort these last few weeks, and he had saved a meaningful sum of fifty dollars, which he had folded in his shirt pocket.

Stewing at Baloo's last remark, and still licking his wounded pride over that entire jet engine fiasco, Ace London folded his jacket collar up over his neck and slunk back against the counter. No one was watching him, but he felt like everyone was, and this time not with awe and adoration. He wouldn't even stop by Kardy's Port and show his face at Sally's Alley anymore, not since Baloo broke the sound barrier with his prized cargo and left him holding a jar of pickles. He couldn't help but imagine that they would laugh at him now, all because of his good ol' buddy Baloo. Getting beat by Baloo at anything was enough to drive Ace crazy, and he wanted a win, desperately. He saw his chance when Baloo took out his money.

Ace leaned forward, and deigned an interest in Baloo and Kit's game. "So, uh... darts, huh?"

"Yeah, what of it?" replied Baloo.

"Huh, nothin'." Ace turned his nose up at him, and glanced with feigned boredom at the pool tables in back.

"What?" Baloo asked again. He had skimmed a few bills from his savings to give to the waitress, but held onto it, waiting for the response.

"Nothin'! Kind of a kiddie game if ya ask me, but..." Ace eyed Baloo from toe to cap. "Yeah, probably just about right for some people." He slid off his stool and nonchalantly meandered to the back, not before taking a casual glance over his shoulder at the big bear. "Yep, I think I'm gonna rack me up a few on the ol' table. Ya know, a grown-up's sport."

Baloo retracted the money in his hand and glowered at Ace. "Who says it's a kiddie game?"

All Kit did was turn his head, and Baloo was gone; gone, that is, after Ace London and toward the pool tables. "Baloo," he said, "I thought we were outta here?"

Baloo didn't seem to hear him; instead, he followed Ace like a fish getting reeled on a hook. It all happened lightning quick, their bantering around the pool table over who beat who in times past, who cheated and who knocked off more balls off the table, all leading to them picking up cues, their dueling weapons of choice.

"Bal-oo," chided Kit, behind him.

"Right, kid," said Baloo. "We're just gonna do one quick game. Gotta remind my ol' pal here of a few things."

Ace snorted at that. "Why don'tcha remind me why ya never put your money where your mouth is, hot shot?"

"Whaddaya got?"

"Ten bucks says I take ya to the cleaners."

"Yer on!"

Money was placed on the table, ten dollars each, and they racked the pool balls neatly in place. Rock-paper-scissors decided who went first, and Baloo's rock crushed Ace's scissors. Ace grumbled in the glow of Baloo's smirk, but he stepped aside nonetheless.

Baloo leaned over the table and aimed his cue carefully.

"Show him whatcha got, Papa Bear," said Kit, eagerly watching at his side.

Baloo's opening shot sent the pool balls bouncing and clacking all over the table, sinking to solid-colors in the far corners. Kit cheered, Ace sighed. Baloo took two more shots, missing entirely on the last attempt. That sent Ace into a laughing fit, and he shouldered his way in front of the big bear to assume his turn, with gleeful intent to annihilate his opponent. It didn't quite go as splendidly as he wanted. Just like Baloo, he only had two shots before missing the last and losing a turn. This went on, each of them on the verge of winning and losing, the pool balls eventually disappearing one by one, until finally, to Baloo's utter chagrin, Ace sunk the eight ball on the last turn and won the match.

People who won lottery jackpots had less to gloat over than Ace London did with his newly acquired ten dollars. He made a grand show of smoothing the bills out and folding them neatly together, right under Baloo's nose, while Baloo slouched and seethed.

"Just like old times, eh buddy?" laughed Ace.

"Aw, just luck," said Baloo, waving Ace away. "I set ya up perfect for that last one."

"At least the shots you missed were closer than the ones he missed," Kit said to him.

"Gee, thanks," muttered Baloo. Before another word was said, he pulled out another twenty dollars from his shirt pocket, and slammed it on the pool table. "Double or nothin', Ace!"

"Double your dough, you got it," said Ace, while he twisted chalk over his cue. He set another twenty on top of Baloo's, and they were at it again, racking the balls, and another round of rock-paper-scissors.

At first, as he glanced at all the money being wagered, Kit couldn't believe what he was seeing, but then he quite believed it, knowing that stubbornly competitive gleam in Papa Bear's eye. He would've loved to see him win and wash the smugness off Ace's mug, but there also seemed to be some sort of old proverb nagging at him, something that warned about Baloo and his money being soon parted. "Hey, that's a lot of money," he said, quietly behind Baloo's back, so that Ace wouldn't hear. Baloo didn't seem to hear him, either, so he tugged on his shirt to get his attention. "You know what, let me try," said Kit. "I bet I can show him."

But rock had once again triumphed over scissors (Ace had a tendency to always put up two fingers), and Baloo was up first, back in the groove of a winning momentum. "A fine offer, Lil' Britches, but there's more to playin' pool than pointin' a stick at a ball. I'll teach ya sometime, real soon, but right now, I got a score to settle."

"If ya wanna know how it's done, junior, all ya gotta do is watch Ace. See, the objective is to get the balls in the pockets, not get his money in my pocket. Our big buddy here always seems to forget that."

Kit stepped back and let them play. He wasn't cheering Baloo on now, but watchful. Baloo and Ace were really both just as good, and just as bad as the other. They gloated the same, they grumbled and pouted the same, and their second match came yet again to a narrow conclusion, with Ace pocketing the last ball.

"Dog-gone it," seethed Baloo. "I had that!"

"And I got it," grinned Ace, fanning his winnings under Baloo's nose. "Seems like the world's makin' things right, if ya ask me."

"Yeah, who asked you!"

"Who asked you to meddle with my top-secret cargo," said Ace, an angry finger pushing in Baloo's chest. In a beat, they were glowering at each other nose-to-nose, cue sticks crossed. Now the customers around the restaurant started paying attention. So did the waitress, giving them an unspoken warning with a tip of her snout and a mean stink eye.

"That's it, time to go," said Kit, sternly, and he pulled on the big bear's hand to tug him away from Ace. But, Baloo shook him away, and instead put his last twenty dollars on the table. Kit didn't brush off so easily; this time, he wedged himself between the two of them and tried to push Baloo away.

"Baloo, you shouldn't bet anymore," he said. "You had fifty bucks!"

Baloo staggered backwards like he had just taken an punch to the chin. "Thanks for havin' some confidence, kid," he frowned.

"No! I didn't mean it like that. We still gotta pay for the food, remember?"

"Yeesh," snorted Ace. "That your navigator, or your mother?"

Flustered at that remark, and all the watching eyes that were suddenly upon them, Baloo was quick to guide Kit by the shoulders around the pool table, and out of their way. "I get what ya meant, and trust me, I got it under control. Why don'tcha get yerself a soda and sit tight for a minute."

"Yeah, junior. He's got it under control. Ha!"

In an instant, they had started another game. Kit wanted to do something to stick up for his buddy, but the problem was his buddy had a head the size of the Spruce Moose. He knew him well enough that there was nothing he was going to say to convince him to cut his losses and move on.

But it also occurred to him that he had known plenty of people like Ace, too: so self-obsessed that they were oblivious to anything in which they weren't the center of attention. He couldn't count the number of times he able to put one over on Don Karnage because his ego so often squashed his brains. Baloo only saw in Ace an old acquaintance and a rival, but Kit saw something else, and it made the corners of his mouth twist in a devious little smirk. They say there's a sucker born every minute. Ace's moment was due.

"You know what, guys," he said, "I think I'll give this game a try, too. I'll just practice over here, if you need me." By then, no one was listening.

Kit had grabbed a cue and approached the next pool table over. He had to stand on his toes to get his shoulders above the table's height, and once his arms were over, he held the cue at the back end like a baseball bat, taking hapless pokes and stabs at any and all of the pool balls within reach.

"Hey, is this how you do it, Baloo?"

"Later, Lil' Britches."

Baloo never looked up from his shot, but Ace couldn't stop laughing at what he saw. Watching the kid try to play pool was like watching a penguin try to shuffle a deck of cards with its flippers. It was even funnier when the kid climbed all the way up on the table.

When Baloo muttered a curse, Ace knew his turn was up, and he turned away from the comedy next to him to focus on more important matters. Still, he kept snickering. "The way that kid plays, I think you have been givin' him pointers."

Baloo glanced over, and cringed. On top the table, Kit was on his stomach, staring down his cue with deathly intent at green six-ball, like a soldier aiming a rifle.

"Now this is how ya line up a shot," said Ace, but as he leaned in and aimed his cue, from out of nowhere a flying six-ball whacked him on the head. "Ow! Hey, watch it!"

"Whoops!" said Kit. "Sorry!"

Ace grumbled and rubbed the little bump already knotting up on his crown. He knocked the next ball in the side pocket with a vindictive speed and power. Then, around the table he went for his next shot, but he had hardly began to aim when he felt something bounce off his feet, a red ball.

"Sorry, lost one," said Kit. "I'll get it!"

Kit slid under the table and fervently chased the errant ball, tripping up Ace.

"What the ― get lost, kid!" Ace pushed Kit away with his leg and stepped back, glaring at Baloo. "Put the puppy on a leash, already," he demanded.

"Kit, c'mon," sighed Baloo. "Sit still for a minute, will ya?"

Kit did so, but crossly. It was torture, watching shot after shot, turn after turn, as Ace at last potted the eight ball, and Baloo lost his last dollar. The worse was seeing the embarrassment and devastation strike Baloo's face when he finally realized the error of his judgment and what it had cost him, where every ounce of jolliness withered away, leaving a heavy, sunken pall where a smile should have been.

Both he and Ace left the pool tables, but in opposite fashion; Ace swaggered about and went to schmooze the honored patrons who had just witnessed the greatest sports victory of all time. Baloo, meanwhile... he just lumbered slowly, too ashamed to look anyone in the eye.

"Baloo?"

"Let's just go," was all he said.

Ida the waitress, however, approached them with the their breakfast check. "Right after ya settle up, hon," she said, gruffly.

"Oh, right, um..." Baloo took the check with numb fingers, and frightfully regarded the sum on the bottom like it was the number of minutes he had left to live. He couldn't help but stammer as he patted shirt pockets, which were now empty save for a bit of lint. "I, uh, I might be a lil' short, sis."

Of all the things in the world that were a lil' short, the horn on the waitress' snout wasn't one, and when she glowered... well, they say looks can kill, but few looks could do it in such a manner that so specifically signaled an impending goring.

"Ya don't say," she said, with sympathy hollow as an empty bottle. "Well, no need to worry 'bout that."

Baloo found a little gleam of hope in that response. "No? Really?"

"If you're a lil' short, we got a long stack of dishes that need washin'," she said.

Baloo gulped. So much for going home for a good day's sleep.

That was when Kit pulled out his own money from his sweater, ten singles, and began counting out each dollar. As Baloo watched what he was doing, words were hard to come by. "I'm... I'm sorry, Kit," he said. "It was gonna be my treat."

"It's okay," said Kit. He had just finished counting everything out, and but instead of giving the money to the waitress, he folded it up on his hand, turned around, and sneered at Ace. "This one's gonna be my treat."

"Kit? Where ya goin'? Hey, Kit?"

Straight for the pool table, that's where he was going. He set his money on it, and called out across the room: "Hey, Ace. I got ten bucks. I'll play you for it."

His ego blossoming anew, Ace wolfed down his scrambled eggs and was busy regaling tales of his awesomeness to pilots who were more interested in enjoying their flapjacks. He wanted to ignore the absurd challenge, but the kid had said it loud and too many people had heard. Some of them chuckled at the notion. Ace laughed with them. "Get real, junior. No contest."

"What are ya doin'?" asked Baloo, following Kit to the back. "That's every doller ya got!" He went to take the money off the table, but Kit's hand suddenly slammed on top and covered it.

"Leave it," Kit said. He coyly padded toward Ace, with his hands folded behind his back. "Gee, Mr. Ace, wanna make fair against a kid like me? I'll bet all my money for all of Baloo's money back."

"Buzz off, pip-squeak," said Ace, waving him away. "No one wants to see Ace make a little kid cry."

"Aw, come on, one little game," Kit said. "I didn't think the great Ace London was scared a little bet."

Ace flustered when the crowd around him guffawed at that remark.

"Ya know, I got half a mind to teach you a lesson," he said.

Kit tipped a glance back, and made sure Baloo was out of earshot. "I heard it only takes half a mind to mix up a jet engine with a crate of pickles."

That dig had struck pay dirt.

"Ya got a big mouth for a little squirt," sneered Ace. "Ya got yerself a bet." Reluctantly, he had to remember the people who may have been listening in. "But I'll tell ya what. Since Ace is all about fair play, I'll see your little pittance against everything I got."

Kit was pleasantly surprised by that, and was quick to agree. "Deal! All right!"

"What've I done?" muttered Baloo. While Kit and Ace gathered around the pool table, he teetered backwards, and luckily there was an open table and chair behind him. He groaned miserably, clasping his hands over his face.

"You wanna break, junior? Your choice."

Kit tilted his head at him. "Break what?"

Ace cackled heartily, and he could not stop. His blue eyes had a glint of mirthful tears. It was a moment before he was able to talk again. "Geez, Baloo-ey boy, aren't ya even gonna try to stand in for the kid? This feels like stealin' from a baby!"

"No," insisted Kit, before Baloo could utter a word. "It's my money. I'm playing for it."

"Have it your way. Just don't say Ace didn't try to even the odds."

"You can go first," said Kit; he grabbed a pool cue from the wall and took a seat beside Baloo. "Let me know when it's my turn."

"Your turn," snickered Ace. "Yeah, I'll let ya know."

In moments, Ace had the balls racked in order on the table, and shot the opening break. His effort put the stripped eleven and fifteen balls in the corner pockets.

"Baloo, why do people put chalk on the end of their pool sticks?" Kit wondered aloud, and actually, quite loud, as he looked over the tip of his cue. "Is it good luck?"

In reply, Baloo slouched over the table and buried his face in his arms. Meanwhile, Ace was laughing so hysterically that he could hardly stay straight on his feet, and even when he tried to gathered himself enough to take a steady shot, he wasn't very steady at all. His giggles were turned into stone silence when his stick missed the cue ball, just barely swiping it and sending it nowhere.

He stood up straight, for a just a moment shocked and embarrassed, especially when he thought he heard people laughing, but he was quick to step aside and fake graciousness. "You're up, junior," he said. "I feel I oughtta give ya a chance to knock in at least one."

"All right, my turn!" Kit eagerly hopped off of his chair, and pulled it along behind him, but Baloo grabbed and reeled him in by the shoulders before he was out of his reach.

"Kit, no," said Baloo. "The bet's off. I made a fool outta myself and went broke. I'm sorry ya had to see it. I'm not gonna let ya be the same kinda bone-head that I am."

"You're really sorry, huh?"

Baloo nodded. "I shoulda listened to ya."

Kit appreciated that, as shown in his smile, but that quickly transformed into a grin more sinister. "Nah, you shoulda let me play."

"Huh?"

"Will you hold my hat, Papa Bear? The Cue Ball Kid's about to put 'em away and make 'em pay."

"The what an' who?" Baloo was so confused that he didn't even realize that Kit handed him his cap.

A few patrons turned to watch, for what amusement was worth seeing a kid take his chances against the legendary Ace London. Kit scooted the chair all the way to the pool table. "Is it okay with you if I stand on this?"

Ace rolled his eyes at the question. "Stand on the table, for all I care." He regarded Kit with both amusement and a speck bit of pity as he watched the boy go through all the extra efforts ― a sheer struggle, as it were ― just to stand tall enough to get his arms over the table; he had to scoot the chair around while rubbernecking to see where the cue ball was, then lean his pool cue against the table while he climbed up on the chair. It seemed to be taking a long time, but Ace was content to watch the show... or more so, watch Baloo squirm in the background.

"You know you're supposed to hit the white ball only, right?" asked Ace, while the kid finally stood up on the chair. Ace winked at the few who were looking on. "I don't suppose ya want me to show ya how hold the stick, first."

On that remark, Baloo jumped out of his seat. "Now that's too far, Ace!"

"Relax, Baloo," said Kit. He glanced at the positions of the pool balls scattered over the green felt with a wide grin on his face. Like some ritual, he roughed up his hair, stretched and wobbled his arms loosely, cracked his knuckles, then took his pool cue in hand, twirling it over his head, and when he brought it down to the table, he was in perfect form: the back of the cue held against his hip, and the other end bridged gingerly between finger and thumb, and his eye staring with serious intent down the shaft to the white cue ball now at his mercy. "You're too anxious."

Ace blinked at what he was seeing.

Kit's tongue curled over his lip. His shot was swift and the crack of the cue ball was loud, and when all the movement and rolling of the balls had stopped, two of them had been sunk into opposite pockets, orange number five and red number three.

"Lu-lucky shot, junior," stammered Ace. He rubbed his eyes, as if to correct whatever trick they were playing on him. It had to be luck of course, some cosmic coincidence. He was sure the kid's next attempt would right the path of the universe.

Kit only grinned in reply, and grinned smugly at that. While he scooted his chair around and began again the whole trouble of getting close to the cue ball, Baloo padded to his side, dumbfounded and astonished. His assumption was in reluctant agreement with Ace, that it was a lucky shot... but then...

Kit's second shot sent purple number four bouncing off the rail and across the table, into a corner pocket. At that point, more patrons happened to look up from their breakfast plates and started to pay attention. Baloo, wide-eyed at the unfolding spectacle, had no words.

"'Scuse me," said Kit merrily, brushing by a dazed and bemused Ace London with his chair in tow. He set up at the opposite end of the table. In quick order, down went number seven and blue number two, the latter bouncing off one of Ace's striped balls into the side pocket. Now people started to gather around the table with their coffees and orange juices.

"The kid's sharp," one said.

"How old is he?" another asked.

"He's just gettin' lucky," said Ace to the crowd... more like insisted to the crowd. "He doesn't know what he's doin'! I don't hear him callin' none of these shots."

Once again, Kit hopped off his chair, moved it around the corner, set up for another go, and pointed to yellow number one and the left side pocket, respectively. "Next, that ball's goin' right there."

Ace crossed his arms, and finally got to smirk again. Ball number one was blocked from the cue ball by two other striped ones, making a straight shot impossible. "Yeah, I'd love to see that," he said.

"Lil' Britches, where... how'd ya learn to play like that?" Baloo pinched himself on the arm to make sure he wasn't dreaming. "Ow!"

"I'll teach ya sometime," said Kit. "But right now, I got a score to settle."

He took a long moment to think about this shot. He crouched down with his cue, his aim low and careful. From the corner of his eye, he noticed even more people gathering around; they were silent, and in fact, so was entire restaurant. You could hear the eggs sizzling in the kitchen.

"Like knowing where you're landing gear's gonna touch the runway," he whispered to himself. That little thought worked for him. He struck the cue ball low and hard, and it took a short lob over the obstructing striped balls, hitting number one and sending it slowly rolling and in to the side pocket. The surprised crowd cut loose with a cheer, and Kit took a bow, while Ace London was sent back rocking on his heels. In an instant, he was in Baloo's face again.

"You! You set me up," he snarled.

"I didn't do nothin'," argued Baloo. "You're the one that wanted to play for dough."

Another crack of the cue, another cheer of the crowd, and Ace didn't have to turn around to know Kit had put away yet another. That little brat bursting into song was also a solid tell-tale clue.

"Don't trouble me with trouble, man, I'm gone!" sang Kit. The crowd laughed with him, and he basked in their attention. If only they could see him cloudsurf sometime, he thought, he'd really knock their socks off.

Baloo shoved Ace away, done with him and their petty arguments, and beamed as only one proud Papa Bear could as he joined Kit at the pool table.

"Holy moley, Kit-boy, I don't know what to say."

Kit took his hat back and put it on. There was only the black eight ball left for him, it awaiting it's marching orders from the middle of the table, and the game was his.

"Put 'er away, kid!" shouted one of the pilots. Several others echoed it. Ace London slunk back to the corner, reeling like he was having some sort of coronary attack.

"You guys ain't seen nothin' yet," said Kit. "Watch this."

For the winning blow, he wanted to give them all something to remember. This time he ditched the chair and kept his feet on the floor, positioned his cue behind his back and over his shoulders, and the crowd was cheering before he even took the shot. Baloo bit his lip. Kit's fancy shot connected weakly, to his immediate dismay, and the eight ball inched to the far corner pocket, slowly, slower, and slower, but getting there, straight and on target... Kit held his breath. The crowd leaned in to watch. Even Ace poked his head up, though he could barely stand to watch. The ball stopped just a hair away from going down.

"Aww," sighed the crowd.

Ace suddenly and gleefully leapt back into the fray, like a pinball sprung from the plunger, laughing raucously as he pointed at the stopped eight ball.

"I see yer game, ol' pal," he said to Baloo. "Tried to hustle me with this little... hustler! Nice try, but now I'm gonna bury ya!"

Kit stamped the butt of his cue into the ground. "Darn it!" He had cleared the table so much that there was not much doubt to Ace's claim; he was going to have an easy time finishing the match.

"Forget it, Lil' Britches, ya still did real good," said Baloo. He gave the kid a squeeze on the shoulders. "I still can't believe what I just saw."

"But now we're both gonna be broke," said Kit.

"Ya know what, who cares 'bout bein' broke," said Baloo. "There's worse things than losin' a few lousy bucks."

Kit scoffed; it sure didn't feel that way when it was his lousy bucks being lost. "Like what?"

Baloo winked at him and held his hands out low. "Like not havin' a pal who'll stick up for ya."

"Yeah!" Kit slapped both paws with him.

"We'll wash a few dishes, go home, and start over."

"Just like always, huh?"

"Just like always."

"Good show, kid," said a patron who had watched the entire game. "Bring 'im back any time, Baloo!" said another. Two or three more echoed their support, and there was a smattering of applause.

"Thanks, guys," smiled Kit.

"Yeah, la-dee-da," muttered Ace. He joined in on the celebration with a slow clap and a twirl of his finger. "You're a great sport, junior. If one thing you're gonna learn from Baloo, is how to be a good loser. Or is that a born loser? Ha!"

With fur bristling around his collar, Kit's hands tightened around his cue, and he regarded it studiously, as if sizing it up as a javelin, or perhaps a giant dart, then glanced at Ace, wondering which part of him would make the best bullseye.

"Never mind that donkey's hee-hawin'," said Baloo.

Ace was wasting no time sinking the rest of the pool balls in rapid succession.

"Hold on, Baloo," said Kit, "the game's not over yet."

"C'mon, we don't hafta wait," said Baloo. He began to lumber toward the back to serve his dish-washing sentence, but Kit suddenly began coughing. Baloo patted him on the back. "What's the matter?"

"Got *cough* something in my pipe," said Kit. "Can I *cough* get a glass of water?"

"Hold on, just a sec." While Baloo went to fetch a water, Kit went back to the pool table, clearing his throat along the way.

By then, all that was left on the table was the eight ball, resting precariously on the precipice of a corner pocket. It was so close that a gentle breeze might have been enough to put it away. Ace was giddily ready to sink it, lining up his last shot. "Say adios to your ten clams, junior," he said. He jerked his cue back and went to make this shot count...

"Pickles," coughed Kit.

Ace flinched, and though his stick connected, the cue ball flew from the table, into Kit's paw.

Ace looked up slowly from where the tip of his cue had left a skid in the green felt, with such dread that you might think he was expecting to meet eyes with the Grim Reaper; but it was much worse than a skeleton in a black cloak, it was the kid and his smug grin, twirling the cue ball in his fingers. Oh... and his cough was miraculously gone. The crowd gasped and suddenly took another interest in the game.

"Foul!" cried Ace, pointing at Kit. "You distracted me! He distracted me!"

"But I just had a little cough," shrugged Kit, coyly, the living picture of innocence. The only thing missing was the halo over his head.

"But...! But...! He said...!" Ace's protests were drowned out by the jeering of the crowd.

"It's the kid's turn!" they said. Suddenly a number of them were surrounding the table again.

"And I get to put this ball down wherever I want, right?" grinned Kit. "Gee, Ace. That's a real pickle to be in."

"This... th-this ain't right," stammered Ace, sweat on his brow. Sheer horror shown in his wide eyes.

Kit didn't bother with the chair this time. He set the cue ball right next to number eight, and with his back against the rail, winked at Ace, tipped his stick over his shoulders, and with the slightest tap, the eight ball was gone. There was a roar of cheering.

Baloo emerged from the crowd with a glass of water in his hand. "Wha'? What happened?" No one had to explain it to him. Ace was staggered and whimpering, while Kit was counting out a nice collection of green bills.

"Thanks for the great game, Mr. Ace," he said. Skimming a few dollars from the top, he paid the waitress, plus tip.

"But... I... but... p-pickles..." Ace muttered dizzily. He clasped on to his head with both hands, a useless attempt to stop the spinning before his eyes.

Kit took the glass of water from a speechless Baloo, thanked him and took a sip. "Ready to go when you are," he said, quite nonchalant about the wad of cash in his hand. Baloo's gaze at it was anything but nonchalant. Bug-eyed was more like it.

"Did ya... really win back all my money?"

Kit gave him a look. "Your money?"

Baloo blinked and recoiled. "Well... I didn't mean... b-but Lil' Britches..."

"Aw, just kidding," chuckled Kit. "Here. 'Cause you'd do the same for me." Baloo got his fifty back, and Kit had a tidy profit for himself.

"More eggs for ya, Ace?" asked Ida the waitress... as if she didn't know... with the bill in her hand.

Ace shuddered like he had snapped out of a nightmare. His wolfish teeth flashed in a shaky smile as he patted the pockets of his leather jacket. "Yeah, about that..."

"Let me guess," she said. "A lil' short."

Ace shrugged and gave her a flirtatious wink. "Hey, doll, what's a few bucks? Ya know I'm good for it, or my name isn't..."

He paused and waited... for the crowd... for someone... for anyone...

What he got was an apron thrust in arms, and the business end of a rhinoceros horn cornering him toward the kitchen.

"Ya can't be serious! You can't do this to Ace Lon―ouch! Hey! Watch it, yer gonna poke an eye out with that thi―ouch! I'm gonna get ya for this, Baloo! I'm gonna get―ow!"

His threats were wasted, Baloo and Kit were already out the door. The morning breeze was biting, but the sunshine left the Sea Duck's cockpit warm and cozy. Kit climbed in first and buckled up, letting loose with a contagious yawn that that Baloo repeated as he started the engines. While the Sea Duck was being taxied to the runway, Kit stifled chuckles and tried to pretend he didn't notice that incredulous look Baloo was giving him.

"What?"

"The Cue Ball Kid, huh?"

Kit only shrugged.

"How come ya never said nothin' before?"

"It's been a while. Besides, I was a little rusty."

"'Bout as rusty as a diamond ring," said Baloo. He grinned though, and straightened himself in his seat. "Although next time, I bet ol' Eight Ball Baloo could still show ya a few tricks."

"You really wanna bet?"

"Nope."