Breakers.

FADE IN:

INT. MARY'S BILLIARDS, CHICAGO IL, 1992 — MORNING

RALPH COOK (45) breaks open the pool hall doors. Morning light floods in, silhouetting his rail-thin frame. He doesn't bother taking off his sunglasses or putting out his cigarette.

He walks toward the counter. The door shuts behind him. The room goes dim again, barely lit by tinted windows.

Ralph nods at a few players on his way in.

RALPH

Tom. Tom. Pajama Tom.

PAJAMA TOM (29) looks up from his shot. He never skips a day to look like a hippie in pajamas, son of a famous Bank Pool player.

PAJAMA TOM

Hey hey, lookee lookee, Captain Cook.

Pajama Tom is playing IAN TURNER (33), short, suave, one lazy eye that drifts when he's watching the door.

IAN

Baby Bear wants his $120.

RALPH

What are you, his fucking accountant?

GEORGE CHAPEL (72), tall and careful with his glasses, studies a three-cushion table nearby. A heated, pocketless thing. Traditional.

George catches Ralph's eye, nods, rubs his thumb against his two front fingers. Money. Ralph mouths back, wordless: Fifty.

A large white woman sits behind an elevated counter like a Viking. Long greasy dirty-blonde hair. TINA (40s). Unimpressed.

Ralph approaches with caution. He can't tell yet if today is a good day to flirt with Tina or keep his eyes down. He settles somewhere between both. Cigarette smoke drifts downwind. His eyes stay half-hidden above his sunglasses.

TINA

You look like shit.

Ralph combs ringed fingers through his curly, graying hair. From her angle, he is a small begging man.

RALPH

Playing hard to get. That's okay. I dig that.

TINA

What table?

RALPH

There's something about you today, Tina. Can't put my finger on it. Are you… You're glowing. You pregnant?

TINA

Romance. Didn't see that coming.

RALPH

You know my moves, sweet cheeks. How about today, we forget that I'm here. I can go on the table. Shittiest one in the corner. And it can be our secret. I make no promises, but maybe later we can…

CUT TO:

EXT. MARY'S BILLIARDS, PARKING LOT — MORNING

Ralph sits curbside, sunglasses splayed open on his lap. He lights another cigarette.

George comes from behind him and reaches over his shoulder, offering a cup of coffee.

GEORGE

It's free. She didn't even spit in it.

Ralph takes the cup. For a moment, his hands hold it with both palms, the way a kid holds a hot cup of chocolate.

GEORGE (CONT'D)

Where you staying?

RALPH

With Charlene.

He nods toward the 1984 brown Audi taking up nearly two parking spaces. He pops a few pills, takes a swig of coffee.

RALPH (CONT'D)

Cheers.

George stands over him, quiet. His heels rock back and forth on the asphalt. Hands in pockets.

RALPH (CONT'D)

Stop it. What? We can't make mistakes?

George doesn't answer.

RALPH (CONT'D)

It's not like it used to be. Just shack up with some chick, leave, rinse, repeat. Have a place to stay. I'm getting old.

GEORGE

(laughs)

You were never Pretty Boy Maresco. Don't give me that sad sack story, you sorry piece of shit.

RALPH

Really? That hurt the feelings.

GEORGE

You just fucked up.

RALPH

I fucked up.

GEORGE

You fucked up.

RALPH

Is the coffee at your house better?

GEORGE

You know it is.

RALPH

Where'd you buy your couch? It's comfy. Supports the back and everything.

GEORGE

You can stay with Jo and I.

Ralph slides his sunglasses back on. Grinds his cigarette out against the toe of his worn shoe.

RALPH

Still lending that $50?

George pretends to think about it.

GEORGE

(smiles)

With interest.

FADE OUT.