“I dunno, Moon,” Shaky said, tossing his cigarette butt out the window. “Why don’t you do it?”

  “Because it’d be bad karma for me to do it,” Moon said. “You know how important karma is in bowling. I’ll be plagued with ten pins the rest of my life.”

  Shaky fell quiet, picking at his fingers, trying to peel off the little pieces of rubber left from his thumb tape.

  Moon looked down at his cigarette, trying to decide if he could get one more puff out of it. It was important to get all the puffs you could, just like it was important to always get one of the pins of the 7-10 split because that’s what a lot of games came down to. And a lot averages, too. One goddamn pin.

  Moon slid a glance to Shaky. “I’ll give you my old Red Inferno ball,” he said.

  “That ball has so many potholes it rolls down the alley like a moon rock,” Shaky said.

  “Okay, what then?”

  “Man. . .”

  “Okay, the Inferno and my Brunswick three-baller bag. But you’ll have to fix the right wheel. It keeps falling off.”

  Shaky pulled a long string of thumb tape from his hand and started rolling it between his fingers. When he had it into a tiny ball, he tossed it out the window.

  “What about your Atomic Revolution?” he asked. “Can I have that?”

  “No fucking way,” Moon said. “I worked three weeks OT to get that damn ball. It’s a friggin’ two-hundred-dollar piece of art. No way. No way.”

  “Buy a new one with the prize money,” Shaky said.

  Moon shook his head again, trying to find his cigarettes. His hands were trembling so badly, he couldn’t pull one out and when he did, he broke it.

  “I got other bills to pay,” Moon said, ripping open the pack to get the last smoke. “I’m two months behind on the mortgage and one month on this friggin’ truck. And Helen’s bitching at me to get her a new washing machine. I can’t give you no money.”

  Shaky was still staring at his fingers and Moon finally tossed the cigarette pack to the dash and grabbed Shaky’s collar, jerking him toward the windshield.

  “See that up there?” Moon asked.

  “What?”

  “The sign,” Moon said, pointing up. “See the sign? Don’t you get it? It’s telling us something. It’s telling us to strike.”

  Shaky blinked up at the sky. “Yoo. . .moo..stttt. . .kee?” he said slowly.

  Moon tapped the windshield. “No, stupid, can’t you fucking read? You. . .Must. . .Strike. It’s talking about Bulldog.”

  Shaky’s eyes widened. “Wow,” he whispered.

  They both stared at the sign for a few moments, then Shaky slumped back against the door. His eyes stayed glued on the flickering neon.

  “Just steal the shoes, huh?” he asked. “That’s all I have to do?”

  “That’s all you have to do.”

  IT RAINED ON position night, like it did most nights in May in Memphis. For some teams, the downpour would mean a forfeit since half the streets would be flooded and most bowlers—those that didn’t have a true heart—would stay home. After all, the league was ending and if you weren’t one of the top few teams, you were already a loser anyway, so why risk your life driving through a lake just to win games no one cared about?

  Moon was sitting at one of the tall back tables, a beer in his hand, his eyes scanning the emptiness. Moon couldn’t imagine not showing up every week, rain or sleet. It was what being a purist was all about.

  He hadn’t known that until a few years ago, when in a drunken bar conversation, the pro shop guy, Al “The Hawk” Hawkins, had first called Moon a purist. Moon had gotten mad until he looked up “purist” in the dictionary and realized The Hawk had paid him a helluva compliment.

  Shaky had a good heart, but he wasn’t a purist. Like his average. For as long as Moon had known him, Shaky had never gotten above a 199, and he seemed content to let that one pin stay beyond his reach, like there was absolutely no difference between a 199 and 200 average.

  Now Bulldog Baker. Not even close to a purist.

  Yeah, he wore the silver Dyno-Thane Kangaroo Tour Ultras, and a glove called the Power Paw, and had made a name for himself a few years back by throwing a ball called The Thing. One day The Thing cracked in half on its way to the seven pin, only because Bulldog hadn’t respected it enough to take it out of his car trunk all summer. Bulldog tried to get another Thing but it was out of stock, so he bought The Thing’s new version, a purple and orange monstrosity called The Thing Lives.

  Jesus. Having a ball with that stupid name was bad enough. But Bulldog also liked to act the fool out there, sometimes wearing a dog mask, or bowling with his eyes closed, or clipping a rubber chicken to his teammate’s ass and then laughing like hell as it swung and bounced during the guy’s approach.

  You didn’t do stuff like that in a league.

  Moon took a drink and spun his chair to look around. On the wall above the alleys was another version of PAUL STROFFMAN’S LUCKY STRIKE sign. Moon stared at it for a moment, waiting for a message, but he knew none would come. This sign was newer, and not the classic symbol the one outside was.

  A few dripping bowlers were straggling in. Tony Valleni, who had memorized every page of the ABC rule book, and Bald Leo, whose thumb was sliced off a few years back but who had worked real hard to learn to throw a helluva curve using just his two fingers in the holes. True hearts at their best.

  At five thirty-seven, Bulldog came through the front door, lugging his rain-speckled bag. Bulldog always carried two balls—The Thing Lives and a second ball he used only for spares. After he was done hugging the girls, shaking hands with the guys, and talking about last night’s scores, he made his way toward alleys eleven and twelve. He had small, penny-colored eyes pressed into a catcher’s mitt face and they glinted with something Moon read as victory, even though not a ball had been thrown yet.

  “You’re here early,” Bulldog said. “What are you doing, soaking up the atmosphere for inspiration?”

  Moon drew hard on his cigarette and just stared.

  Bulldog gave him a smile, then set his bag against the rack that held the ugly pink and green house balls. He glanced up at the computerized scoreboards. The teams and names were already up there. THE STEEL BALLS VS. BULLDOG’S BEST.

  “I didn’t know we were playing you,” Bulldog said.

  “It’s friggin’ roll-off night,” Moon said dryly.

  “Good Lord,” Bulldog said, giving Moon a wink. “Is the season almost over already?”

  Moon stubbed out his cigarette, crunching his teeth to avoid saying anything that would get him punched. Besides, he needed to stay focused.

  Bulldog unzipped his bag and pulled out The Thing Lives and started toward the ball return to place it on the rack. Moon gaped. Bulldog was going to walk on the polished approach with wet shoes.

  “Hey!” Moon called. “Watch it, your feet are wet.”

  Bulldog looked down at his black work shoes, then came back to his bag. He set The Thing Lives back inside then bent to untie his shoes.

  “My apologies, Moon,” he said. “Last thing I’d want is someone sticking on the approach and getting hurt on my account.”

  Bulldog took off his street shoes. Then to Moon’s surprise, he pulled out his Dyno-Thane Kangaroo Tour Ultras and started to put them on.

  He was putting the shoes on now. . .before he went to the bar. Shit! Shit!

  “You going to walk around this whole place in your bowling shoes?” Moon asked. “They’ll be soaked.”

  Bulldog unzipped a pocket on the bag and held up a limp pair of red leather slip-on shoe covers. “Have no fear, my friend,” he said. “I always use protection.”

  Then he laughed, that horrid hoarse chuckle that always sounded like he had a rag caught in his throat. He was still laughing as he pulled the covers over the Kangaroos and sauntered off into the bar to play his poker machine.

  Moon couldn’t stand it, couldn’t sit still, and he pushed away from the counter so fast he almost tipped his beer. Winding his way between bowlers, he shoved the front doors open and stepped outside.

  Shit! Fuck! Motherfucker! Tits!

  How could he have been so stupid? Why didn’t he just keep his mouth shut? Why couldn’t he just let some stuff go instead of worrying about a few drops of water getting on the approach?

  Because you can’t, he thought. It’s who you are. You’re a purist.

  The red neon of the sign cracked and buzzed, drawing his gaze up to the gray sky. Moon stepped out from under the overhang and looked up. Different letters were struggling to stay aglow in the rain. Suddenly, the sign steadied itself, and a handful of letters grew bright and solid.

  T OFF LUC

  Moon squinted up into the rain. A new message.

  Toff luc? Tough luck?

  He stared harder, waiting for something else, waiting for the sign to show him the rest, tell him what to do now. But the letters just stood there, tall and fuzzy and red in the mist.

  Tough luck. Tough luck. Tough luck.

  Moon spat on the ground. This was bullshit. The sign wasn’t some mystical crystal ball that was going to help him beat Bulldog and light the way for a re-purification of the greatest game ever invented. It was just a rusty old relic of a vanishing era.

  He reached for the door. The boom of a blown electrical transformer snapped his head back toward the sign. With a groan and a crackle, three new letters came to life. TRI

  T OFF LUC TRI

  The last three—TRI—were blinking on and off.

  TRI? Try? Try. . .that was it. Try. Try. Try!

  Moon looked up to the clouds, his heart swelling with wonder and gratitude. His eyes filled with tears.

  “You okay, Moon?”

  Moon jumped, then looked at the man who had spoken. It was Al ‘The Hawk’ Hawkins, the pro shop guy. Moon’s eyes slid back to the sign, but he knew The Hawk couldn’t read it.

  “I’m cool,” Moon said.

  The Hawk motioned to his van. “I had to close the shop early. My old lady’s in labor again. Good luck tonight. Seven years in a row finishing second, that’s gotta hurt after a while.”

  Moon couldn’t even fake a smile. The Hawk hurried off across the parking lot. After a few seconds, a yellow Camaro with confederate flag window decals swung in. Shaky was here.

  Moon waited under the overhang until Shaky was almost to the doors then he stopped him with a palm to his chest. Shaky stared at him, his black hair looking like leeches stuck to his forehead.

  “What?” Shaky asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s already wearing the shoes,” Moon hissed. “You got to do something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Go to my truck. Inside is a full tube of epoxy. Bring it to me and don’t let anyone see you with it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just go. I’ll explain inside.”

  Moon pushed him out from under the overhang. Shaky planted his feet, blinking like he was figuring something out. “I do something with that epoxy then you gotta give me something better than your old Red Inferno.”

  “What?” Moon demanded. “What the fuck else I got you want?”

  “What about a roll with Helen?”

  “What? She would never sleep with you.”

  “Get her drunk enough, she might.”

  Moon came off the concrete, fist clenched and Shaky quickly back-pedaled. “I was just kidding, man.”

  Moon stopped himself, and for a few seconds, both of them stood in the rain, silent. Moon sighed. Man, he had to give Shaky something better than the pitted Red Inferno. Shaky didn’t have much else. Hell, maybe the thrill of winning this was enough. Maybe Helen’s new washer could wait.

  “All right,” Moon said. “I’ll give you my Atomic Revolution.”

  In the gray mist, Shaky’s face lit up like a headlight. He loped off toward Moon’s truck. A few seconds later, he was back.

  “You get it?” Moon asked.

  Shaky patted his dripping shirt, his voice low. “I’m packin’ man.”

  IT WAS CROWDED by the time they got back to alley eleven. Beefy men hunched over black bowling bags. Shoes scattered everywhere. The counters covered with the fine white powder from tiny bags of Easy-Slide. Paulie had music playing from the speakers, the kind Moon knew would give him a headache if he listened to it too long.

  They had both dried off in the john, changed into their yellow and black shirts, and Shaky had opened the epoxy inside the stall, making sure it would be warm and ready when he needed it. He was only going to get one good squeeze per hole.

  Back at alley eleven, Moon provided the cover for Shaky. He heard Shaky unzipping Bulldog’s bag.

  “Good luck tonight, Moon!” someone called.

  Moon gave the man a tight nod, keeping his eyes on the alleys. The smell of epoxy was everywhere.

  “Hurry up,” Moon hissed.

  “Do you want I should do the spare ball, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  Moon heard the draw of a zipper and suddenly Shaky appeared in front of him, a tight smile on his face. “Mission accomplished.”

  Moon watched as Shaky wandered off and dropped the epoxy into a full trash can, then he looked toward the bar. Bulldog was coming out the door.

  It was time to get ready.

  As Moon put on his shoes, he snuck a look at Bulldog. He hadn’t touched his bag yet. Still busy jawing about his recent 300 game and wondering when his award ring would come from ABC.

  Moon’s eyes slipped quickly to the only ring on his hand, his wedding ring, but he didn’t like thinking about that. He set his Atomic Revolution on the rack and looked down at the pins. They stood like polished teeth at the end of the gleaming wood tongue. Pearly and ripe.

  “Who’s been fucking with my ball?”

  Bulldog had pulled The Thing Lives from his bag and was jabbing at the thumb hole with his finger.

  “It’s. . .filled up with something.”

  Moon resisted the urge to walk over. Bulldog poked at the clogged hole a few more times, then the copper eyes came up. Right at Moon.

  “You,” Bulldog whispered.

  Moon gave him a dry smile. “Things happen to balls when you leave them in hot car trunks,” he said. “Maybe it melted.”

  Bulldog stared at him, The Thing Lives cradled in his hands like a dead pet.

  People started to gather around, taking turns sticking fingers inside Bulldog’s thumb hole and mumbling about how the new kind of resin used to make balls nowadays just didn’t hold up very well in the southern heat.

  “Maybe Al the Hawk can drill it out for you real quick,” someone said.

  Moon let Bulldog take a few steps toward the pro shop before he called out. “Hey Bulldog,” Moon said. “I saw Al leaving about thirty minutes ago.”

  Bulldog turned slowly back to Moon. The mumbling all around them grew louder. Everyone knew what this meant.

  “You want to borrow one of my balls, Bulldog?” someone asked.

  “You know I can’t,” Bulldog said. “I got fat fingers.”

  “Maybe you can use a one of those pink house balls,” Moon offered.

  Bulldog glared at Moon, so hard he didn’t even notice that Bald Leo had walked up. “Man, that’s tough luck,” Leo said. “Want me to show you how to throw it without sticking your thumb in?”

  Bulldog’s head jerked to Bald Leo. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Show me.”

  THEY WERE ALLOWED fifteen minutes of practice. With only two on a team, that gave everyone a chance to throw at least twenty shots. Normally Moon took every one he could, but not tonight. He was watching Bulldog.

  At first, Bulldog threw a couple of gutters, then Bald Leo worked on his grip, showing him how to cup to ball to get it stay on his hand. Eight practice balls later, The Thing Lives, with the clogged holes, was rolling down the alley and getting strikes.

  Moon was pissed. No one could learn to bowl with two fingers instead of three that quick. In fact, unless you were thumbless, there ought to be a rule against it. They put three holes on a ball for a reason.

  “This sucks,” Shaky said, coming up next to him. “What now?”

  Moon’s gut was so hard, he couldn’t speak. He shoved Shaky aside and ripped into his bag for his shoe covers. He was still struggling to get them on as he hobbled away from the alleys.

  Moon shoved open the front doors. He stepped out from under the overhang and into the hard rain. Every damn letter was off.

  “Okay!” Moon shouted at the sign. “Okay! Now what? What do I do now?”

  The sign stood dark and silent.

  “Dammit!” he screamed. “I did everything you wanted me to! Talk to me. C’mon, one more time!”

  Nothing.

  “You fucking piece of shit!” Moon shouted, fist raised. “You lousy, stinking piece of cheap neon! Talk to me!”

  It started with a buzz, then a crackle and a few letters began to glow. First a K, then a second K.

  “C’mon,” Moon said. “I’m running out of time here!”

  More letters. Then the sign stopping buzzing, leaving only a handful of letters lit.

  M A K SIK.

  What did that mean?

  Ma..k. . .Make? S..i..K. . .Sick.

  Make sick.

  Yes! That was it. He would make Bulldog sick.

  Moon rushed back inside, dripping all the way back to alley twelve. The whole place was alive now with clatter, but to Moon, it seemed strangely muted, like it did sometimes at the end of a one-pin game when he had to tune everything else out in order to throw the perfect ball.

  Bulldog was humping strikes every time now and his teammate stood in awe, watching him. Everyone was watching him.

  Moon grabbed Shaky’s sleeve and pulled him over to the counter.

  “Get your acetone,” he whispered.

  Shaky reached down into his bag and pulled out a small plastic squeeze bottle. Moon glanced at the crowd around Bulldog, then tipped his head toward Bulldog’s Rum and Coke.