In the spring of 1870, Larry Blackmore was arguably one of the worst pool players in New York City. He had gotten the bug shooting pool on the table in the back of Johansson’s dry goods and religiously lost his 5-cent allowance every week until he graduated to playing in Darby’s pool hall where he lost every dime he earned working as a stable boy at the local livery. It became a tradition. Paid at 5pm, broke at 9pm.

I mean to tell you, this kid had no stroke. He could no more put together a string of balls than fly to the moon. But having been smitten by the bug he continued to play and donate all through his school years. He did however pick up a great nickname for his efforts. “Pay Me Bmore.”

After High School, Larry worked on the loading dock at the city newspaper. He took the graveyard shift so he would have his mornings free to practice at the pool hall and his evenings free to continue donating his earnings to a host of better players in the city.

No one really knew much about the old man who sat in the corner of the pool room. Ken Renfro, the owner of Darby’s only knew him as Doc Hazard and that he was a Civil War Vet.  

During the war between the states Doc was so impressed with a brief encounter he had with the larger than life George Armstrong Custer that he decided to emulate the brazen young Calvary officer by sporting the same handlebar mustache and chin puff which has remained a part of his craggy face ever since. That and his hawk like nose were his two most prominent features. Doc was also a very big man; Standing over six feet and somewhere north of two hundred and fifty pounds. He always wore the same clothes, a baggy black suite and a starched white shirt buttoned at the collar. His slicked back salt and pepper hair completed the look and gave him more of the appearance of a mortician than a pool hustler. And like Larry, he was often the brunt of jokes from younger players trying to goad him into a game for some easy money.

Doc would get to the pool hall by 11:00 am every morning rain or shine. He’d shoot racks of balls by himself until the regular crowd wandered in, generally around 4:00Pm. He would then retreat to his usual seat in the corner of the pool room and watch the younger men play. Later in the evening, he would move to a chair closer to the front section of the room, where he could watch the hustlers play their money games. There was always action at Darby’s. It was just a question of how much you wanted to bite off.

 Every night at 11:00 pm the old man would get up and saunter off into the dark. It was a perfect 12-hour day for the old man and one that would repeat itself day after day after day.   

One morning Larry got to the pool hall early. He found the old man running racks of balls on the back table. He stood for several minutes in awe of the old man’s ability to move that white rock around the table. The old man always left himself an easy next shot.

The old man looked up at Larry, smiled and said. “Wish you could do that don’t you kid, run racks of balls.” Larry could only muster a nod. Doc laid the cue on the table and returned to his favorite chair in the back corner of the room.

“Come over here kid, sit down. I think I can help you. I’ve been watching you lose for a long time. How’d you like to win for a change?”

Doc pulled a pouch from his vest, tapped some tobacco onto a cigarette paper, rolled it tight and gave it a quick flick of the tongue. It was an easy thing for a man with over forty years of practice. He then retrieved a stick match from his vest pocket, lit the cigarette and took a long drag. The smoke seemed to come from his lungs forever and it made Larry’s eyes tear. Seeming not to notice Larry’s discomfort, the old man said. “What you need is confidence, that and a stroke.”

 “No shit” was the best Larry could mutter.

“I can help kid.” A second long drag on the cigarette produced a perfectly shaped cue ball that hung in the stale air until a wave of the big man’s hand scattered it and forced it across the room where it disintegrated into a mass of nothingness.

“How’d you do that?” “Oh, I can do that and a whole lot more kid. Would you like to do a whole lot more too?”

 Before the boy could answer, the old man pulled the pouch back out of his coat pocket, stared intently into the boys eyes and said.

 “I was given this many years ago at the battle of Chancellorsville, May 2, 1863. I was a young surgeon at the time. The Ambulance Corps brought me a wounded soldier, he had been hit just below the knee with a load of grapeshot and his leg was nearly blown off. He was actually my first surgery and I knew the leg had to be amputated before gangrene set in.”

“I guess he saw the despair in my eyes because he said.”

“Doc you need a shot of confidence.”

“I thought he meant I should have some Whiskey to calm my nerves, but then he pulled this pouch from his pocket, rolled a smoke and said.

“Take it.”

“I lit it, took a deep drag and a feeling of calm and confidence came over me. I saved that boys leg and in gratitude he gave me the pouch with a promise that I pass it on in my own time and in my own way. I was later told by the men in his unit that he was the seventh son of a seventh son and that he held the pouch sacred. Whatever power there is, it must come from the pouch and not the tobacco, because I’ve refilled it a thousand times over the years and each smoke I roll has the exact same effect as that first one the boy rolled in the field hospital. It always leaves me with the complete and utter confidence that I can do anything I set my mind to. You see kid, it’s all about confidence, now take the pouch, use it wisely and with the same stipulation to pass it on in your own time, and in your own way.”

“Oh! I forgot one thing kid, a rule if you will. That young soldier told me that with all the good, there comes an equal measure of bad and to avoid the bad as he put it, I should never allow anyone to ever take hold of the pouch without the proper permissions, for I would surely see the bad on that day.

 It took Larry some time to get the hang of smoking cigarette’s without coughing his lungs out and getting sick to his stomach, but the rewards seemed to outweigh the side effects and to say Larry’s game improved after his encounter with Doc Hazard would be a gross understatement. Within a year, Larry had become somewhat of a living legend on the green felt tables of New York City pool parlors and it became harder and harder to find a decent money game in any of the local billiard establishments. Larry finally decided to hit the road in search of new fish to fry. He hit most of the bigger cities on the east coast, and then headed west hitting Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Chicago and finally taking a train west to Tombstone. He had read about the notorious gunfight at the OK Corral with the Earp Brothers, and the Clanton gang. The article went into great detail describing the degenerate life styles of the gamblers and outlaws who called this wild Arizona town home.

“Perfect he thought, just perfect. Between hustling pool and gambling with a town full of drunken cowboy’s there should be some real easy pickings for me there. And anyway, I’d really like to see this Wyatt Earp everyone is talking about.”

It was March of 1882 and the notoriety of the infamous gunfight at the OK corral back some five months earlier had finally begun to wane. Wyatt Earp and his brothers were still the force to reckon with in Tombstone and although the town was now a bit tamer, it was still home to over a hundred saloons and fourteen gambling halls. Hell, it even had a bowling alley. It was still a place for a gambler to make his mark and that was his aim.

Larry stepped off the train in Benson Arizona, the closest he could get by rail to Tombstone. Set his valise on a bench, walked to the end of the platform and stared down the dirt path that led to the center of town. As he turned to retrieve his bag, the conductor smiled and said, not much to see in Benson, I figure if you’re like most people who get off here, you’re really heading for Tombstone.

“That’s right my friend, I’m heading for Tombstone. Is there a stage line here, or do I need to buy a horse and saddle.

“No, no need to buy a horse, the stage from Tombstone to Benson is scheduled to arrive in about an hour. It’ll head back to Tombstone after they switch out the team and the driver has something to eat.”

“Thanks, I think I’ll get something to eat myself, then head over to the stage line and buy a ticket. Do you have any suggestions for a good clean hotel in Tombstone?”

“I’d suggest the Grand Hotel on Allen Street; it’s the best hotel in the territory and serves the best steak dinner west of the Mississippi.”

The ride to Tombstone was hot dusty and cramped with eight passengers on board, most of which reeked of body sweat and bad breath and the morbidly obese passenger crammed in next him was no exception.

As the stage pulled into Tombstone there was neither doubt nor question as to its reputation as a true Wild West town. There were hundreds of people, mostly men, milling around in various states of drunkenness and he witnessed several fist fights in the street between the edge of town and the way station. It wasn’t hard to find the Grand Hotel as it prominently stood out among the other wood frame buildings on Allen Street. He checked in, took his bags to the room and crashed on the overstuffed bed for a few hours rest and sleep before going to dinner and then to work.

After dinner he asked the desk clerk where he might play a friendly game of billiards. The clerk leaned over the counter and pointed out the door. “Campbell & Hatch’s Billiard Parlor it’s just across the street. You may even get a game with Morgan Earp! He likes to hang out there and play billiards with Bob Hatch, one of the owners.”

“Time to go to work” he thought as he thanked the clerk and headed for the Billiard parlor across the street.

“Morgan Earp, wouldn’t that be something if I could hustle one of the famous Earp brothers, I’d be a legend back home.”

The Billiard Parlor consisted of one long narrow room with a bar running down the left side and one billiard table set up in the back of the room. The whole place was no more than twenty feet wide by possibly forty in length.

“What’s your poison” asked the barkeep.

“Got a cold beer?” replied Larry.

“Coldest in Tombstone I’m told.”

“Great, then I guess I’ll have one of the coldest beers in Tombstone.” Larry took the beer from the bar top and walked to the back of the room where two men were playing a game of billiards. He quietly sat at a small table adjacent to the pool table, took the tobacco pouch from his coat pocket, rolled a smoke and watched the two men play.

The taller and somewhat younger of the two players had just made a very difficult cut shot into the corner pocket. The shorter man smiled, shook his head and said. “Morgan, you’re the luckiest son of bitch I ever saw.”

“Not luck Bob, skill. That’s sixty one points Bob you lose again, want to play another game?”

“Yeah, one more, then I gotta go take inventory at the bar. Your lucky streak can’t last all night, rack the balls and be prepared for a righteous ass whipping.”

“Ass whipping my ass, you haven’t beaten me in months and I don’t think anything is gonna change tonight.”

Morgan looked over at Larry and asked. “What do you think mister? Do you think this old coot can beat me?”

As he stood up from the table Larry said “I don’t know friend, you both play pretty good. I’m just gonna get me another beer and watch you two play for a while. Can I get you something to drink while I’m up?”

“Sure mister, I’ll take a beer if you’re offering, thanks and call me Morg.”

“Morg, you wouldn’t be Morgan Earp would you?”

“Yours truly”

As he turned his back to Earp to get the beers, Morgan picked up Larry’s tobacco pouch and a cigarette paper from the table where Larry was sitting and rolled himself a smoke, took a deep drag and continued to rack the balls.”

Larry returned to the table and as he set the beers down he noticed the pouch and papers were now on the other side of the table. He turned and asked Morgan if he had taken a smoke from the pouch.

“Sure did, didn’t think you’d mind, I’m fresh out of tobacco. It smokes real smooth too, not like the crap we have here.”

It’s a special blend I had made back east. It’s kind of expensive so I don’t usually share it with anyone.”

As Bob Hatch broke the balls in the rack, Morgan pulled a silver dollar from his vest pocket and tossed it to Larry. “I don’t like being beholding to any man. That should more than cover the cost of one smoke.”

Before Larry could answer back, there was the loud report of a firearm from the back of the parlor. A glass pane in the rear door had shattered and shards of glass blew into the room.

“What the hell was that?” Larry shouted with his eyes fixed on the gaping hole in the door that had once been the window.

Morgan staring intently at Bob Hatch, his hands clutching his stomach leaned against the pool table and with a deep groan in his voice said. “They got me Bob, they finally fucking got me. Bob, get my brothers Wyatt and Virgil. I don’t want to die alone in this shit hole.” Morgan slumped forward and then fell face down onto the billiard table, blood slowly seeping into the green felt cloth. Bob Hatch turned Morgan onto his back, rolled up his coat and laid it under Morgan’s head and while holding the dying man’s hand told Larry to find the Earp brothers and bring them back to the parlor.

Larry nodded in agreement and in a dead run raced through the billiard parlor doors. He came to an abrupt stop in the middle of Allen Street, dust swirling at his boot heels. The words spoken so long ago by Doc Hazard now burned in his mind. “For every measure of good there is an equal measure of bad.” His next thought was. “There will surely be a reckoning if the Earp brothers learn of the omen and I don’t want to be another nobody buried on Boot Hill with the Clanton’s.” The overwhelming fear of death overcame him and rather than seeking out the Earp’s he continued to cross Allen Street entered the Grand Hotel and locked himself in his room. The next morning he rode the stage back to Benson and caught the first train out of the territory.

         The old man entered the pool hall, approached the counter and with the course raspiness of an age old smoker muttered. “How’s it going pal?” The proprietor looked up, smiled and said.  “Well I’ll be damned, Larry Blackmore, how’s it going buddy, haven’t seen you in years. You don’t remember me do you? I don’t blame you if you don’t. I was just a young kid when you were beating everyone in the city and leaving them all busted. Are you still hustling?”

“No, those days are gone, pool is a young man’s game, I’m just too old now and my eyes are not as sharp as they once were. No, I just thought I’d stop in for a beer and see what the next crop of hustlers look like. Anyone stand out?”

“Yeah, sure Larry we have a few really good players in the city, but they won’t be in until later tonight. Why don’t you have that beer and hang around for a while. We can talk about the old days and what you’ve been doing all these years.”

“Sure, maybe later” said Larry. “Right now I just need to use the toilet.”

“Straight back and to the left, you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks”

When Larry left the toilet, he took a seat near the back of the pool room and watched a young boy playing on a table by himself. The boy was poking at the balls and aimlessly moving them around the table. Larry knew it was now time to pass on the pouch to the next generation.

“Hey kid, looks like you could use a little help.”

“Yea, I’m not too good at this yet, but I’d like to be.”

“Come over here and sit down a while, what’s your name kid?” “Rudolph Wanderone Jr. My friends call me Fat’s”