Hugo Candless stood in the middle of the squash court bending his big body at the waist, holding the little black ball delicately between left thumb and forefinger. He dropped it near the service line and flicked at it with the long-handled racket.
The black ball hit the front wall a little less than halfway up, floated back in a high, lazy curve, skimmed just below the white ceiling and the lights behind wire protectors. It slid languidly down the back wall, never touching it enough to bounce out.
George Dial made a careless swing at it, whanged the end of his racket against the cement back wall. The ball fell dead.
He said: "That's the story. chief. 12-14. You're just too good for me."
George Dial was tall, dark, handsome, Hollywoodish. He was brown and lean, and had a hard, outdoor look. Everything about him was hard except his full, soft lips and his large, cowlike eyes.
"Yeah. I always was too good for you," Hugo Candless chortled.
Read the rest of "Nevada Gas."
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