D-E&D-Bernstein-23 TURKEY'S NEST 94 BEDFORD AVE. (N. 12TH ST.) WILLIAMSBURG, 718-384-9774 IT RESTS ...

TURKEY'S NEST

94 BEDFORD AVE. (N. 12TH ST.) WILLIAMSBURG, 718-384-9774

IT RESTS HEAVY on black, red and white tile, its disaster potential hidden as I inch forward with my four bits.

"Who's playing next?" I ask a man rolling the cue ball across the green felt. He straightens, showcasing a failed-high-school-football-player physique.

"You are. Doubles." He snorts and spins his Notre Dame baseball cap backward.

My friend Steve-a hothead and heavy drinker, but pool shark nonetheless-is summoned. I buy a 32-ounce Styrofoam Budweiser and a plastic-cup whiskey-and-Coke while he deposits change.

I return. Ball's stuck. Our opponent shakes the table. "Fucking ball is fucking stuck," he says, loosening nothing.

I slip my tiny mitts within the works, retrieving a slick black beauty.

"Lucky fucker," Notre Dame says, and we rack without a word.

Before shooting, Notre Dame turns to his mulleted and Budweiser-t-shirted partner. "What are we playing these little fuckers for?" he asks, loudly.

Steve is rife with braggadocio. Whenever a fight percolates, he steps to the fore, his hands clenched white. This is wonderful. And, sometimes, unfortunate.

"We're playing for a fucking drink," Steve says. "Shoot."

"You may as well order my drink now," Notre Dame says.

The game proceeds as expected in a dive bar loaded with tanked Williamsburg locals: makes, misses and mistakes made good. The game rests on the eight ball. Notre Dame flubs by centimeters.

Steve sets up. Shoots. Sinks.

"That's fucking bullshit," Notre Dame says. "I'm not buying you a drink."

"Two Jack-and-Cokes. Now."

Notre Dame starts yelling. Steve returns the favor. I take my place in the long line of unfortunates who aim to quell bar brawls.

"Hey, this is silly. Let's not fi-"

Five gnarled fingers introduce themselves to my trachea. My drink splashes groundward, coating my New Balances with cheap whiskey, as Notre Dame pushes me against a Coors Light mirror.

Steve rushes over. Hands leave my throat. Screaming. Shouting. Notre's friends posse up. Former linemen, the lot of 'em. Words. Shouting. Me, breathing fine, nothing out of line for auto-asphyxiation.

The resolution: 10 minutes of screaming, then understanding. Steve is bought beer. I leave. And, the next day, I'm treated to this story:

"After you left last night," my friend Tim says, "this kid Joe ran the table. He was drunk and shot well, but was cocky too. When he left, the same people that fucked with you were waiting outside."

"Shit," I say, fingering my bruised throat. "What happened?"

"Pow."

"Pow?"

"Right on the nose," Tim says, mimicking the effects of a pool table gone bad.

JOSHUA M. BERNSTEIN