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He gave me a little money—fifty francs, I think, which I lost the same night in a billiard parlor.

Week after week, wherever he went—be it chess club, restaurant, cafeteria, or billiard parlor—there was the blue box.

On Sixth Street, an eclectic stretch of nightclubs, bars, tattoo shops and billiard parlors, the weekend crowds were thick and the celebratory atmosphere remained.

A photo from 1889 shows McCormick’s, across C Street from another billiard parlor and around the corner from the National Hotel, which also boasted a billiard room.

He singles out a billiard parlor, “the devil’s playground,” as the root.