The Hustler (6 page)

He did not miss; but when he played safe, now, the cue ball did not always freeze against the rail or against a cluster of balls as he wanted it to. Once, at a critical time in a game, when he had to play safe, the cue ball rolled an inch too far and left Fats an open shot and Fats ran sixty-odd balls and out. And later, during what should have been a big run, he miscalculated a simple, one-rail position roll and had to play for defense. Fats won that game too. When he did, Eddie said, “You fat son of a bitch, you make mistakes expensive.”

But he kept on making them. He would still make large numbers of balls but something would go wrong and he would throw the advantage away. And Fats didn’t make mistakes. Not ever. And then Charlie came over after a game, and said, “Eddie, you still got the ten thousand. But that’s all. Let’s quit and go home. Let’s go to bed.”

Eddie did not look at him. “No,” he said.

“Look, Eddie,” he said, his voice soft, tired, “what is it you want to do? You beat him. You beat him bad. You want to kill yourself?”

Eddie looked up at him. “What’s the matter, Charlie?” he said, trying to grin at him. “You chicken?”

Charlie looked back at him for a minute before he spoke. “Yeah,” he said, “maybe that’s it. I’m chicken.”

“Okay. Then go home. Give me the money.”

“Go to hell.”

Eddie held his hand out. “Give me the money, Charlie. It’s mine.”

Charlie just looked at him. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a tremendous roll of money, wrinkled bills rolled up and wrapped with a heavy rubber band.

“Here,” he said. “Be a goddamn fool.”

Eddie stuffed the roll in his pocket. When he stood up to play he looked down at himself. It seemed grossly funny; one pocket bulging with a whiskey bottle, the other with paper money.

It took a slight effort to pick up his cue and start playing again; but after he was started the playing did not seem to stop. He did not even seem to be aware of the times when he was sitting down and Fats was shooting, seemed always to be at the table himself, stroking with his bruised, screaming arm, watching the bright little balls roll and spin and twist their ways about the table. But, although he was hardly aware that Fats was shooting, he knew that he was losing, that Fats was winning more games than he was. And when the janitor came in to open up the poolroom and sweep the floor and they had to stop playing for a few minutes while he swept the cigarette butts from around the table, Eddie sat down to count his money. He could not count it, could not keep track of what he had counted; but he could see that the roll was much smaller than it had been when Charlie gave it to him. He looked at Fats and said, “You fat bastard. You fat lucky bastard,” but Fats said nothing.

And then, after a game, Eddie counted off a thousand dollars to Fats, holding the money on the table, under the light, and when he had counted off the thousand he saw that there were only a few bills left. This did not seem right, and he had to look for a moment before he realized what it meant. Then he counted them. There was a hundred-dollar bill, two fifties, a half-dozen twenties and some tens and ones.

Something happened in his stomach. A fist had clamped on something in his stomach and was twisting it.

“All right,” he said. “All right, Fats. We’re not through yet. We’ll play for two hundred. Two hundred dollars a game.” He looked at Fats, blinking now, trying to bring his eyes to focus on the huge man across the table from him. “Two hundred dollars. That’s a hustler’s game of pool.”

Fats was unscrewing his cue, unfastening the brass joint in its center. He looked at Eddie. “The game’s over,” he said.

Eddie leaned over the table, letting his hand fall on the cue ball. “You can’t quit me,” he said.

Fats did not even look at him. “Watch,” he said.

Eddie looked around. The crowd was beginning to leave the table, men were shuffling away, breaking up into little groups, talking. Charlie was walking toward him, his hands in his pockets. The distance between them seemed very great, as though he were looking down a long hallway.

Abruptly, Eddie pushed himself away from the table, clutching the cue ball in his hand. He felt himself staggering. “Wait!” he said. Somehow, he could not see, and the sounds were all melting into one another. “Wait!” He could barely hear his own voice. Somehow, he swung his arm, his burning, swollen, throbbing right arm, and he heard the cue ball crash against the floor and then he was on the floor himself and could see nothing but a lurching motion around him, unclear patterns of light swinging around his head, and he was vomiting, on the floor and on the front of his shirt….

7

He awoke at four o’clock in the morning. He awoke with perspiration sticky on his face and with the taste of acid and vomit in his mouth, awoke from a long dream of a bright light and a thousand spinning colored balls, awoke but kept his mind, for minutes, at the edge of the remembrance of what had happened before he had come back to the hotel and had fallen into bed.

And then he tried to sit up—still not letting himself remember—and the surprise of the pain in his arms and his back, together with the unreality of awaking at four o’clock in the morning in a strange city, perspiring, wearing shoes in bed, the surprise of these things jarred the memory loose and it took hold of him, burning. He fell back and stared into the darkness, every scene of his stupidity and arrogance before him, in sharp detail, seen as clearly, as circumscribed by his own free will and choice to be a fool, as had the circle of light above the table at Bennington’s encompassed the ground where he had chosen—deliberately and with no one else to blame—to play the fool and play him well.

But this kind of vision does not last long. Maybe the light is too bright, too clear, and hurts the eyes. Eddie Felson pushed himself up painfully in bed and sat on the edge of it, his mind now a blank, waiting for the thick, phlegmatic ache at the base of his brain and the ache that burned the length of his right arm to go away. But they did not and he had to force himself erect. He did not feel that he could stand the light to be on and he shuffled and bumped his way across the room and into the bathroom. His feet felt as if they had been swathed with thick bandages and stuffed into his shoes. He managed to turn the water faucet on and stick his head under it. The water was hot, and he fumbled with the faucets, adjusting it. Then he withdrew his head, sopping, and groped for a towel. He turned the light on and, after a minute of squinting, looked in the mirror.

It was somebody else’s face. The eyes grotesquely puffed, the hair dripping, clinging to the forehead, the neck dirty, smeared chalk on the forehead, the lips cracked, blistered. Somehow he managed a faint grin. “You son of a bitch,” he said, “you look like hell.”

Then he took a hand towel, a white one, from the rack over the lavatory, wadded it up in the bowl, sopped it with steaming water, rubbed it with a cake of soap, and began scrubbing his face. Then he washed the back of his neck—holding his head over the bowl—and the sweaty area under his chin. This soaked his collar, making it stick to his neck, and he stopped long enough to take his shirt and undershirt off. He washed his chest and arms then, holding the hot cloth around his right shoulder until the aching was dulled by it. After this he tore a hotel washcloth from its cellophane package and began washing his face more carefully, in greater detail, rubbing hard at the places where the chalk marks were, using more soap, getting every vestige of the finely powdered green from his skin.

When he was satisfied with this, his face glowing and his upper body chilled, dripping, but purified, he filled the bowl and stuck his head in it, soaking his hair in the warm, soapy liquid. He withdrew his head, squinted burning eyes, sneezed the water from his nose, and began scrubbing at the hair, scraping through it violently with his fingernails—knowing that he was cleaning them too of the filth and talcum powder and green chalk and shame that were under them.

Standing back from the loudly draining bowl, he grabbed a dry towel, sat on the edge of the tub, and began rubbing himself dry. The towel smelled faintly of Clorox, a strong, clean smell.

Then he shaved, slowly and carefully, and soaked his face afterward with a pungent, alcoholic lotion. He brushed his teeth with icy water, violence, and a stinging mint confection from a battered tube. He combed his hair, and when he had finished this looked in the mirror again, paused and said, “Anyway, now you’re a good-looking son of a bitch.”

Then he packed the lavatory tools into their case, went into the bedroom, opened his suitcase, put the toilet kit in, and withdrew a clean shirt and undershirt—both white—clean pants and socks. He put these on, wadded and stuffed the dirty things into the suitcase, and closed it.

He glanced at Charlie. Charlie was still completely flat.

Then he took out his billfold. In it were two hundred eighty-three dollars. He counted out one hundred fifty and then put the rest back in his pocket. He went to the bed where Charlie lay asleep, his face dirty, wearied, impassive. Next to the bed was a nightstand, with a cheap modern lamp on it. Eddie set the one hundred fifty in bills on the nightstand, making a neat little stack of the money. Then he fished in his pocket, withdrew the car keys, and set them on top of the bills. He looked at the sleeping man for a moment. “Okay, Charlie,” he said softly, “I’ll see you around.” On the floor by his bed the leather case with the cue stick in it was lying. He picked it up by the handle, and then abruptly he turned back to Charlie and said, “Charlie, I’m sorry….” Then he took his suitcase and left the room.

Outside, the sky was graying off, and somewhere a bird was singing, remote and feeble. From a window there was the sound of dance music, of talk. The air was pleasant and cool. A dog ran yipping up the middle of the street, its barking still echoing after it had turned a corner and was out of sight. He felt better, walking, but his mind was still thick, the pictures in it confused and unclear.

He tried not to think of anything except the simple fact that he was hungry. There was much else to think about, but this was not the time for thinking. After he had walked a few blocks he came to a bus station. In the waiting room were a scattering of very grubby, tired people—a woman with a red and ugly baby, some big-handed, dull-eyed men, a group of withdrawn old women, who seemed to be huddled against the brightness of the room itself. He did not like even seeing such people.

Along one wall there were public lockers—the gambler’s ubiquitous closet. He checked his bag and case in one of them. He looked at his watch. It said ten minutes until five.

The station lunchroom was less than half open. Most of it had been roped off and there were only five stools left at the counter and four booths along the wall. The stools were all filled; a pair of bus drivers on one side, three men in wrinkled business suits at the other. The lights were very bright; and the talking of the men seemed distant, yet highly articulate—strange, early-morning sounds, like the shrill conversations of birds that would soon begin outside.

In one of the booths only one person was sitting. This was a girl—a small, not very pretty girl—drinking coffee, alone. Eddie hesitated a moment and then sat down in the booth, facing her. She was staring at her coffee and did not look up at him. There was one waitress, a harried and skinny woman in a uniform, and he tried to catch her attention.

After a moment he turned back and looked at the girl. Beside her elbow was an ash tray, filled with cigarette butts. As he noticed this she pulled a silver case from the pocket of the tan coat she was wearing, withdrew a cigarette, and placed it between her lips. There was deftness in the motion—a kind of thing that Eddie always noticed when it appeared—and she lighted the cigarette with a smooth, easy movement. She did this without looking up from the coffee cup, into which she was staring.

This seemed to be an opening. He grinned and said, “Long wait for a bus?”

She lifted her eyes from the cup for a moment. He nodded toward the ash tray. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was tired, the tone final. She returned to her coffee.

The light was very harsh and it was difficult to tell whether the hard set of her features was a consequence of the bright light and the shadows—or of other lights and other shadows. Her skin was very pale, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. Yet the eyes, although tired, were not actually dull; there was a hint of something alert about them.

Her hair was dark, cut short, practically straight. She could have been pretty, but she was not. Her lips were too pale, even with the faint lipstick she wore, and not full enough. There was a certain boyishness to her forehead; she had no discernible bosom; and the bone structure of her face, although fine and delicate, was too much in evidence. Or perhaps that was because of the light. Yet she did not look sickly; there was a suggestion of tired wakefulness, of self-sufficiency, about her.

He could not think of anything further to say and waited in silence for what seemed a long time, until the waitress came by, setting the universal glass of iceless water on the plastic table top before him. He ordered scrambled eggs, sausage, and coffee.

And then, on an impulse, he said, “Just a minute,” and to the girl, “You want another cup of coffee?” He made his voice casual, as friendly as possible.

She raised her eyes again and he grinned at her with what he knew to be his most forthright and amiable grin. This was the grin which, together with his honest face, he relied upon when on the hustle.

She hesitated a moment, then shrugged gently. “Okay,” she said, and then when the waitress was gone, “Thanks.” She looked at his face quizzically. There was nothing at all about this look to imply either flirtation or avoidance of flirtation. It was as if she were merely curious about what kind of man would be trying to pick her up in the bus station. Somehow this amused him.

He let the grin relax into a smile and said, “When does the bus leave?”

“What bus?”

“Yours.”

“Oh.” A private smile appeared on her face and then vanished. “Six o’clock.”