Джек Кейди - The Hauntings of Hood Canal

“Is this important? Tell me something I can use.” Annie figured herself in the midst of experts, and figured the experts talked over her head.

“Kiddo, you wanta know about men…” The purple one, the scrawny one, seemed to change from butterfly to beetle. “There’s two kinds. One kind owns underwear, the other doesn’t. The kind that owns underwear acts more civilized, but don’t let that fool you.”

“There’s actually three kinds,” the orange one said. “Some of them play golf. The trick is to find one with underwear that don’t play golf.”

“Or pool,” the beetle-lady said, and glared at the pool tables, displeased, sorting through barely mentionable memories. “Planned community,” she said about the housing project. “I’d like to find the sonovabitch that planned the recreation.”

“We have a problem,” the orange one told Annie. “Our men are so competitive. For the last year they’ve been mad about the game.”

“They didn’t even go sport fishing last fall,” the green one said. “They stayed sober on New Year.”

“What the hell,” the beetle-lady said, “they stayed sober on Easter Sunday.”

“Our world is not exactly crumbling,” the green one confided to Annie, “but try living with one when he is constantly cold sober.” The butterfly giggled, which is unusual in a butterfly. “Impossible to make social plans. In addition, his sex drive becomes invigorated.” The butterfly did not blush, but Bertha did.

“It sounds ideal,” Annie murmured. “…of course, I only guess from what I’ve heard.”

Bertha tried to appear unruffled. “Send ’em down this way,” she muttered. “Tell ’em humility don’t hurt once you get numb.”

A light of interest crossed the purple one’s face. “Are people here very good? Our gentlemen have worked for better than a year developing skills.” Her voice sounded only a little phony.

“Around here,” Annie said, “boys learn pool about the time they learn to drive, and they learn to drive at age nine.”

The beetle looked intrigued, and also looked ready to do business. “We can solve our problem,” she said to the butterflies, “or at least we can try.” To Bertha, she said, “Play would have to happen on our tables. Our men are not accustomed to losing. A loss may cause them to quit the game.”

“Our guys don’t play for love,” Bertha told her. “I’ve seen titles pass to pickup trucks, and the guy who lost the truck didn’t even get a ride home.”

“Give me your card,” the beetle said.

“My cards ain’t returned from the printer. Phone number’s in the book.”

“Some spiders eat their mates,” Annie explained, but only Jubal Jim paid attention. Jubal Jim stood, yawned, stretched, and trotted to the doorway. When Bertha let him out he walked to the only car on the lot, a Lincoln Continental, raised his leg and anointed a tire. He was soon joined by the butterflies. Jubal Jim sniffed the air for the familiar scent of booze, and the unfamiliar scent of truly expensive perfume. Then he trotted back to the door and scratched.

“I did something stupid, didn’t I?” Annie let Jubal Jim inside, watched the Lincoln pull away, then sighed.

“Nope,” Bertha told her. “You did okay. I did something stupid.”

Petey followed The Way of the Hustler through late June and a good piece of July. It takes time to make a stake because loafing is part of the hustle. Petey’s old Plymouth, also part of his hustle, parked outside poolrooms or before cheap motels on Highway 99 in Seattle. Petey would not attend a good hotel if someone paid his admission. Image counts. Some hustlers go for Cadillacs and class, because showy stuff challenges punks who own more pride than skill.

Petey, on the other hand, likes the “aw shucks” approach. With his stripey shirt and creased pants he looks like a small town tin­horn. He talks like a small town tinhorn, and waits like a loaded bear trap for city boys who fondly believe they know something. If asked about The Way of the Hustler, Petey would doubtless clam up because The Way requires great purity of mind.

It was tough to leave home, and even tougher because love bloomed and all of Petey’s senses told him it was wrong to go. Yet, if a guy sees zeros coming up in the money stash he must make another stake. Without money Petey would be too embarrassed to hang out at Beer and Bait; and Petey believed his presence there would, sooner or later, present a perfect opportunity to cuddle up and marry Bertha. Sometimes he dreamed of snow blowing in over mountains, piling so deep only he and Jubal Jim could break trail. Bertha would be stranded, alone, listening to soft music on the tape deck; at which point the dream changed from heroic to sensual and is really Petey’s business and no one else’s.

The hustler is not exactly a nobleman, although a few have been rumored to show occasional twinges of kindness. The hustler is a man, or sometimes a lady, who lives by wit and skill. That the hustler can shoot nine ball better than most other humans may be assumed, but no hustler is a superior shot in every game. Even Willie Musconi was known to shank shots, and the legendary Minnesota Fats was not technically as good as Musconi. Willie Hoppe, whose reputation echoes through the halls of time, sparked a phrase among generations of players. When faced with a truly complex layout, players will scratch their heads, sigh deeply, and mutter, “Now what would Willie do?” The answer is: “You damn fool, Willie would miss. Because he screwed up.”

Because of the “screw-up” factor no hustler can depend on technical superiority to carry each and every day. Hustlers can win big when they’re hot. They win when suckering novices. They win by placing bets on trick shots. They win in tournaments. They win most of all when they play guys who have some slim chance of winning.

A hustler is a fifteen percent gambler, which means that any game he enters will be no more than fifteen percent luck and eighty-five percent skill. If he plays blackjack he counts the cards and sits to the right of the dealer. If he’s in a game where the deal passes, he measures the amount of his bet accordingly. When working a new bar or poolroom the hustler makes only small bets until he learns flaws of the pool table. He hangs his jacket where he can keep an eye on it.

It’s a solitary life; a life of rented rooms, sandwiches, coffee, and pop. The hustlers who last, drink about as much beer during a night’s work as it would take to float a ping pong ball in a saucer.

When engaged in making a stake hustlers have no time for social graces, which is why, when Petey is on his home turf he finds himself inexperienced with women. Thoughts of love can be expensive to the hustle because they break the concentration. And, time itself stands against intimacy. Mornings are for sleep. Noon to two AM requires attendance at the tables. Only Sunday is open for prayer or a bath, and even then the pool halls open in early afternoon. Most hustlers settle for a shower.

And finally, the game itself is an exercise in purity. No one realized how pure the game is until computer jocks, having a sporting nature of their own, calculated the possible combinations on a pool table at slightly over sixty-five quadrillion. The changing face of the game fascinates beginning players who do not understand how a good hustler can shape that face in pretty much the same way a sculptor shapes clay.

Petey worked the Seattle scene for a couple of weeks. It’s a scene most lucrative because, a few years ago, the game became so popular that “pool schools” appeared. Bright young men who wished to impress young women, or wished to appear in beer commercials, attended school with diligence. A lot of hot rock players appeared, short mileage guys who look good for an hour, then fade.