Уолтер Тевис - The Color of Money

One thing that disturbed him was the newspaper in the desk drawer. Unpacking three days before while Arabella was out, he had checked the desk for an empty drawer, sliding out the bottom one first. A newspaper sat on top of a pile of newspapers. He took it out idly and saw that the paper under it was another copy. Below that were others—at least a dozen, all the same. There were two photographs on the front page; one was of Nancy Reagan and the other was of a smiling young man with light, curly hair. Above this a headline read: ART EXPERT KILLED IN CYCLE CRASH. The word art caught his attention; Arabella knew a lot about art. The article identified the man as Gregory Welles, assistant professor at the university and editor of the Journal of Kentucky Arts and Crafts . Arabella wrote articles from time to time for the journal. He looked at the date at the top of the page; it was a little over a year old. Welles had swerved on a country road to avoid being hit, had gone over into the ditch, had died. With him at the time was Mrs. Harrison Frame, who escaped serious injury. Welles and Mrs. Frame had been visiting the shop of a craftsman in Estill County. Eddie had noticed two moon-shaped scars on Arabella’s knees; when he asked about them she said, “I was in a wreck,” and changed the subject.

Twelve copies of the same paper. He looked closely at the young man’s face. It was a plain, American face, but Eddie felt his stomach tighten as he looked at it. Of course she would have had other lovers. It shouldn’t bother him. What did he want—a forty-year-old virgin? And the man was dead. Still, he did not like it. He hated it. He hated the young man, the man Arabella had gone off with, riding country roads behind him on his motorcycle, the man she had been able to talk art with, had probably slept with as she was now sleeping with him. Eddie finished the article. Greg Welles had died at twenty-six.

Thelma’s parking lot was half full when they drove up at nine-thirty. He had wanted to get there before any serious games would start and was afraid he might be too late. Fats said this was the hottest place in the whole South. Eddie’s stomach was tight and his mouth dry. He was ready to play.

The bar was packed and noisy, with a Loretta Lynn recording from the jukebox—loud as it was—only barely discernible against the talking and shouting of the people jammed at the bar and filling the small tables. There were a half-dozen illuminated beer signs over the bar itself; a sequined globe hung from the center of the ceiling, with colored lights sparkling on it. There were no pool tables in sight. Arabella looked around as though she were at a circus, her eyes wide.

He spotted a doorway with a sign over it reading GAME ROOM, took her by the elbow and led her past the crowded tables. The dance floor was filled with couples in bright silky shirts and jeans, with young men wearing big mustaches, and long-haired women. Arabella seemed astonished by it all, and when he got her into the relative quiet of the other room, she said, “It’s just like the movies.”

There were five tables of the same small size as Haneyville’s, and games were in progress on three of them. One of the others had a plastic cover over it, and on the fifth a foursome of silent children were poking cue sticks at balls. Arabella looked at them for a minute; none was over ten years old. Then she whispered, “Is that the junior division?”

For some reason he felt irritated at the joke. “The parents are probably back there dancing.”

“With one another?”

“Honey,” he said coolly, “I don’t understand these places any better than you do. I’m just learning my way around.”

“I thought you made your living in places like this.”

“In poolrooms. Not barrooms.”

She got quiet then, and he began watching the three games. The ones on the first two tables were not much; none of the players had a decent stroke or knew what to shoot at, but what was happening on the middle table was something different. It was a cool, quiet game of serious nine-ball. One player was oriental. Japanese, with delicate features, narrow eyes and brown skin. He wore a blue velvet jacket that fit perfectly across his narrow shoulders, and a silvery open-collared shirt underneath, matching his silver trousers. The man he was playing was thirtyish, with a heavy beard and workingman’s clothes.

Two high director’s chairs sat against the back wall. Eddie took Arabella by the arm, led her over to them and seated himself with his cue case across his lap.

The Japanese was impeccably dressed. His hair, his nails and his shave were perfect. Eddie liked the quiet way he concentrated on his shots. The other player was quiet too, but sloppy in appearance, at least compared to the Japanese. He looked like Lon Chaney in the werewolf movies, at about the middle of the transformation, with bushy hair coming down over his forehead and the full beard.

They watched for about a half hour, and then Arabella leaned over and said, “When are you going to play?”

“If somebody comes in. Or if one of them quits.”

Just as he said this the bearded man, who had lost four games since they started watching, lost another. He handed the Japanese some money, unscrewed his cue, and left.

Eddie looked at the Japanese and grinned. “Do you want to play some more?”

“Eight-ball?”

“What about straight pool?”

The little man smiled. “We usually play eight-ball here.”

“All right.” Eddie stood and unfastened the clasp on his cue case. “What were you two playing for?”

The man continued smiling. “Twenty dollars.”

“How about fifty?”

“Sure.” Eddie could hear Arabella draw in her breath behind him.

The Japanese was easy to play but difficult to beat. There was no belligerence or muscling to him, but he shot a thoroughly professional game. He ran the balls out when he had an open table to work with and played simple, effective safeties when he didn’t. When Eddie made a good shot he would say, “Good shot!” He made a great many of them himself. Eddie had difficulty with the heavy cue ball. All bar tables used them, so the ball would bypass the chute when you scratched; and he knew he would have to get accustomed to the sluggishness. It caused him to misjudge his position a few critical times. After an hour had passed, he was down by a hundred dollars. He was racking the balls and considering raising the bet when the other man spoke. “Would you like to double the bet?”

Eddie finished racking, hung the wooden triangle at the foot of the table and said, “Why don’t we play for two hundred a game?”

The Japanese looked at him calmly. “Okay.”

But at two hundred Eddie went on losing. On some shots the cue ball seemed to be made of lead and would not pull backward when he needed it to. During the third game at two hundred, Eddie ran all of the stripes without difficulty but failed to make the eight ball because the weight of the cue ball threw his position off. There was no life to the damned thing; it was maddening.

The Japanese seemed unconcerned with the problem, making balls steadily, clicking them in like a tap dancer. They hardly spoke to each other. Eddie kept paying, racking the balls, and watching the other man shoot. Being short, he bent only slightly from the waist; his long cue stick seemed more intimate with the table, more neatly parallel to it, than Eddie’s. Eddie felt that pool tables were too low for a man of average height, and he himself was taller than average. When the Japanese stepped up to a shot, the way he bent his waist and extended his left arm, the way his right arm cocked itself for the stroke, and the way his quiet eyes zeroed in on the cue ball and then on the line extending from the cue ball to the ball he was going to pocket were perfect. The open front of his powder-blue jacket hung straight down, missing the side of the table by an inch; the crease at the bottoms of his silver trousers broke neatly above the tops of his polished shoes; and his brown, unlined face showed a hint of exquisite sadness. When Eddie stepped up to shoot now he felt, compared with the other man, big and clumsy, like the big, clumsy barroom cue ball he had to hit.