Уолтер Тевис - The Color of Money

Eddie had not been paying attention to the pairings. “Who did it?”

Boomer cut one of the striped balls into the side pocket. “Who do you think? Earl Borchard.”

Eddie walked on to the hallway and then to the casino. To get out of the losers’ bracket, he—or somebody—would have to beat Cooley. After that was Borchard without a ten-seven handicap. For a moment, walking by the filled blackjack tables and then along a bank of slot machines, he felt weary. He felt like driving to San Francisco and taking the next flight home to Arabella. He went up to the room, which the maid had just finished making, and took a nap on clean sheets, falling asleep immediately.

That night at nine, the match was close and Eddie missed two critical shots that could have cost him the game but didn’t. The man he was playing was more tired than he, and rattled. Near the end of it, Eddie left him an easy lie on the six; he ran the six, seven, eight, and blew the nine. Somehow Eddie expected it and had not even seated himself. He just stepped up, shot the nine ball in and went on to win the match. It was ten-thirty. He left the ballroom and went directly to bed.

The game the next morning was also close; there was no one easy left in this tournament. More than half the players had gone home. Eddie was rested from a ten-hour sleep and a good breakfast; the kid he played looked as though he had been up all night and was trying to stay alive with Methedrine or cocaine. There were red lines under his eyes and the fingers of his bridge trembled when he shot. He kept combing his hair. Eddie beat him ten-six. There were two more to go—a game with somebody named Wingate at three, and then at nine, Cooley.

He went to the sushi bar at lunch and had to wait in line. When he had gotten his food and was looking around for an empty table, a man across the room waved at him. He went over. It was someone he had seen around the tournament, although he didn’t know his name. “Have a seat,” the man said. There was another man at the table and two empty chairs. Eddie sat down. He didn’t feel like talking, but there was nowhere else to sit. “My name’s Oldfield,” the man said. “This is Bergen.”

“Good to meet you both.”

Oldfield finished what he was chewing. “Heard about you for years. Never saw you play before last night.”

Eddie looked at him but said nothing.

Bergen was a small man with a mustache and an unworldly look. His voice was almost apologetic. “Mr. Oldfield lost a bit of money. He was betting on Borchard.”

“Borchard shoots a good stick,” Eddie said.

“I know, I know ,” Oldfield said. “I’m backing him in this tournament. I backed him last year.”

“A lot of these kids don’t have a cent,” Bergen said.

“I suppose not,” Eddie said. “How much did you lose?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve hundred?”

“Twelve thousand.”

Eddie shook his head. “A lot of money.”

For a moment he felt annoyed, as though Oldfield were blaming him. Oldfield stood up, and then Bergen. “See you around, Fast Eddie,” he said. “Enjoy your lunch.” The two of them left. Eddie finished his food, thinking. Other people had been betting money on the match. The man in the brown overcoat was holding a fistful of it, and there was money moving around elsewhere in the crowd. An old, old system existed called “two brothers and a stranger,” where two men would work together, one of them backing his friend’s opponent and then betting against the friend—the “brother.” If that was what Borchard and Gunshot had been doing, if they had been working together, Eddie was the stranger and his win meant nothing.

He spent an hour after lunch in the gym and the whirlpool, then went to his room and changed into a fresh shirt and jeans. In the ballroom, pushing through the crowd standing between packed bleachers, he entered the playing area and found himself for a moment face to face with Babes Cooley. Babes was wearing skintight black pants over black pumps, and a white silk shirt. His face was flushed and his eyes bright. He was standing by Table Two; Eddie would be playing Number Three.

“Good shooting last night, old-timer,” Babes said, smiling coldly. He was polishing the end of his cue stick with a white towel.

“Thanks,” Eddie said.

“Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Eddie looked at him hard. “With twenty-five hundred,” he said, “I could hire somebody to break your right arm.”

Cooley’s smile didn’t waver. “I’d beat you with my left.”

Eddie walked to Table Two and took his cue out of its case.

His opponent was a man in his thirties who looked like an Italian barber. Ross Arnetti. When the announcer introduced them to the crowd, Arnetti’s titles were impressively numerous, although they were all for second and third place. He had been runner-up in the World Open at straight pool twice, was third in the U.S. Invitational—also straight pool—and second in two regional nine-ball tournaments. The announcer called Eddie “one of the all-time greats making a fine showing at this event.”

Eddie won the lag. As he stepped up to break, he heard the crash of balls on the table next to his and glanced over to see Babes Cooley starting up. Eddie had his twenty-three-ounce battering ram with him, and he gripped it hard now and drove the rack open. The nine died near the bottom corner, and the three stopped right behind it. The five fell in. Eddie ran the one and two, sighted carefully and drilled into the combination. The nine fell.

He had been disturbed a bit by the conversation at the sushi bar, but the hatred he now felt for Babes Cooley had wiped that out. Arnetti seemed like an amiable man, a solid professional; it would be hard to hate him. Eddie accepted the diffused hatred he felt for the young man on the table next to him and kept it; it gave an edge to his stroke and a clarity to his vision. He played beautifully; by the middle of the match he could sense the inner collapse of the man he was playing. Arnetti was straight-backed in his chair, but he held his glass of water limply, trying to look uninterested when Eddie glanced his way. For a brief moment after cinching the nine, Eddie felt sorry for him—held by the balls and nowhere to turn—but he shook it off. It was no time for mercy. He made the nine on the break in the next rack. The match ended quickly. Ten-four. The applause was loud. As he was leaving, carrying both cues, applause broke out again and he heard the announcer’s voice on the PA: “Mr. Cooley’s match by ten-six.” Eddie didn’t turn back to look.

The dressing area was right inside the door to his room. As he came in he saw a gray duffel on the carpet with the zipper open. Next to it sat a portable typewriter. Then he noticed the sound of running water and saw that the shower curtain in the middle of the room was closed. He walked over and pulled it open. Arabella was sitting naked on the edge of the tub, her feet in the water, waiting for it to fill.

“This is the biggest bathtub I ever saw in my life,” she said.

“How in hell did you get here?”

She looked up at him. “Flew to Reno. Took a bus. The maid let me in. Where were you?”

“Shooting pool.”

“This water feels wonderful on my poor feet. Did you win?”

“Yes.”

“Oh boy,” Arabella said.

“I play Cooley at nine tonight.”

“Jesus,” Arabella said. “Can you beat him?”

“He beat me in New London.”

She reached out and turned the water off and then slipped herself into the tub. “That was New London,” she said. “A lot’s happened since.”

“I hate his guts,” Eddie said. “I hate him like I hate that kid lover of yours.”

She said nothing, but began soaping herself. Eddie took off his shirt and lit a cigarette. He seated himself on the padded bench and looked out the window. After a while he heard the water begin to run from the tub and then heard her drying herself off. Then she said, “The mess at the shop is cleaned up. The police never picked anybody up.”