Уолтер Тевис - The Color of Money

“What about fingerprints?”

“Nothing. It was all smears or something.”

“If I win this,” Eddie said, “we could go back in business.”

“Eddie,” she said, “it doesn’t matter to me right now whether we go back into business or not. Just win it.”

He turned and looked at her. She was dressed now, in a gray skirt and black sweater. “I’m afraid of Cooley,” he said. “Scared shitless of him.”

They arrived early because Arabella wanted a good seat. She managed to get in the third row of the bleachers next to the quiet blonde who travelled with Cooley. There was only one table now, in the center of the room. Eddie went to the practice area and began shooting. His stroke felt tight; his glasses had begun to irritate the bridge of his nose; his hands were cold. He kept shooting, softening his stroke a bit; he was getting into it when the PA voice came on: “The finals of the losers’ matches will begin in three minutes. The players will be Mr. Gordon Cooley and Mr. Ed Felson.” Eddie felt himself go tight. He picked up the poolroom cue from where it was leaning against the wall, gripped it in his right hand with the Balabushka and headed between the bleachers. The table sat empty under a trapezoid of light, and the people in the stands had become quiet. Cooley was approaching from the bleachers on the other side, just now walking into the lights. It was like a boxing arena before a title fight. Eddie put his free hand into his pocket so the trembling wouldn’t show.

Cooley had a following. As he set his cue case on the table and opened it, someone in the stands shouted, “You’ll do it, Babes!” and somebody else bellowed, “Kill!” Cooley smiled, looking down at the cue he was taking from its case. Then he glanced briefly up at Eddie but said nothing.

The announcer introduced them, listing a dozen titles for Cooley, including New London and this tournament itself from the year before. Eddie was “the legendary Fast Eddie Felson.”

The referee’s white shirt-front glistened in the lights; his tuxedo looked brand-new, perfectly pressed. “The gentlemen will lag for break.” He wore white gloves and carried two white balls. He set them at the head of the table, on the line, and the two players bent and shot together. Eddie hit his ball too hard; it came back to the top rail and bounced a foot away. Cooley’s lag was perfect.

Now Cooley was all calm efficiency. He set the cue ball on the line, drew back, smashed the balls open, dropping the five and eight. Not taking his eyes from the green he chalked and began running. He had the table empty in two minutes, to applause, and the referee racked. Eddie sat in his chair, watching, trying to calm himself.

When Cooley drew back his arm for the break, a voice shouted, “On the snap, Babes!” and he plowed into them. The nine did not go, but the table opened for him. He ran it. The applause this time was louder. Two-nothing. Eddie began tapping his foot on the floor.

And on the next break Cooley made the nine. The applause was thunderous. Babes stopped in the middle of chalking up and turned to face the largest bleachers. “It had to be,” he said. Then he turned, broke the balls, and made the nine with a combination. Four-nothing. Eddie’s stomach was like ice, and his palms were wet, his lips dry. Babes flicked a glance his way and then back to the table. Eddie could hear him whisper, plainly, “By the balls.” Eddie’s heart began pounding and he gripped his cue like a weapon.

Babes broke, made one, and began to roll. But on the four his position was off and he wasn’t able to knock apart a trio of balls that had clustered near the foot spot. He studied the lie a moment and played Eddie safe on the five, sending the cue ball to the bottom rail and the five to the top of the table. Eddie stood up as calmly as he could. A cut was barely possible on the five ball, but you didn’t go for shots like that against someone like Cooley. The thing to do was return the safety. When he got to the table he studied it a moment, more to calm himself than to decide. He could make that shot. Possibly. He had made tougher ones before. Cooley would play it safe. So would Fats. At four-nothing it would be dumb to go for it.

Then he looked over at Cooley. Babes hadn’t even seated himself. He was expecting to shoot again in a moment. Eddie took a square of chalk from the edge of the table and chalked his cue. And then a rough, gravelly voice rang out from the stands, “ Go for it, Eddie !” It was Boomer. Something relaxed in Eddie’s stomach. He set the chalk down, took his Balabushka at the balance, bent to the table. There was the five ball, eight feet away, its edge sharp in his vision. There were the three balls that would have to be broken apart if making the five would mean anything. He took a deep breath, stroked, and felt the solid hit of his cue tip against the white ball. The white ball sped down the table, clipped the edge of the five, ricocheted out of the corner and came back down to the head spot, knocking the three clustered balls apart. The five ball rolled to the edge of the corner pocket with chilling slowness and teetered on the edge. It fell in. Into the middle of the pocket. The crowd exploded in applause.

Eddie did not look up. He did not have an easy shot on the six, and the seven was in a bad place. Best to take another chance and bank the six, so the cue ball would go naturally to the seven. He sucked in his breath again and banked it. It went into the center of the side pocket. The cue ball stopped perfectly for the seven down the rail. He made it. The eight was gone; the nine was next. Eddie made the nine. There was applause again.

He looked up. Cooley had sat down.

From then on it was simple. Eddie’s concentration and poise were unshakable. He made the nine twice more before a bad roll on the break forced him to play safe, and the safe he played was a mortal lock. Cooley could do nothing with it. Eddie wound up with the cue ball in hand and ran out the rack. On the next, he made the nine on the break and on the next he made it with a combination off the five ball. He was forced to play safe a few times, and Cooley managed another win, but that didn’t matter. When Eddie was breaking them, now people would shout “On the snap, Fast Eddie!” He could hear Arabella’s strong, feminine British voice among them, along with Boomer’s. “ On the snap !”

He had entered that time zone he had nearly forgotten, where his stroke was not only dead-on but where his mind could somehow arch itself above his game and see the great simplicity and clarity of what he was doing on this green table with its spinning balls. Time passed without moving, until the PA system voice said, “Ten games to four. Fast Eddie,” and the applause washed over him, bringing him back.

He put the Balabushka away and then took his glasses off, fifty years old again. He had beaten them. He had beaten Borchard at nine-ball and now he had beaten this brash genius kid. Cooley had already left. Arabella was coming toward him from between the bleachers and so was Boomer. Boomer got there first and was hugging him, smelling of Drambuie and saying, “Those fucking kids, Eddie. Those fucking kids,” and then Arabella was coming toward him with her face glowing. He pulled himself away from Boomer and she hugged him.

Cooley had left, but now he was coming back. As Arabella stepped away from Eddie the young man walked up to him and held out a hand. Eddie took it. “Good shooting, old-timer,” Cooley said, smiling tightly.

“Thanks,” Eddie said, hating him.

“Earl,” Cooley said, “will whip your ass.”

“The last time I played Earl I beat him.”

Cooley looked at Eddie silently for a moment, his smile unchanged. “Two brothers and a stranger,” he said.