Уолтер Тевис - The Hustler

“For you. For dinner. Tonight.”

She took her glasses off, frowning. “I don’t need clothes. And what’s happening tonight?”

“What’s happening tonight is we’re going out for dinner. At the best place you can pick.” He got up, cut the fire off under the coffee and began searching for a clean cup. “And you can use some clothes.”

“Now wait a minute. What’s the plan, Eddie? First it’s candy—at two o’clock in the morning. Now clothes. Where did you get the money?”

He found and began rinsing out a cup. “A man gave it to me.”

“Sure.” She looked away from him. “Playing pool?”

“That’s right.”

“Great. That’s fine. Where do I fit in on this? Why give me a cut? Is your conscience bad?”

“Look,” he said, “maybe I should forget it.”

“Maybe you should. You don’t have to buy me things. You’ve already seduced me, remember?”

He drank off half the cup of coffee. It was lukewarm and foul. “I remember.” He set the cup, unfinished, back in the sink. “Do you want the clothes? Somebody told me, once, that women like clothes. And candy.”

Her voice was hard. “Your logic’s overwhelming. Who told you I like clothes and candy? And going out to dinner?”

“Nobody. Forget it.” He went into the living room, sat down and picked up a news magazine. Somebody was fighting a war and he read about this, although it was not interesting. Her typewriter kept banging for several minutes and then stopped. Then he heard her clinking ice and glasses. In a minute she came in and held out a highball.

She smiled slightly. “Sometimes,” she said, “I’m a bitch.”

“That’s right.” He took the drink.

She sat on the footstool that was in front of his chair, and began working on her drink silently. He set his magazine down and looked at her. The shirt she was wearing was like a man’s shirt, and the top two buttons were undone. Her brassiere was loose and looking down he could see her nipples. This amused him at first, for the hustle in it was obvious. He knew very well that there is nothing accidental that women do with their bosoms.

Finally she looked up at him again, grinning a little wryly, self-consciously. “Do you still want to take me out?” The breath that she took, after saying this, was just a bit exaggerated, heaving the breasts up.

He could not help laughing. “Okay,” he said, reaching down and taking her under the arms. “You win. We’ll buy the dress, afterward.”

“We’d better hurry,” she said. “The stores’ll be closing.” He took her by the arm, leading her into the bedroom.

Afterward he lay on his back in bed, perspiring. He felt very good, very relaxed. And there was a good feeling in his stomach, the feeling of something about to begin. There would be new places to go, new games to play. Sarah was smoking a cigarette in bed, looking thoughtful and at ease, her small body covered with the sheet.

She rolled over and stubbed her cigarette out, leaning across him in bed so that her hair fell down over her face as she mashed the cigarette in the ash tray. Then she looked down at him and grinned. “Let’s go,” she said….

She tried to act as if buying the clothes meant nothing to her, but he could see that she was enjoying it. She would act cynical about every outfit she looked at, but he noticed that she was very careful about what she bought. And what she finally did buy looked tremendous on her: a navy blue dress, tight and perfectly fitting, that made her butt gorgeous, navy blue shoes, unornamented, a navy blue and white hat, and white gloves.

She was in the bathroom for what seemed like an hour. It took him twenty minutes to put on a clean shirt and socks and to shave, and he spent the rest of the time reading about the war and about a lot of people who were supposed to be interesting because they were rich or actors or both.

“Hey!” he said, getting up and walking to her. And she smelled good; he had never known her to use perfume before. “You’re the best. The best there is.”

He could almost feel her effort to keep her voice wry, “Thanks.” She looked at him and said, “And if you want to do this right you’d better change that suit. It’s wrinkled.”

He laughed. “Sure.”

He had one dress shirt and a tie and he put these on together with his gray suit. When he came out she laughed. “I never saw you with a tie before. You look like a fraternity president.”

“And you’re the sweetheart of whatever it is. Let’s go.”

As they were going out the door she stopped him for a moment, looked up at him and said, “Eddie. Thanks.”

She picked the place they went to. She had heard of it, but never been there. It was precisely the kind of restaurant he had in mind—big, dimly lit, quiet, elegantly furnished. He liked it immediately and, deciding to play it out all the way, gave the headwaiter a five and picked out his own table, by a wall. The five earned them a bowing and impeccable waiter and Sarah started them off with a bottle of cocktail sherry that was as old as she was. One odd thing: he was surprised that Sarah was imposed on by the place, a little nervous, defensive, and awkward; whereas he felt thoroughly at home himself, even though he had hardly ever been in this kind of restaurant in his life. But after two glasses of the wine and after the band began playing quiet, light music, she began to loosen up. He was beginning to feel very fine and he began talking to her about himself—a thing that he seldom did. But he did not tell her about Minnesota Fats. And then when they were through eating and were drinking the tiny glasses of Benedictine which she had ordered and which he found he did not like, he leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and said, “I suppose you know I had a reason.”

A moment before her face had been alive. Immediately it became hard. “There’s always an angle, isn’t there?”

“I don’t play the angles. Not with you.”

“Sure.” There was no conviction in her voice. She finished her glass of Benedictine, settled back in her seat and folded her arms across her chest. “All right, what is it, Eddie?”

He looked at her coolly, “I’m leaving town for a while.”

Her eyes darted to his face and then, quickly, away. There was no expression in them, only a kind of curiosity. He knew, however, that this was a pose, and he knew as any gambler would know that there was a reason for it, in the game that they had begun to play—the game that he himself, in fact, had hustled her into a long time before. He did not, however, know what the pose was intended to conceal. With Sarah, he was never quite certain.

She looked back at him steadily. Then she said, “For how long, Eddie?” She might have been asking him if he wanted another cup of coffee.

“I don’t know.”

“A week? A year?”

“More like a week. I’ll be back.”

She began putting on her gloves. She did this as she did many things, deftly, yet with care. “Sure,” she said. She stood up. “Let’s go home.”

Outside they walked silently. There were pockets in the skirt of her dress and by jamming her hands in these she was able, magically, to convert what had been a chic appearance a moment before into the kind of wistful, limping dowdiness that seemed to be her most natural pose in the outside world.

After several minutes he said, gently, “Don’t you want to know where I’m going?”

“No. Yes, I want to know where you’re going, and what for. Only I don’t want to ask.”

“I’m going to Kentucky,” he said. “Lexington. With a friend.”

She did not say anything, but kept walking, her hands in her pockets still, her eyes straight ahead.