Уолтер Тевис - The Hustler

Big John seemed not to hear this. He had been holding his three-ball all of this time and he set it, now, back on its spot on the table. He set the cue ball behind it. He began chalking his cue. Then he said, quietly now, “We’ll see how he makes out with Minnesota Fats.” He shot the three-ball, gently, and it followed its little pattern of motion, its orbit, across the green, into the corner pocket. Then he reached in his own pocket, pulled out a loose and crumpled dollar bill, and laid it on the rail. “Go buy yourself some dope,” he said. “I’m tired of watching you rub your damn nose.”

At about this time two men walked into The Smoker: Pool Hall, Stag Bar, and Grill, in Watkins, Illinois. They seemed to be road weary; both were perspiring although they both wore open-collar sport shirts. They sat at the bar and the younger man—a good-looking, dark-haired fellow—ordered whiskey for them. His voice and manners were very pleasant. He asked for bourbon. The place was quiet, empty except for the bartender and for a young Negro in tight blue jeans who was sweeping the floor.

When they got their drinks the younger man paid the man behind the bar with a twenty-dollar bill, grinned at him and said, “Hot, isn’t it?” Now this grin was extraordinary. It did not seem right for him to grin like that; for, although pleasant, he was a tense-looking man, the kind who seems to be wound up very tightly; and his dark eyes were brilliant and serious, almost childishly so. But the grin was broad and relaxed and, paradoxically, natural.

“Yeah,” the bartender said. “Someday I’m getting a air conditioner.” He got the man his change, and then said, “You boys just passing through, I guess?”

The young man grinned the extraordinary grin again, over the top of his drink. “That’s right.” He looked to be no more than twenty-five. A nice-looking kid, quietly dressed, pleasant, with bright, serious eyes.

“Chicago?”

“Yes.” He set the glass down, only half empty, and began sipping from the water glass, glancing with apparent interest toward the group of four pool tables that filled two-thirds of the room.

The bartender was not normally a garrulous man; but he liked the young fellow. He seemed sharp; but there was something very forthright about him. “Going or coming out?” the bartender said.

“Going in. Got to be there tomorrow,” he grinned again. “Sales convention.”

“Well, you boys got plenty of time. You can drive in in two, maybe three, hours.”

“Say, that’s right,” the younger man said, pleasantly. Then he looked at his companion. “Come on, Charlie,” he said, “let’s shoot some pool. Wait out the heat.”

Charlie, a balding, chubby-looking little man with the appearance of a straight-faced comedian, shook his head. “Hell, Eddie,” he said, “you know you can’t beat me.”

The younger man laughed. “Okay,” he said, “I got ten big dollars says I beat your ass.” He fished a ten from his stack of change in front of him on the bar, and held it up, challengingly, grinning.

The other man shook his head, as if very sadly. “Eddie,” he said, easing himself up from the bar stool, “it’s gonna cost you money. It always does.” He pulled a leather cigarette case from his pocket and flipped it open with a stubby, agile thumb. Then he winked gravely at the bartender. “It’s a good thing he can afford it,” he said, his voice raspy, dry. “Seventeen thousand bucks worth of druggist’s supplies he’s sold last month. Fastest boy in our territory. Getting an award at the convention, first thing tomorrow.”

The young man, Eddie, had gone to the first of the four tables and was taking the wooden rack from the triangle of colored balls. “Grab a stick, Charlie,” he called, his voice light. “Quit stalling.”

Charlie waddled over, his face still completely without expression, and took a cue from the rack. It was, as Eddie’s had been, a lightweight cue, seventeen ounces. The bartender was something of a player himself, and he noticed these choices. Pool players who know better use heavy cues, invariably.

Eddie broke the balls. When he shot he held the cue stick firmly at the butt with his right hand. The circle of finger and thumb that made his bridge was tight and awkward. His stroke was jerky, and he swooped into the cue ball fiercely, as if trying to stab it. The cue ball hit the rack awry, much of the energy of the break shot was dissipated, the balls did not spread wide. He looked at the spread, grinned at Charlie, and said, “Shoot.”

Charlie’s game was not much better. He showed all of the signs of being a fair-to-middling player; but he had much of Eddie’s awkwardness with the bridge, and the appearance of not knowing exactly what to do with his feet when he stepped up to shoot. He would keep adjusting them, as if he were unstable. He stroked very hard, too; but he made a few decent shots. The bartender noticed all of this. Also he watched the exchange of money after each game. Charlie won three in a row, and after each game the two of them had another drink and Eddie gave Charlie a ten-dollar bill from a wallet that bulged.

The game they were playing was rotation pool, also called sixty-one. Also called Boston. Also—mistakenly—called straights. The most widely played pool game of them all, the big favorite of college boys and salesmen. Almost exclusively an amateur’s game. There are a few men who play it professionally, but only a few. Nine ball, bank, straight pool, one-pocket are the hustler’s games. Any of them is a mortal lock for a smart hustler, while there is too much blind luck in rotation. Except when the best hustlers play it.

But this last was beyond the bartender’s scope. He knew the game only as another favorite of amateurs. The serious players around his place were nine-ball men. Why, he had seen one of the players who lived in town run four straight games of nine ball, once, without missing a shot.

The bartender kept watching, interested in the game—for in a small-town poolroom, a ten-dollar bet is a large one—and eventually a few of the town regulars began to drift in. Then after a while the two men were playing for twenty and it was getting late in the afternoon and they were still drinking another one after each game or so and the younger man was getting drunk. And lucky. Or getting hot or getting with it. He was beginning to win, and he was high and strutting, beginning to jeer at the other man in earnest. A crowd had formed around the table, watching.

And then, at the end of the game, the fourteen ball was in a difficult position on the table. Three or four inches from the side rail, between two pockets, it lay with the cue ball almost directly across from it and about two feet away. Eddie stepped up to the shot, drew back, and fired. Now what he obviously should have done was to bank the fourteen ball off the side rail, across the table and into the corner pocket. But instead, his cue ball hit the rail first, and, with just enough English on it to slip behind the colored ball, caught the fourteen squarely and drove it into the corner pocket.

Eddie slammed his cue butt on the floor, jubilantly, turned to Charlie, and said, “Pay me, sucker.”

When Charlie handed him the twenty, he said, “You ought to take up crapshooting, Eddie.”

Eddie grinned at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean. You were trying to bank that ball.” He turned his face away, “And you’re so damn blind pig lucky you got to make it coming off the rail.”

Eddie’s smile disappeared. His face took on an alcoholic frown. “Now wait a minute, Charlie,” he said, an edge in his voice, “Now wait a minute.” The bartender leaned against the bar, absorbed.