Уолтер Тевис - The Hustler

Later there started to be a great many white, new-looking fences and big white barns. The meadows around these barns, framed by the fences, were very green and smooth. On several of these places there were horses.

“Those are racehorses, aren’t they?”

“That’s right,” Bert said.

“They look like any other horses to me.”

Bert laughed. “What other kind of horses does a pool hustler see, anyway—except racehorses?…”

Downtown Lexington could have been downtown anywhere—all neon and glass and traffic. The hotel was called the Halcyon—there were others, but this was the one that Bert said had a poolroom in it—and they pulled up in front.

Eddie got out into the warm evening air, stretching his arms. “So this is Kentucky,” he said, looking around.

“That’s right,” Bert said, walking into the hotel lobby. The lobby was big and elegant, and over on the far wall was a doorway and a sign above this saying, tastefully, BILLIARD ROOM. From this doorway, Eddie could hear the sounds that he always recognized—the crashing of balls and the soft murmur of men’s voices.

“I’ll pick up the reservations and get you a key,” Bert said. “You can go ahead and check the battlefield, if you want.”

“Thanks,” Eddie said. He walked over to the door, carrying his little leather case.

He could feel the tension, the excitement of the place even before he opened the door, could hear the heavy undercurrent of voices, the clickings of many balls, the soft cursing and dry laughter, the banging of cue sticks on the floor. And when he went in he could almost smell the action and the money. He could even feel them, down to his shoes. It was like a whorehouse Saturday night and payday in the mines; the day the war was over and Christmas. He could feel his palms sweating for the weight of his cue.

Every table was going—two, four, even six-handed games. And on almost every table was a hustler. Near the front was the Whetstone Kid, short, red-headed, and wearing chartreuse slacks; Eddie had seen him play nine ball in Las Vegas. On the table behind him was another small man, an incredibly shabby person who specialized in shooting pool with drunks and in selling playing cards which, on their backs, illustrated the fifty-two classic positions in three colors. This fellow was known as Johnny Jumbo; Eddie had seen him in Oakland. In the middle of the room, surrounded by a small crowd of miscellaneous jockeys and tout types, Fred Marcum from New Orleans, a man with patent-leather hair and olive eyes, was talking with quiet agitation to a man whom Eddie knew only as Frank, and who was supposed to be the acknowledged master at jack-up pool, a seldom-played game. And there were others; he could tell by the styles of playing, by the feel of the games, even though he did not know the players, that there must have been dozens of them.

It was a panorama, a gallery. Bert had said that they followed the races; but Eddie had expected nothing like this, this convocation of the faithful, this meeting of the clans.

The room was packed with people. There were a few lost innocents: college boys with sweaters, and on one table a few men who could only be salesmen. These were playing a silly and awkward game of rotation pool, laughing uproariously whenever one of them miscued or knocked one of the balls off the table or shot at the wrong ball by mistake.

Eddie walked on into the room, was greeted by Fred Marcum and the Whetstone Kid, saw a few men glance at him furtively—and this made him feel very good and important—and found himself a place to stand over by the wall, where he could watch several games at once….

After a few hours, after the crowd had thinned down somewhat—although the air was still full of smoke and money—Bert came in. He was still neat, but his hair was slightly mussed, and his trousers horizontally creased. He came making his way through the room purposefully—a stern broker walking smugly across the floor of the exchange.

Eddie looked at him. “Where’ve you been?”

“Watching a card game.”

“Were you in it?”

“Not yet. It won’t get worthwhile until later, anyway. But it should be a good one. There’s some big men in it.”

“There’s some big men here, too.” Eddie nodded toward the poolroom in general.

“I know.”

“Is it like this here all the time? Is this what they do in Kentucky?”

Bert smiled thinly. “No. I never saw it this way before. These boys follow the races, like I said; but I never saw this many pool players before. Or poker, either. It’s like a convention.” He looked at Eddie. “How’re they doing? How’s the money moving?”

Eddie grinned down at him. “The money’s moving fast.”

Bert pursed his lips, thoughtfully, pleased. “That’s nice,” he said.

“So what do we do?”

“Well, first,” Bert said, slowly, like a woman about to decide on a hat, “first I put you in a game of pool. A medium-to-small game. Then I’m going back and see what’s happening with the card game.”

“Okay,” Eddie said, and then, “What about Findlay—the man we came to see?”

“He’ll be here. Maybe later tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe we should go out to his house. You know where it is.”

Bert shook his head. “No. That’s not the way to play it. Findlay’s not the kind you go ringing his doorbell and asking please can you shoot a little pool. He’ll be around—just wait. You’ll find enough to do while you’re waiting.”

Eddie laughed. “Okay, boss. Pick me a game.”

“That’s what I just been doing. See the jockey on the back table, practicing? His name’s Barney Pierce.”

“I see him. He doesn’t look very good.” The jockey was an immaculately dressed and loud-talking little man. He shot nervously and too fast.

“Well, he’s better than he looks. He plays nine ball, and you ought to be able to beat him if you work at it.”

“Okay,” Eddie said. “Fine. But one thing.”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to play him on my own money. I need the profit.”

Bert started to answer and then did not. He thought a moment, chewing softly at his underlip, and then said, “All right. But don’t pull that on me when I put you up against Findlay.”

“I won’t.”

“Go ahead then. He probably won’t go over twenty a game, in any case. You can start him at five.”

“Thanks,” Eddie said, walking over toward the end table, carrying his leather case….

The jockey was considerably better than he looked, and as Bert had said he would not go past twenty a game. He knew more about nine ball than Eddie did, knew some very nice, safe shots that Eddie had never seen before, and he was very good at cutting balls thin; but Eddie beat him by shooting straight, concentrating on what he was doing, and playing carefully. He was able to win more than a hundred dollars before the little man quit, slammed his cue into the rack, and departed. Eddie had started off in Lexington with a victory, a small one, and he liked the feel of it. Also, he liked the feel of money in his pocket, although that was not the important thing, not yet.

It was eleven o’clock when they finished and although there was still action in the poolroom it was too late to try for a new game. Bert was not around; there would be no telling when the poker game would be over.

Restless, he left the poolroom and began walking. It had been raining and the streets were wet and the air cool, clean, and moist. There were not many people out—a few drunks, some newsboys, a cop. The city seemed pleasanter at night than it had when they had first driven in, shortly after supper. He continued walking, looking abstractedly into store windows, his hands in his pockets. Through his mind were circulating, slightly out of focus, images of Sarah, of Findlay—he had already formulated a hypothetical picture of Findlay, although Bert had never described him—and of Minnesota Fats. Somehow none of these people were very important at this moment, and he found himself mulling them over with detachment. It all seemed to have become very simple, walking here, alone, through a clean-washed and new town at midnight; what had been problems did not seem to be problems anymore. Findlay would be easy; he would win a good deal of money from him and that would be that. And Sarah was not really a problem. He did not owe Sarah anything. He would not even go back to Sarah’s when he got back to Chicago; she had nothing more to offer him, nor he her.