Уолтер Тевис - The Hustler

Instantly her tongue was in his mouth, straining at his throat. And instantly he found his hand inside her dress. She smelled strongly of whiskey and of perfume.

She pulled back from him slightly. “You wanta go to bed now, honey?”

“What do you think?” He got up, taking her by the arm. Walking, he found, was difficult.

But in the bedroom she began doing something he did not like. She sat on the side of the bed and began methodically undressing, finishing her cigarette as she did so. She eased her stockings off quickly and neatly, set them beside the bed, then unzipped her dress. He did not like that. But he said nothing and just watched her….

When they had finished he put his clothes on and went into the living room, which was empty. A hillbilly voice on the radio was pimping for a cut-rate jeweler’s, “Just ninety steps from Main Street.” The man sounded like a fool. The door to the other bedroom was closed. After he had mixed himself a drink and sat down he could hear them, Bert and the other girl. He could not imagine what Bert would look like in bed. Probably like everybody else looks, like some kind of awkward, sweating idiot. He wondered if Bert took his glasses off. Then he tried listening to the music, which had started again.

The blonde laid a hand in his lap, warm.

“No,” he said.

“Later, maybe?” She was trying now to look at him lovingly. Apparently the pitch was that he had won her over by his little performance in bed. A commonplace hustle, probably always good for a second round. He wondered if Bert had paid them for the night, or only for each time; he did not know how such arrangements were made. This was a big-time arrangement: a hotel suite and two rented whores in party dresses. Or “call girls”—he had read that term somewhere, in a newspaper. The big-timers had call girls. You made a phone call and they came out. Very refined women. High class. He looked at Georgine for a minute, looked quizzically, drunkenly, at the smile she turned on immediately when she saw him watching her. Georgine was probably a call girl, the kind the newspapers wrote about. And here he was, Eddie Felson from Oakland, California, with this high-class, big-time whore, in a hotel suite in the middle of the horse-race country. Here he was, in Kentucky, hustling the hustlers, winning big money—Christ! He had hustled an old man, once, for a dime a game, back in Oakland, the year after he had quit high school. Now he was drinking expensive whiskey and having this expensive, high-class, big-time woman all for his own.

He looked at Georgine again and decided that he would have another drink. He needed one.

Bert seemed to take forever. Finally he came back into the room, his face red. He poured himself a small drink, looked at Eddie, pursed his lips thoughtfully, and then went to the bathroom where he began washing his hands and face.

Abruptly Eddie laughed, loosely. “Like Minnesota Fats?” he called at Bert. “Getting ready for the clutch?”

Bert came out of the bathroom, drying his face on a towel. “You might say that,” he said, “but not,” nodding toward the bedroom, “in that game.”

“They say it’s a good game.”

“It’s one of the best. But so is cards. And they’re still playing upstairs.” He began combing his hair, carefully.

Carol came out of the other bedroom barefoot. Her hair was mussed. She took Bert by the arm and said, “You’re not leaving, honey? The night’s young.”

“That’s right,” Bert said, and then to Eddie, “and you better get some sleep. I got plans for you tomorrow.”

“You had plans for me tonight,” Eddie said, noticing with detachment that his voice was thick.

“All work and no play…” Bert said, leaving.

The girls went into the bathroom and began washing up and Eddie began working on another drink, although he felt that he shouldn’t be drinking it. The lights in the room were too bright. He noticed that the fifth of bourbon he had bought was still sitting, unopened, in the chair. Like the fifth he had bought in Chicago more than a month ago. It had sat around for a week before he had given it to Sarah. But, then, that had been a fifth of Scotch. A high-class drink. And this was a bottle of bourbon. He stared at the bottle of bourbon for a long while, but made no move to get up from the couch and pick it up. He was still staring at it, drunkenly and stupidly, when the girls left and he told them tonelessly, good-by.

When he awoke the next morning, shortly before noon, his hands ached and there was a dull pain as though there were something alive and damp at the base of his brain. Walking into the bathroom he felt top-heavy and alone, and it was necessary to hold a cold washcloth at the back of his neck for some time before he felt that his blood was circulating again. Then he took a shower, tried to shake off some of the thickness in his head and to suppress the hard, aching feeling in his stomach, and then he woke Bert, who was in the other bedroom.

Bert woke easily but said nothing. Like Eddie he headed immediately for the bathroom, where he remained a long time. After he had dressed, Eddie came in to brush his teeth and found Bert sitting in the tub, a fleshy and solemn monarch, contemplating his genitals. Eddie began brushing his teeth.

“Good morning,” Bert said.

Eddie spat mint foam into the basin. “Good morning yourself, sunshine.”

“Feel better?”

“Better than what?”

“Better than yesterday.”

“No. Worse. Why should I feel better?” He began rinsing his mouth out with cold water.

“No reason.”

“That’s a laugh.” He hung up his toothbrush and turned to look at Bert again, who was now washing his pink arms, deliberately. “You always have a reason.”

Bert tightened his lips in thought. Then he said, “I did, but I probably figured wrong. I figured your girl in Chicago was giving you a hard time, and that what you needed was what I hired for you last night.”

Eddie stared at him. Then suddenly, he laughed, “For Christ’s sake, you figure everything, don’t you? Only this time you wasted your money.”

Bert looked thoughtful, stepping out of the tub, dripping. “You don’t have a girl in Chicago?”

“I did have. I don’t know if I’ve got one now. Anyway, thanks, but Georgine didn’t work.”

Bert was drying himself and did not answer this. Then he went into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and started putting his socks on. Eddie began shining his shoes, still in the bedroom. Then Bert said, quietly, “You in love with that girl?”

Eddie stared at Bert for a moment, quietly. Then, suddenly, he began laughing….

Waiting for the elevator he offered to split the cost of the room and the girls with Bert, now that he had more money, but Bert would not take it. He had played poker until four o’clock and had, apparently, won a good deal at it. Also, he said he figured to make his profit when they got the game going with Findlay. “Okay,” Eddie said, “and thanks.”

They ate a big meal in the hotel dining room and Eddie had two cups of strong coffee, which made him feel considerably better, although his hands were still stiff and sore. He did not say anything about his hands to Bert.

They went into the poolroom after eating and there were a good many people there for that time of day, although few were playing. In the back of the room was a group of five men who were obviously jockeys—little hard-looking men with lean faces and sharp eyes. There were several groups of other men in the room, most of whom Eddie did not recognize.

“Is Findlay here?” he asked Bert.

“No. I’ll go ask about him.” Bert walked over toward a group of three men who were standing by the cash register. One of them greeted him, “Hello, Lucky,” to which he did not reply. It seemed a peculiar thing to call Bert. They began talking and Eddie could not hear what was being said.